The tragic picture which we have undertaken would not be complete， the reader would not see those grand moments of social birth-pangs in a revolutionary birth， which contain convulsion mingled with effort， in their exact and real relief， were we to omit， in the sketch here outlined， an incident full of epic and savage horror which occurred almost immediately after Gavroche's departure.

Mobs， as the reader knows， are like a snowball， and collect as they roll along， a throng of tumultuous men. These men do not ask each other whence they come. Among the passers-by who had joined the rabble led by Enjolras， Combeferre， and Courfeyrac， there had been a person wearing the jacket of a street porter， which was very threadbare on the shoulders， who gesticulated and vociferated， and who had the look of a drunken savage. This man， whose name or nickname was Le Cabuc， and who was， moreover， an utter stranger to those who pretended to know him， was very drunk， or assumed the appearance of being so， and had seated himself with several others at a table which they had dragged outside of the wine-shop. This Cabuc， while making those who vied with him drunk seemed to be examining with a thoughtful air the large house at the extremity of the barricade， whose five stories commanded the whole street and faced the Rue Saint-Denis. All at once he exclaimed:--

"Do you know， comrades， it is from that house yonder that we must fire. When we are at the windows， the deuce is in it if any one can advance into the street!"

"Yes， but the house is closed，" said one of the drinkers.

"Let us knock!"

"They will not open."

"Let us break in the door!"

Le Cabuc runs to the door， which had a very massive knocker， and knocks. The door opens not. He strikes a second blow. No one answers. A third stroke. The same silence.

"Is there any one here?" shouts Cabuc.

Nothing stirs.

Then he seizes a gun and begins to batter the door with the butt end.

It was an ancient alley door， low， vaulted， narrow， solid， entirely of oak， lined on the inside with a sheet of iron and iron stays， a genuine prison postern. The blows from the butt end of the gun made the house tremble， but did not shake the door.

Nevertheless， it is probable that the inhabitants were disturbed， for a tiny， square window was finally seen to open on the third story， and at this aperture appeared the reverend and terrified face of a gray-haired old man， who was the porter， and who held a candle.

The man who was knocking paused.

"Gentlemen，" said the porter， "what do you want?"

"Open!" said Cabuc.

"That cannot be， gentlemen."

"Open， nevertheless."

"Impossible， gentlemen."

Le Cabuc took his gun and aimed at the porter; but as he was below， and as it was very dark， the porter did not see him.

"Will you open， yes or no?"

"No， gentlemen."

"Do you say no?"

"I say no， my goo--"

The porter did not finish. The shot was fired; the ball entered under his chin and came out at the nape of his neck， after traversing the jugular vein.

The old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell and was extinguished， and nothing more was to be seen except a motionless head lying on the sill of the small window， and a little whitish smoke which floated off towards the roof.

"There!" said Le Cabuc， dropping the butt end of his gun to the pavement.

He had hardly uttered this word， when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talon， and he heard a voice saying to him:--

"On your knees."

The murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras' cold， white face.

Enjolras held a pistol in his hand.

He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge.

He had seized Cabuc's collar， blouse， shirt， and suspender with his left hand.

"On your knees!" he repeated.

And， with an imperious motion， the frail young man of twenty years bent the thickset and sturdy porter like a reed， and brought him to his knees in the mire.

Le Cabuc attempted to resist， but he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman hand.

Enjolras， pale， with bare neck and dishevelled hair， and his woman's face， had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis. His dilated nostrils， his downcast eyes， gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which， as the ancient world viewed the matter， befit Justice.

The whole barricade hastened up， then all ranged themselves in a circle at a distance， feeling that it was impossible to utter a word in the presence of the thing which they were about to behold.

Le Cabuc， vanquished， no longer tried to struggle， and trembled in every limb.

Enjolras released him and drew out his watch.

"Collect yourself，" said he. "Think or pray. You have one minute."

"Mercy!" murmured the murderer; then he dropped his head and stammered a few inarticulate oaths.

Enjolras never took his eyes off of him: he allowed a minute to pass， then he replaced his watch in his fob. That done， he grasped Le Cabuc by the hair， as the latter coiled himself into a ball at his knees and shrieked， and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear. Many of those intrepid men， who had so tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of adventures， turned aside their heads.

An explosion was heard， the assassin fell to the pavement face downwards.

Enjolras straightened himself up， and cast a convinced and severe glance around him. Then he spurned the corpse with his foot and said:--

"Throw that outside."

Three men raised the body of the unhappy wretch， which was still agitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had fled， and flung it over the little barricade into the Rue Mondetour.

Enjolras was thoughtful. It is impossible to say what grandiose shadows slowly spread over his redoubtable serenity. All at once he raised his voice.

A silence fell upon them.

"Citizens，" said Enjolras， "what that man did is frightful， what I have done is horrible. He killed， therefore I killed him. I had to do it， because insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere; we are under the eyes of the Revolution， we are the priests of the Republic， we are the victims of duty， and must not be possible to slander our combat. I have， therefore， tried that man， and condemned him to death. As for myself， constrained as I am to do what I have done， and yet abhorring it， I have judged myself also， and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself."

