On June 4, the day Jean Valjean and Cosette had left their home on the rue Plumet, they had taken almost nothing with them. Full trunks would have required the help of porters, and, if questioned, porters would be witnesses. Around dusk they had summoned a carriage, and the only thing Cosette had taken with her was her writing paper and her blotting book. It was that morning that Valjean had told his daughter of his intention to leave later that same day, which had allowed her time to write her note to Marius.
They arrived at their new address on the rue de l’Homme Armé after nightfall and had gone to bed shortly thereafter. Being in a new location greatly relieved Valjean’s nervousness over being discovered, and he awoke the following morning feeling quite at ease. On this peaceful street where he had taken refuge, Valjean was gradually becoming free of all that had been troubling him for some time.
Yet suddenly something strange caught his attention. He happened to glance at the mirror hanging over the sideboard in the dining room. Upon arriving at their new house the night before, Cosette had been so absorbed in her grief over leaving Marius she had left her blotting book open and in plain view on the sideboard. Valjean, upon seeing the reflection of the top page in the mirror, was able to make out a few lines of print. The page obviously had blotted her most recent note, and its text had been printed on the blotter as well, only in reverse. Yet in the mirror its reflection read quite plainly, as follows:
My dearest! Unfortunately my father insists on leaving immediately. This evening we are going to 7 rue de l’Homme Armé. In one week, however, we will be in England. Cosette. June 4.
Valjean was dumbfounded and stood before the mirror in disbelief. He read the lines again but still could not believe them. He reeled and then fell into the armchair beside the buffet in utter bewilderment. Finally, he began putting times, dates, and events together in his mind regarding Cosette and ultimately said to himself, “It is he!”
His arrow of despair had not missed its mark, for it was Marius he pictured in his mind, although he did not know the young man’s name. He thought of the young man as “the prowler of Luxembourg Park” and as a coward, for he saw it as cowardly to make eyes at a young girl, especially when a father who loves her is seated beside her.
At nightfall he found himself outside still thinking about the note, and now concerned that someone knew his and Cosette’s address. He sat on the wall surrounding the house near the deserted street and listened. In light of the nearby violence, a number of his uneasy bourgeois neighbors passed by but hardly noticed him. He sat there for more than an hour without stirring when suddenly he heard two distant gunshots. Of course, he had no way of knowing these were the shots being fired where Marius was defending the barricade on the rue de la Chanvrerie.
The following sound of many weapons being fired startled him, and finally he rose to his feet. He turned toward the sound of the attack, walked a few steps, but then stopped again and leaned against the wall. Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps, and upon turning, noticed a young lad coming toward him. It was Gavroche.
For some unknown reason, Valjean felt the urge to stop the boy and speak somewhat sternly to him. He said, “What’s the matter with you, little fellow?”
“What’s the matter with me is that I’m hungry,” Gavroche replied frankly.
At this Valjean fumbled through his pocket, pulled out a five-franc piece, and thought to himself, Poor thing! He is hungry. He placed the coin in the boy’s hand.
With a look of astonishment, the boy simply stared at the coin. He had only heard of a five-franc piece but had never actually laid his eyes on one. He quickly thrust the coin into his pocket. Then, without a word of thanks, he said to Valjean, “Do you live on this street?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’m looking for house number 7.”
“What do you want with number 7?” Valjean questioned. Fearing he may have said too much, Gavroche paused for a moment. Then a thought flashed through Valjean’s mind, and he added quickly, “Are you the one bringing the letter I’m expecting?”
With a puzzled look on his face, Gavroche answered, “But you are not a woman.”
“The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not?”
“Yes,” muttered the lad, “I believe that’s the name.”
“Well, I’m the person to whom you are to deliver the letter. Give it to me,” demanded Valjean.
“In that case, you probably ought to know I was sent from the barricade,” explained the child, as he reached in his pocket and handed over the letter. Then he added, “Please hurry, for the mademoiselle is waiting for this.”
As the boy turned to go, Valjean, seeking one last bit of information from the lad, asked, “Is it to Saint Merry the answer should be sent?”
“No, the letter has come from the barricade on the rue de la Chanvrerie, and I’m headed back there. Good evening, citizen!”
Valjean walked into the house clutching Marius’s letter. He listened for a moment, wanting to be sure Cosette was asleep. His hand trembled as he struck a match to light a candle, for he knew that what he had just done smacked of theft. Nevertheless, he opened the letter, and these words immediately jumped off the page at him:
I am going to die. By the time you read this, my soul will be with you.
He remained dazed for a moment, overwhelmed by the change of emotion taking place within himself. He uttered a frightening cry of inner joy, for he held in his hand the joyful news of the death of a hated individual. Now it was over, for the young man’s demise had come even sooner than he could have dared to hope. Valjean felt delivered, and once more he was about to find himself alone with Cosette. All he had to do was to keep this letter from her, and she would never know what had become of the young man.
Valjean simply had to let things take their inevitable course. Apparently the young man could not escape his fate, and if he were not dead already, it seemed quite certain he was about to die. What good fortune! Valjean thought. Yet having said that to himself, he suddenly felt depressed and sad. Then he went downstairs, woke up the porter, and whispered some instructions to the man.
