In the meantime, in the Marché Saint-Jean, where the post had already been disarmed, Gavroche had just 'effected a junction' with a band led by Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly. They were armed after a fashion. Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had found them and swelled the group.
Enjolras had a double-barrelled hunting-gun, Combeferre the gun of a National Guard bearing the number of his legion, and in his belt, two pistols which his unbuttoned coat allowed to be seen, Jean Prouvaire an old cavalry musket, Bahorel a rifle; Courfeyrac was brandishing an unsheathed sword-cane.
Feuilly, with a naked sword in his hand, marched at their head shouting: 'Long live Poland! ' They reached the Quai Morland. Cravatless, hatless, breathless, soaked by the rain, with lightning in their eyes. Gavroche accosted them calmly:— 'Where are we going? ' 'Come along,' said Courfeyrac.
Behind Feuilly marched, or rather bounded, Bahorel, who was like a fish in water in a riot. He wore a scarlet waistcoat, and indulged in the sort of words which break everything. His waistcoat astounded a passer-by, who cried in bewilderment:— 'Here are the reds! ' 'The reds, the reds!
' retorted Bahorel. 'A queer kind of fear, bourgeois. For my part I don’t tremble before a poppy, the little red hat inspires me with no alarm. Take my advice, bourgeois, let’s leave fear of the red to horned cattle.
' He caught sight of a corner of the wall on which was placarded the most peaceable sheet of paper in the world, a permission to eat eggs, a Lenten admonition addressed by the Archbishop of Paris to his 'flock. ' Bahorel exclaimed:— '‘Flock’; a polite way of saying geese.
' And he tore the charge from the nail. This conquered Gavroche. From that instant Gavroche set himself to study Bahorel. 'Bahorel,' observed Enjolras, 'you are