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A leader to the very finger-tips, Enjolras, seeing that they
murmured, insisted. He resumed haughtily:
‘Let those who are afraid of not numbering more than
thirty say so.’
The murmurs redoubled.
‘Besides,’ observed a voice in one group, ‘it is easy enough
to talk about leaving. The barricade is hemmed in.’
‘Not on the side of the Halles,’ said Enjolras. ‘The Rue
Mondetour is free, and through the Rue des Precheurs one
can reach the Marche des Innocents.’
‘And there,’ went on another voice, ‘you would be cap-
tured. You would fall in with some grand guard of the line
or the suburbs; they will spy a man passing in blouse and
cap. ‘Whence come you?’ ‘Don’t you belong to the bar-
ricade?’ And they will look at your hands. You smell of
powder. Shot.’
Enjolras, without making any reply, touched Combe-
ferre’s shoulder, and the two entered the tap-room.
They emerged thence a moment later. Enjolras held in
his outstretched hands the four uniforms which he had laid
aside. Combeferre followed, carrying the shoulder-belts
and the shakos.
‘With this uniform,’ said Enjolras, ‘you can mingle with
the ranks and escape; here is enough for four.’ And he flung
on the ground, deprived of its pavement, the four uni-
forms.
No wavering took place in his stoical audience. Combe-
ferre took the word.
‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must have a little pity. Do you know