As yet, nothing had come. Ten o’clock had sounded from Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade.
They no longer addressed each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching.
Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of 'By the Light of the Moon,' this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:— Mon nez est en larmes, Mon ami Bugeaud, Prête moi tes gendarmes Pour leur dire un mot.
En capote bleue, La poule au shako, Voici la banlieue! Co-cocorico! 54 They pressed each other’s hands. 'That is Gavroche,' said Enjolras. 'He is warning us,' said Combeferre.
A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying:— 'My gun! Here they are!
' An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the sound of hands seeking their guns became audible. 'Would you like my carbine? ' said Enjolras to the lad. 'I want a big gun,' replied Gavroche. And he seized Javert’s gun.
Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie.
The vidette of the Lane des Prêcheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles. The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the