rse's breast raise his hand. Ah! you want to get yourselves killed, so
do I--I, who am speaking to you; but I do not want to feel the phantoms
of women wreathing their arms around me. Die, if you will, but
don't make others die. Suicides like that which is on the brink of
accomplishment here are sublime; but suicide is narrow, and does not
admit of extension; and as soon as it touches your neighbors, suicide
is murder. Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks.
Listen, Enjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of the Rue
du Cygne a lighted casement, a candle in a poor window, on the fifth
floor, and on the pane the quivering shadow of the head of an old woman,
who had the air of having spent the night in watching. Perhaps she is
the mother of some one of you. Well, let that man go, and make haste, to
say to his mother: 'Here I am, mother!' Let him feel at ease, the task
here will be performed all the same. When one supports one's relatives
by one's toil, one has not the right to sacrifice one's self. That
is deserting one's family. And those who have daughters! what are you
thinking of? You get yourselves killed, you are dead, that is well. And
tomorrow? Young girls without bread--that is a terrible thing. Man begs,
woman sells. Ah! those charming and gracious beings, so gracious and so
sweet, who have bonnets of flowers, who fill the house with purity, who
sing and prattle, who are like a living perfume, who prove the existence
of angels in heaven by the purity of virgins on earth, that Jeanne,
that Lise, that Mimi, those adorable and honest creatures who are your
blessings and your pride, ah! good God, they will suffer hunger! What do
you want me to say to you? There is a market for human flesh; and it
is not with your shadowy hands, shuddering around them, that you
will prevent them from entering it! Think of the street, think of the
pavement covered with passers-by, think of the shops past which women
go and come with necks all bare, and through the mire. These women,
too, were pure once. Think of your sisters, those of you who have them.
Misery, prostitution, the police, Saint-Lazare--that is what those
beautiful, delicate girls, those fragile marvels of modesty, gentleness
and loveliness, fresher than lilacs in the month of May, will come to.
Ah! you have got yourselves killed! You are no longer on hand! That
is well; you have wished to release the people from Royalty, and you
deliver over