XVII — MORTUUS PATER FILIUM MORITURUM EXPECTAT
Mário lançou-se para fora da barricada; Combeferre seguiu-o. Mas chegou
tarde. Gavroche estava morto. Combeferre trouxe de volta o cesto de
cartuchos; Mário carregava a criança.
"Pobre criança!" pensou ele; "o que o pai fizera pelo seu pai, ele o
retribuía ao filho; apenas, Thénardier trouxera seu pai vivo; ele
trazia a criança morta."
Quando Mário reentrou no reduto com Gavroche nos braços, seu rosto,
como o da criança, estava inundado de sangue.
No momento em que se inclinara para levantar Gavroche, uma bala lhe
rasara a cabeça; ele não havia notado.
Courfeyrac desatou sua gravata e com ela enfaixou a fronte de Mário.
Depuseram Gavroche sobre a mesma mesa de Mabeuf, e estenderam sobre os
dois cadáveres o xale preto. Havia bastante para ambos, o velho e a
criança.
Combeferre distribuiu os cartuchos do cesto que trouxera.
Isso deu a cada homem quinze tiros para disparar.
Jean Valjean continuava no mesmo lugar, imóvel sobre seu posto de pedra.
Quando Combeferre lhe ofereceu seus quinze cartuchos, ele sacudiu a cabeça.
"Eis um raro excêntrico", disse Combeferre em voz baixa a Enjolras.
"Arranja um jeito de não lutar nesta barricada."
"O que não o impede de defendê-la", respondeu Enjolras.
"O heroísmo tem seus originais", retomou Combeferre.
E Courfeyrac, que ouvira, acrescentou:
"Ele é de outra espécie que o pai Mabeuf."
Uma coisa que se deve notar é que o fogo que batia a barricada mal
perturbava o interior. Aqueles que jamais atravessaram o turbilhão
dessa espécie de guerra não podem fazer ideia dos singulares momentos
de tranquilidade misturados com essas convulsões. Os homens vão e vêm,
falam, gracejam, vagueiam. Alguém que conhecemos ouviu um combatente
dizer-lhe em meio à metralha: "Estamos aqui como num almoço de
solteirão." O reduto da Rua da Chanvrerie, repetimos, parecia muito
calmo por dentro. Todas as mutações e todas as fases haviam sido, ou
estavam prestes a ser, esgotadas. A posição, de crítica, tornara-se
ameaçadora, e, de ameaçadora, provavelmente estava prestes a tornar-se
desesperada. À medida que a situação se tornava sombria, o brilho do
heroísmo empurpurava a barricada cada vez mais. Enjolras, que era
grave, dominava-a, na atitude de um jovem espartano sacrificando sua
espada nua ao gênio sombrio, Épidotas.
Combeferre, usando um avental, fazia curativos; Bossuet e Feuilly
faziam cartuchos com o frasco de pólvora recolhido por Gavroche no
cadáver do cabo, e Bossuet dizia a Feuilly: "Em breve tomaremos a
diligência para outro planeta"; Courfeyrac dispunha e arrumava sobre
algumas pedras de calçada que reservara para si perto de Enjolras, um
arsenal completo, sua bengala-espada, sua arma, duas pistolas de coldre,
e um cacete, com o cuidado de uma jovem a arrumar uma pequena Dunkerque.
Jean Valjean fitava silenciosamente a parede oposta. Um artesão
prendia o grande chapéu de palha da Viúva Hucheloup na cabeça com uma
corda, "para evitar insolação", como dizia. Os jovens da Cougourde
d'Aix tagarelavam alegremente entre si, como se ansiosos para falar
patoá pela última vez. Joly, que pegara o espelho da Viúva Hucheloup na
parede, examinava sua língua nele. Alguns combatentes, tendo descoberto
algumas cascas de pão bastante mofadas, numa gaveta, devoravam-nas
avidamente. Mário estava perturbado com o que seu pai iria lhe dizer.
Marius dashed out of the barricade, Combeferre followed him. But he was
too late. Gavroche was dead. Combeferre brought back the basket of
cartridges; Marius bore the child.
“Alas!” he thought, “that which the father had done for his father, he
was requiting to the son; only, Thénardier had brought back his father
alive; he was bringing back the child dead.”
When Marius re-entered the redoubt with Gavroche in his arms, his face,
like the child, was inundated with blood.
At the moment when he had stooped to lift Gavroche, a bullet had grazed
his head; he had not noticed it.
Courfeyrac untied his cravat and with it bandaged Marius’ brow.
They laid Gavroche on the same table with Mabeuf, and spread over the
two corpses the black shawl. There was enough of it for both the old
man and the child.
Combeferre distributed the cartridges from the basket which he had
brought in.
This gave each man fifteen rounds to fire.
Jean Valjean was still in the same place, motionless on his stone post.
When Combeferre offered him his fifteen cartridges, he shook his head.
“Here’s a rare eccentric,” said Combeferre in a low voice to Enjolras.
“He finds a way of not fighting in this barricade.”
“Which does not prevent him from defending it,” responded Enjolras.
“Heroism has its originals,” resumed Combeferre.
And Courfeyrac, who had overheard, added:
“He is another sort from Father Mabeuf.”
One thing which must be noted is, that the fire which was battering the
barricade hardly disturbed the interior. Those who have never traversed
the whirlwind of this sort of war can form no idea of the singular
moments of tranquillity mingled with these convulsions. Men go and
come, they talk, they jest, they lounge. Some one whom we know heard a
combatant say to him in the midst of the grape-shot: “We are here as at
a bachelor breakfast.” The redoubt of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, we
repeat, seemed very calm within. All mutations and all phases had been,
or were about to be, exhausted. The position, from critical, had become
menacing, and, from menacing, was probably about to become desperate.
In proportion as the situation grew gloomy, the glow of heroism
empurpled the barricade more and more. Enjolras, who was grave,
dominated it, in the attitude of a young Spartan sacrificing his naked
sword to the sombre genius, Epidotas.
Combeferre, wearing an apron, was dressing the wounds: Bossuet and
Feuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask picked up by
Gavroche on the dead corporal, and Bossuet said to Feuilly: “We are
soon to take the diligence for another planet”; Courfeyrac was
disposing and arranging on some paving-stones which he had reserved for
himself near Enjolras, a complete arsenal, his sword-cane, his gun, two
holster pistols, and a cudgel, with the care of a young girl setting a
small dunkerque in order. Jean Valjean stared silently at the wall
opposite him. An artisan was fastening Mother Hucheloup’s big straw hat
on his head with a string, “for fear of sun-stroke,” as he said. The
young men from the Cougourde d’Aix were chatting merrily among
themselves, as though eager to speak patois for the last time. Joly,
who had taken Widow Hucheloup’s mirror from the wall, was examining his
tongue in it. Some combatants, having discovered a few crusts of rather
mouldy bread, in a drawer, were eagerly devouring them. Marius was
disturbed with regard to what his father was about to say to him.
