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tol in the air.
Then he returned to the barricade and said:
‘It is done.’
In the meanwhile, this is what had taken place.
Marius, more intent on the outside than on the interior,
had not, up to that time, taken a good look at the pinioned
spy in the dark background of the tap-room.
When he beheld him in broad daylight, striding over the
barricade in order to proceed to his death, he recognized
him. Something suddenly recurred to his mind. He recalled
the inspector of the Rue de Pontoise, and the two pistols
which the latter had handed to him and which he, Marius,
had used in this very barricade, and not only did he recall
his face, but his name as well.
This recollection was misty and troubled, however, like
all his ideas.
It was not an affirmation that he made, but a question
which he put to himself:
‘Is not that the inspector of police who told me that his
name was Javert?’
Perhaps there was still time to intervene in behalf of that
man. But, in the first place, he must know whether this was
Javert.
Marius called to Enjolras, who had just stationed himself
at the other extremity of the barricade:
‘Enjolras!’
‘What?’
‘What is the name of yonder man?’
‘What man?’