Those who listened to him shuddered.

"We will share thy fate，" cried Combeferre.

"So be it，" replied Enjolras. "One word more. In executing this man， I have obeyed necessity; but necessity is a monster of the old world， necessity's name is Fatality. Now， the law of progress is， that monsters shall disappear before the angels， and that Fatality shall vanish before Fraternity. It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter， I do pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love， the future is thine. Death， I make use of thee， but I hate thee. Citizens， in the future there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither ferocious ignorance， nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more Satan， there will be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill any one else， the earth will beam with radiance， the human race will love. The day will come， citizens， when all will be concord， harmony， light， joy and life; it will come， and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die."

Enjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained for some time standing on the spot where he had shed blood， in marble immobility. His staring eye caused those about him to speak in low tones.

Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands silently， and， leaning against each other in an angle of the barricade， they watched with an admiration in which there was some compassion，that grave young man， executioner and priest， composed of light， like crystal， and also of rock.

Let us say at once that later on， after the action， when the bodies were taken to the morgue and searched， a police agent's card was found on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his hands， in 1848， the special report on this subject made to the Prefect of Police in 1832.

We will add， that if we are to believe a tradition of the police， which is strange but probably well founded， Le Cabuc was Claquesous. The fact is， that dating from the death of Le Cabuc， there was no longer any question of Claquesous. Claquesous had nowhere left any trace of his disappearance; he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the invisible. His life had been all shadows， his end was night.

The whole insurgent group was still under the influence of the emotion of that tragic case which had been so quickly tried and so quickly terminated， when Courfeyrac again beheld on the barricade， the small young man who had inquired of him that morning for Marius.

This lad， who had a bold and reckless air， had come by night to join the insurgents.

伽弗洛什走了以后，紧接着便发生了一桩凶残而惊心动魄的骇人事件；我们在这儿既已试图描绘当时情况的轮廓，如果放弃这一事件的经过不谈，我们设计的画面便会不完整，在产生社会、产生革命的阵痛中发生惊厥的伟大时刻，读者会看不到它的确切真实的突出面。

那些人的组合，我们知道，是由一大群各色各样的人象滚雪球那样，汇集在一起的。他们并不相互询问各自的来历。在安灼拉、公白飞和古费拉克率领的那一群沿途聚集拢来的过路人当中，有一个，穿件搬运工人的布褂，两肩都已磨损，说话时指手画脚，粗声大气，面孔象个横蛮的醉汉。这人的名字或绰号，叫勒．卡布克，其实那些自称认识他的人也都不认识他，当时他已喝得大醉，或是伪装醉态，和另外几个人一同把那酒店里的一张桌子拖到外面，坐了下来。这个勒·卡布克，在向那些和他交谈的人频频举杯的同时，好象也在运用心思仔细端详那座矗立在街垒后面六层的高大楼房，凌驾在整条街上，面对着圣德尼街。他忽然喊着说：

“伙计们，你们知道吗？再开枪，就得到那房子里去。要是我们守住那些窗口，谁要走进这条街，活该他送命！”

“对，但是那房子关起来了。”另一个酒客说。

“我们去敲门！”

“不会有人开。”

“把门砸开！”

勒·卡布克跑到楼房门前，门上有个相当大的门锤，他提起便敲。没有人开门。他再敲。也没人应声。敲第三回。仍没人理睬。

“里面有没有人？”勒·卡布克叫了起来。

没有动静。

于是他抓起一支步枪，用枪托捅门。那是一扇古老的甬道大门，圆顶、矮窄、坚固，全部是栎木做的，里面还包了一层铁皮，装了整套铁件，是一扇真正的牢门。枪托的冲撞把那房子震得一片响，但是那扇门纹丝不动。

住在里面的人家肯定被惊动了，因为到后来，四层楼的一扇小方窗子里有了光，窗子也开了，窗口出现一支蜡烛和一个灰白头发的老头儿，满脸惊慌发呆，这是门房的头。

撞门的人停了下来。

“先生们，”门房问，“你们要什么？”

“开门！”勒·卡布克说。

“先生们，不能开。”

“要开！”

“不成，先生们！”

勒·卡布克端起步枪，瞄准了门房，但是由于他立在下面，天又非常黑，门房一点也看不见他。

“你到底开不开？”

“不开，先生们！”

“你说不开？”

“我说不开，我的好……”

门房还没说完那句话，枪已经响了，枪弹从他的下巴进去，经过咽喉，从后颈窝射出。老人一下便倒下去了，一声也没哼。蜡烛掉到下面，熄灭了。人们只见窗口边上有个不动的人头和一缕白烟升向屋顶。

“活该！”勒·卡布克说，重新把他的枪托放在地上。

他刚说完这话，便觉得有只手，象鹰爪似的，猛落在他的肩头上，并听到一个人对他说：

“跪下。”

