3.V.1.24. PRISONER
MARIUS was, in fact, a prisoner.
The hand which had seized him from behind and whose
grasp he had felt at the moment of his fall and his loss of
consciousness was that of Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean had taken no other part in the combat than
to expose himself in it. Had it not been for him, no one, in
that supreme phase of agony, would have thought of the
wounded. Thanks to him, everywhere present in the carnage,
like a providence, those who fell were picked up, transported
to the tap-room, and cared for. In the intervals, he reappeared
on the barricade. But nothing which could resemble
a blow, an attack or even personal defence proceeded from
his hands. He held his peace and lent succor. Moreover
he had received only a few scratches. The bullets would have
none of him. If suicide formed part of what he had meditated
on coming to this sepulchre, to that spot, he had not succeeded.
But we doubt whether he had thought of suicide, an
irreligious act.
Jean Valjean, in the thick cloud of the combat, did not
appear to see Marius; the truth is, that he never took his eyes
from the latter. When a shot laid Marius low, Jean Valjean
leaped forward with the agility of a tiger, fell upon him as on
his prey, and bore him off.
The whirlwind of the attack was, at that moment, so
violently
concentrated upon Enjolras and upon the door of the
wine-shop, that no one saw Jean Valjean sustaining the fainting
Marius in his arms, traverse the unpaved field of the barricade
and disappear behind the angle of the Corinthe building.
The reader will recall this angle which formed a sort of
cape on the street; it afforded shelter from the bullets, the
grape-shot, and all eyes, and a few square feet of space.
There is sometimes a chamber which does not burn in the
midst of a conflagration, and in the midst of raging seas,
beyond a promontory or at the extremity of a blind alley of
shoals, a tranquil nook. It was in this sort of fold in the
interior trapezium of the barricade, that Eponine had breathed
her last.
There Jean Valjean halted, let Marius slide to the ground,
placed his back against the wall, and cast his eyes about him.
The situation was alarming.
For an instant, for two or three perhaps, this bit of wall
was a shelter, but how was he to escape from this massacre?
He recalled the anguish which he had suffered in the Rue
Polonceau eight years before, and in what manner he had contrived
to make his escape; it was difficult then, to-day it was
impossible. He had before him that deaf and implacable
house, six stories in height, which appeared to be inhabited
only by a dead man leaning out of his window; he had on his
right the rather low barricade, which shut off the Rue de la
Petite Truanderie; to pass this obstacle seemed easy, but beyond
the crest of the barrier a line of bayonets was visible.
The troops of the line were posted on the watch behind that
barricade. It was evident, that to pass the barricade was to
go in quest of the fire of the platoon, and that any head which
should run the risk of lifting itself above the top of that wall
of stones would serve as a target for sixty shots. On his left
he had the field of battle. Death lurked round the corner of
that wall.
What was to be done?
Only a bird could have extricated itself from this
predicament.
And it was necessary to decide on the instant, to devise
some expedient, to come to some decision. Fighting was going
on a few paces away; fortunately, all were raging around
a single point, the door of the wine-shop; but if it should
occur to one soldier, to one single soldier, to turn the corner
of
the house, or to attack him on the flank, all was over.
Jean Valjean gazed at the house facing him, he gazed at
the barricade at one side of him, then he looked at the ground,
with the violence of the last extremity, bewildered, and as
though he would have liked to pierce a hole there with his
eyes.
By dint of staring, something vaguely striking in such an
agony began to assume form and outline at his feet, as though
it had been a power of glance which made the thing desired
unfold. A few paces distant he perceived, at the base of the
small barrier so pitilessly guarded and watched on the exterior,
beneath a disordered mass of paving-stones which
partly concealed it, an iron grating, placed flat and on a level
with the soil. This grating, made of stout, transverse bars,
was about two feet square. The frame of paving-stones which
supported it had been torn up, and it was, as it were,
unfastened.
Through the bars a view could be had of a dark aperture,
something like the flue of a chimney, or the pipe of a cistern.
Jean Valjean darted forward. His old art of escape rose to
his brain like an illumination. To thrust aside the stones,
to raise the grating, to lift Marius, who was as inert as a dead
body, upon his shoulders, to descend, with this burden on his
loins, and with the aid of his elbows and knees into that sort
of well, fortunately not very deep, to let the heavy trap, upon
which the loosened stones rolled down afresh, fall into its
place behind him, to gain his footing on a flagged surface
three metres below the surface, — all this was executed like
that which one does in dreams, with the strength of a giant
and the rapidity of an eagle; this took only a few minutes.
Jean Valjean found himself with Marius, who was still
unconscious, in a sort of long, subterranean corridor.
There reigned profound peace, absolute silence, night.
The impression which he had formerly experienced when
falling from the wall into the convent recurred to him. Only,
what he was carrying to-day was not Cosette; it was Marius.
He could barely hear the formidable tumult in the wine-shop,
taken by assault, like a vague murmur overhead.