An hour later, Jean Valjean left the house wearing the complete uniform of the French National Guard and carrying a firearm at his side. At a brisk walk, he headed in the direction of the Saint Jean marketplace.
After the soldiers had retreated, the revolutionaries put the barricade back in order and began using the kitchen of the café as their hospital. By now they had finished tending to the wounded, had made more bullets, had cleaned up the gunpowder that had been scattered on the floor, and had removed the corpses of their dead. They had laid the bodies in a heap on one of the streets still in their control, and the pavement of that spot remained red for a very long time. Among the dead were four of the soldiers of the French National Guard, and Enjolras had their uniforms laid aside.
Enjolras addressed his band of men and said, “Gentlemen, this new republic is not rich enough to waste the lives of men. If it is to survive, some of us must escape. Vain glory is a waste, and if the duty of some is to leave here, that duty should be fulfilled like any other.” Then pointing toward the uniforms taken from the dead soldiers, he continued, “With this uniform you can mingle with the troops and escape. There are enough for four.”
Courfeyrac spoke up and said, “Any of you who are the sole support of your family do not have the right to sacrifice yourself, for that would be equal to desertion.”
“That’s true,” said another young man to an older one, “You are a father and have a family to support.”
The older man retorted, “Yes, but you yourself have two sisters who are depending on you.”
With these words, the group struggled with who should allow himself to be placed at the door of death’s tomb and who should go. “Whatever we do, we must do it quickly, for in another quarter of an hour it will be too late,” Courfeyrac insisted.
“Citizens,” added Enjolras, “this is a republic, so we should vote on who will stay and who will go.” They obeyed, and after a brief few minutes, five were unanimously selected to leave their ranks.
Marius exclaimed, “We have five names but only four uniforms! One must stay behind.” Just then, however, a fifth uniform miraculously seemed to fall from heaven onto the other four and became the salvation for the fifth man. Marius looked across the dimly lit room, only to recognize the face of Monsieur Fauchelevent.
Under the cover of darkness, Valjean had made his way to the barricade and had slipped undiscovered into the café. In utter shock and disbelief, one of the men demanded, “Who is this man?”
“He is a man who saves others,” answered Marius soberly, and then added, “I know him.”
Marius’s apparent stamp of approval on the stranger seemed to pacify everyone. Then Enjolras turned to Valjean and offered, “Welcome, citizen.” Finally, in a very somber tone, he added, “You know we are going to die?”
Jean Valjean did not reply. He simply helped the man he had saved put on his uniform. Once the five chosen men were ready, no one could have known they were not members of the French National Guard. Before setting out, the five embraced those who remained, and one of the five could be seen to shed a tear as he walked away.
Day was beginning to break, and although the revolutionaries did not see their enemy, they could hear something happening some distance away. Finally, they saw artillerymen pushing a cannon into place. And just before a cannonball smashed into the barricade, the men heard the happy voice of Gavroche announce, as he climbed toward them, “Present and accounted for, sir!” It had taken the boy a great deal of time to reach the barricade because the enemy had blocked what would have been his most direct route back to his comrades.
With a look of dismay, Marius pulled the boy aside and demanded, “What are you doing here?”
The child answered flippantly, “What are you doing here yourself?”
“Who told you to come back?” Marius asked. “Did you deliver my letter?”
Knowing he had not delivered the letter to Cosette, Gavroche lied to Marius by saying, “Citizen, I delivered the letter to the porter. The lady was asleep, but the porter said he would give it to her when she awakens.” Yet because it had been a very dark night, Gavroche had not even seen the face of the man to whom he had handed the note. And since the boy had not followed Marius’s instructions completely, Marius knew that at best only one of his two desires had been met. His objective not only had been to bid farewell to Cosette, but also to save Gavroche from nearly certain death at the barricades.
Shortly thereafter the fighting began again in earnest. Courfeyrac kept his eyes glued to the street just in front of the barricade when suddenly he caught sight of someone amid the gunfire. It was little Gavroche! He had taken a wine bottle basket from the café and was quietly moving among the bodies of the dead French soldiers, taking their unused ammunition. Courfeyrac shouted angrily to the boy, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m filling my basket with ammo, citizen!”
“Don’t you know they’re firing at us?” Courfeyrac asked in astonishment.
The boy answered smugly, “It’s only rain!”
Courfeyrac demanded, “Get back here!” Yet the boy worked his way farther down the street. At least twenty bodies were scattered across the pavement, which to Gavroche meant plenty of bullets for the barricade. The boy was able to hide amid the smoke from the gunfire as it wafted its way down the street. Using the foglike smoke as cover, he went quite a distance away without being seen by the enemy. But then the smoke began to dissipate and one of the soldiers saw someone moving toward their troops. Just as Gavroche reached toward another dead soldier, a bullet struck the corpse.