那杀人犯转过头来，看见在他面前的是一张惨白冷峻的脸，安灼拉的脸。安灼拉手里捏着一支手枪。

他听到枪声，赶来了。

他用左手揪住勒·卡布克的衣领、布褂、衬衫和背带。

“跪下。”他又说了一次。

这个二十岁的娇弱青年以一种无比权威的气概，把那宽肩巨腰的强壮杠夫，象一根芦苇似的压下去，跪在泥淖里。勒·卡布克试图抗拒，但是他感到自己已被一只超人的巨掌抓住了。

安灼拉面色苍白，敞着衣领，头发散乱，他那张近似女性的脸，这时说不出多么象古代的忒弥斯①。他那鼓起的鼻孔，低垂的眼睛赋予他那铁面无私的希腊式侧影一种愤怒和贞静的表情，从古代社会的观点看，那是适合于司法的。

①忒弥斯（Thémis），希腊神话中的司法女神。

整个街垒里的人全跑来了，他们远远地站成一个圈子，心里都感到自己对那即将见到的事无法进一言。

勒·卡布克垂头丧气，不再试图挣扎，只浑身发抖。安灼拉放了他，抽出自己的怀表。

“集中你的思想，”他说。“祷告或思考，随你便。给你一分钟。”

“开恩啊！”杀人犯吞吞吐吐地说，接着他低下头嘟囔了几句没说清楚的咒神骂鬼的话。

安灼拉的眼睛没离开他的表，他让那一分钟过去，便把那表放回他的背心口袋里。接着，他揪住抱着他两膝怪喊大叫的勒·卡布克的头发，把枪管抵在他的耳朵上面。在那些胆大无畏安安静静走来观看这场骇人事件的汉子中，好些人都把头转了过去。

大家听见了枪响，那凶手额头向前，倒在石块路面上。安灼拉抬起头来，张着他那双自信而严峻的眼睛向四周望了一转。

随后，他用脚踢着尸体说道：

“把这丢到外面去。”

那无赖的尸体仍在机械地作生命停止前的最后抽搐，三个汉子抬起它，从小街垒上丢到蒙德都巷子里去。

安灼拉若有所思地立着不动。谁也不知道在他那骇人的宁静中展开一幅什么样的五光十色的阴森景象。突然，他提高了嗓子。大家全静下来。

“公民们，”安灼拉说，“那个人干的事是残酷的，而我干的事是丑恶的。他杀了人，因此我杀了他。我应当这样做，因为起义应当有它的纪律。杀人的罪在此地应比在旁的地方更为严重，我们是在革命的眼光照射之下，我们是宣传共和的牧师，我们是体现神圣职责的卫士，我们不该让我们的战斗受到人们的诽谤。因此我进行了审判，并对那人判处死刑。至于我，我被迫不得不那样做，但又感到厌恶，我也审判了我自己，你们回头便能知道我是怎样判处我自己的。”

听到这话的人都毛骨悚然。

“我们和你共命运。”公白飞喊了起来。

“好吧，”安灼拉回答说，“我还要说几句。我处决了那个人，是由于服从需要；但是需要是旧世界的一种怪物，需要的名字叫做因果报应。而进步的法律要求怪物消失在天使面前，因果报应让位于博爱。现在不是提出爱字的恰当时候。没有关系，我还是要把它提出来，并且要颂扬它。爱，你就是未来。死，我利用你，但是我恨你。公民们，将来不会再有黑暗，不会再有雷击，不会再有野蛮的蒙昧，也不会再有流血的肉刑。魔鬼既不存在，也就不用除魔天使了。将来谁也不再杀害谁，大地上阳光灿烂，人类只知道爱。这一天是一定会到来的，公民们，到那时，处处都是友爱、和谐、光明、欢乐和生机，这一天是一定会到来的。也正是为了促使它早日到来我们才去死。”

安灼拉不说话了，他那处女般的嘴唇合上了，他还在那流过血的地方停留了一会儿，象个塑像似的，久立不动。他凝思注视的神情使他周围的人都低声议论起来。

让·勃鲁维尔和公白飞立在那街垒的角上，手握手，肩靠肩，怀着含有惋惜心情的敬意，对那既是行刑人又是牧师，明洁如水晶而又坚如岩石的冷峻青年，屏息凝神地伫视着。

让我们现在就谈谈日后发现的情况。当战事已成过去，尸体都被送到陈尸所受搜查时，人们在勒·卡布克身上搜出一张警务人员证。关于这件案子，本书的作者在一八四八年手中还有过一份一八三二年写给警署署长的专案调查报告。

还应当补充一点。当时警方有种奇怪的说法，也许有根据，要是可信的话，这勒·卡布克就是铁牙。事实是自从勒·卡布克死了以后便不再有人提到铁牙了。铁牙的下落毫无线索可寻，他好象一下子便和无形的鬼物合为一体了。他的生活暧昧不明，他的结局一团漆黑。

全体起义者对这件处理得如此迅速、结束得也如此迅速的惨案都还惊魂未定时，古费拉克看见早上到他家去探听马吕斯消息的那个小伙子又回到街垒里。

这孩子，好象既不畏惧，也无顾虑，深夜跑来找那些起义的人。