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Hucheloup and her servants. On these mattresses they had
laid the wounded. As for the three poor creatures who in-
habited Corinthe, no one knew what had become of them.
They were finally found, however, hidden in the cellar.
A poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencum-
bered barricade.
The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing.
And who was it? One of the dearest. One of the most val-
iant. Jean Prouvaire. He was sought among the wounded,
he was not there. He was sought among the dead, he was
not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combeferre said to
Enjolras:—
‘They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set on
the death of that spy?’
‘Yes,’ replied Enjolras; ‘but less so than on the life of Jean
Prouvaire.’
This took place in the tap-room near Javert’s post.
‘Well,’ resumed Combeferre, ‘I am going to fasten my
handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer
to exchange our man for theirs.’
‘Listen,’ said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre’s
arm.
At the end of the street there was a significant clash of
arms.
They heard a manly voice shout:—
‘Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!’
They recognized the voice of Prouvaire.
A flash passed, a report rang out.
Silence fell again.