“Great!” Gavroche yelled with a sly smile on his face. “They’re killing the dead men for me—again!” A second bullet sparked as it hit the pavement beside him, and then a third overturned his basket of ammunition. The boy seemed to be enjoying himself and acted as though he were teasing the enemy. It was a strange yet terrifying sight, like a sparrow being shot at by hunters. With each shot the boy taunted his attackers. He would lie down as if shot, only to spring to his feet again and hide in a doorway. Then Gavroche would race across the street, scamper around, and thumb his nose at the soldiers. All the while, the boy continued filling his basket with the dead men’s bullets.
Gavroche’s comrades trembled in fear for his safety, yet he seemed to be some invulnerable spirit. He was not a child, nor was he a man. The bullets flew past him, for he was nimble, and he continued playing his terrifying game of hide-and-seek with death.
Finally, however, one bullet—better aimed and deadlier than the rest—struck its mark. Everyone on the barricade let out a scream as they watched the poor boy stagger and then fall to the street. Marius and Courfeyrac rushed to his aid, but it was too late. Gavroche was dead.
Courfeyrac picked up the basket of bullets and raced toward the barricade. Then Marius bent down, picked up the lad, and carried Gavroche’s small, dead body back to his comrades. As he did so, he thought, This poor boy’s father did this for my father, and now I’m doing this for his son. Yet Thénardier brought my father back alive. I’m bringing back the dead body of his child.
Javert remained tied to the pole inside the café. Enjolras pointed toward him, set a pistol on the table, and said, “I want the last man leaving here to blow this spy’s brains out with this gun.”
Someone asked, “You want him killed here?”
“No, I don’t want his body left here. Take him to the barricade on the rue Mondétour, and do it there.”
Just then Valjean stepped out of a dark corner of the café and asked Enjolras, “Are you in charge here?”
Recognizing Valjean as the man who had given his uniform to save another, Enjolras said, “Yes, I’m in charge. What do you need? Ask what you want, for now there are two saviors at this barricade—Marius Pontmercy and you.”
“I request only one thing—that I be allowed to kill this man,” Valjean said as he glanced toward Javert.
Javert looked at Valjean, tensed almost imperceptibly, and said, “That’s appropriate.”
Enjolras responded while reloading his rifle, “No objections here. Take the spy!”
Valjean moved toward the prisoner and untied the rope holding him to the pole. Then he untied his feet, grabbed the end of the rope around his hands, and began pulling Javert toward the door of the café. The other men, preparing for the next attack, had their backs turned to the two men as they walked out of the building. Only Marius, who was at the extreme end of the barricade outside, noticed them as they walked away.
Once the two men were alone on the street, Valjean took the pistol he had gotten from Enjolras and tucked it into his belt. He fastened his eyes on Javert and said to his old nemesis, “Javert, it is I—Jean Valjean.”
Javert replied, coldly, “Take your revenge.”
Valjean pulled a pocketknife from his coat and began to open it. Seeing the knife, Javert exclaimed, “Ah, yes! A knife does suit the likes of you much better!”
Yet Valjean reached down and used the knife to cut the rope wrapped around Javert’s hands. As the rope fell to the pavement, Valjean said, “You are free.” Javert was not a man easily astonished, but at this, his jaw dropped and he stood before Valjean open-mouthed and totally motionless. Javert attempted to speak but was unable. Valjean then continued, “I doubt I will ever escape these barricades with my life, but if by some slim chance I do, I now live under the name of Fauchelevent at 7 rue de l’Homme Armé.”
Javert snarled at Valjean like a tiger and then muttered through his now clenched teeth, “Take care.”
“Go!” demanded Valjean. At this Javert buttoned his coat, straightened his shoulders, turned around, and walked away. Valjean watched until Javert disappeared and then fired his pistol into the air. Finally, he returned to the barricade and said, “It is done.”
Suddenly the drums of the enemy sounded the signal to charge, and a hurricane of an attack began. Enjolras was at one end of the barricade with Marius at the other. Marius stood unprotected with half his body exposed above the top of the barricade. Here this ragged and exhausted troop of revolutionaries, who had not slept or eaten in more than twenty-four hours, continued to fight. Soon nearly all of them were wounded, but they continued fumbling through their pockets for more bullets that would quickly be depleted.
Time after time—ten times in all—the barricade was attacked but defended successfully. Many of the defenders had died, and Courfeyrac was one of them. He had been run through with a sword, and as he died, he only had time to cast a quick glance toward heaven. The few remaining men were covered with blood—but felt like Titans.
Marius fought on but was so riddled with head wounds his face seemed to disappear beneath the blood. From a distance, one would have said his face was covered with a red handkerchief. Only Enjolras had not yet been wounded, but he was down to only the stumps of four broken swords with which to fight.
Enjolras and Marius, the only leaders remaining alive, were still at opposite ends of the barricade when the center finally gave way and the enemy’s assault succeeded. The few revolutionaries still alive were forced to retreat, although in total confusion. Suddenly a bullet hit Marius’s collarbone, knocking him from the barricade. As he fell, just before going into shock from the pain, he felt the grip of strong arms underneath him. His final thought was of Cosette, and just as he fainted, he said to himself, “I have been taken prisoner. I will be shot!”