"A shadow of one on ours, but no more." And how strange, how surreal still, to speak of your barricade and ours. "He must have been counting on the notion that we'd allow rowdy hotheadedness to the extent of shooting a defenseless old man in a window. I suppose it makes sense that he was used to his spying winning him pardon for all crimes."

He didn't have the air of one willing to sacrifice his own life for the sake of besmirching the barricade's reputation. Javert took capture and the sentence of death with proud stoicism; Le Cabuc wept, pleaded, clutched at Enjolras's knees, seemed utterly undone by the idea that he might die for the crime of open murder.

The swallow of water is tasteless, despite the lemon floating in the glass.

Le Cabuc died, whatever he expected -- and he succeeded in barring doors and hearts to the revolutionaries, whether or not he would have considered that worth the price. But they knew that.

And maybe, on Bahorel's barricade, some of those doors opened after all. There's no way to know, so there can be hope.