CHAPTER VI.

WAITING.

During the hours of waiting, what did they do? We are bound to tell it, because this is historical.

While the men were making cartridges and the women lint, while a large stewpan full of melted tin and lead, intended for the bullet-mould, was smoking on a red-hot chafing-dish, while the vedettes were watching with shouldered guns on the barricade, while Enjolras, whom it was impossible to distract, watched the vedettes, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and a few others, assembled, as in the most peaceful days of their student conversations, and in one corner of the wine-shop converted into a casemate, two paces from the barricade which they had raised, and with their loaded and primed muskets leaning against the back of their chairs,--these fine young men, so near their last hour, wrote love verses.

What verses? Here they are:--

Do you remember those days gone by, Our youth's high spring-tide? The sweet glad spell Held us a season, when you and I Lived but to love and to look well?

Then all your years together with mine Would not make two-score when all was said; Our nest it was so cosy and fine, Spring hid within till Winter had fled.

What days! Manuel, how lofty, how chaste! Paris, turned godly, would be improved. And how Foy thundered--and in your waist Was a pin, that pricked when my fingers roved!

All eyes looked your way. At Prado's where Your briefless barrister dined with you, You were so pretty, the roses there Turned and eyed you, in envy too.

I seemed to hear them whisper, "How fair! What wealth of ringlets, what rich perfume! They are wings she hides 'neath her mantle there; Her bonnet's a blossom all a-bloom!"

Arm linked in arm, together we strayed; Passers thought, as we went our way, Light-hearted Cupid a match had made 'Twixt tender April and gallant May.

We lived so merrily hidden away, Feeding on Love's dear forbidden fruit. Swifter than aught that my lips could say Your heart replied, when your lips were mute.

In the Sorbonne 't was, that idyllic spot, I dreamed of you through the long night-hours. 'T is thus a youthful lover self-taught In the Latin Quarter sights Love-land's towers.

O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine! Dear sky-built palace-attic where You drew your stocking on, unseen-- I gazed at a star in the ceiling there!

Lamennais, Malebranche, forgotten they, And Plato too, mastered so carefully; But I fathomed God's Infinite Love one day In a flower,--the flower you gave to me.

I was your slave. You my subject were. O golden attic! to watch you pass Back and forth, dressing, at daybreak there, Your girl's face smiling from that old glass!

O golden dawn! O golden days! Who can outlive them, forget them wholly? The ribbons too, flowers and gauze and lace, Wherein Love stammered its first sweet folly.

Our garden,--a tulip-pot held the whole! Your petticoat curtained the window-pane; I kept for myself the earthen-ware bowl, And gave you the cup of porcelain.

And such mishaps too, for mirth and woe! Your muff had caught fire, your tippet was gone And that portrait of Shakespeare we valued so Sold for a song--to be supped upon.

I'd beg and you would your alms bestow, A kiss from your fair round arm I'd steal. Our board was that Dante in folio, And a hundred chestnuts our humble meal.

And that one moment, and all its joy When your lips met mine and the first kiss given, You fled, dishevelled and rosy and coy; I grew quite pale and believed in Heaven!

Do you remember our countless joys? Those neckerchiefs rumpled? ah, well-a-day! And now from heavier hearts what sighs To skies all darkened are borne away!

The hour, the spot, the recollections of youth recalled, a few stars which were beginning to glisten in the sky, the funereal repose of these deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable adventure which was preparing, gave a pathetic charm to these verses murmured in a low voice in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we said, was a gentle poet.

In the mean while a lamp had been lit on the small barricade, and on the large one, one of those wax torches such as may be seen on Shrove Tuesday in front of the vehicles crowded with masks that are proceeding to the Courtille. These torches, we know, came from the Faubourg St. Antoine. The torch was placed in a species of lantern of paving-stones closed on three sides to protect it from the wind, and arranged so that the entire light should fall on the flag. The street and the barricade remained plunged in darkness, and nothing was visible save the red flag formidably illumined, as if by an enormous dark-lantern. This light added a strange and terrible purple to the scarlet of the flag.