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was gazing gravely at him. Marius, however, having rallied
his ideas to some extent, did not consider himself beaten;
there lingered in him a trace of inward fermentation which
was on the point, no doubt, of translating itself into syllo-
gisms arrayed against Enjolras, when all of a sudden, they
heard some one singing on the stairs as he went. It was
Combeferre, and this is what he was singing:—
“Si Cesar m’avait donne
La gloire et la guerre,
Et qu’ il me fallait quitter
L’amour de ma mere,
Je dirais au grand Cesar:
Reprends ton sceptre et ton char,
J’aime mieux ma mere, o gue!
J’aime mieux ma mere!’If Cesar had given me glory and war, and I were obliged to
quit my mother’s love, I would say to great Caesar, ‘Take back
thy sceptre and thy chariot; I prefer the love of my mother.’The wild and tender accents with which Combeferre
sang communicated to this couplet a sort of strange gran-
deur. Marius, thoughtfully, and with his eyes diked on the
ceiling, repeated almost mechanically: ‘My mother?—‘
At that moment, he felt Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder.
‘Citizen,’ said Enjolras to him, ‘my mother is the Repub-
lic.’