Through the night the barricade was repaired and built higher. The men laid the dead in the Rue Mondétour, turned the kitchen into a sickroom, and bandaged the wounded. At two in the morning they counted themselves and found thirty-seven left. In the ground-floor room there remained only Mabeuf under a black cloth and Javert tied to the post, and Enjolras called it the room of the dead.
As day began to break, everyone was full of hope. By six in the morning a regiment would come over to them, by noon all Paris would rise, and by sunset there would be a revolution, or so they reckoned. Then Enjolras came back from scouting. He folded his arms and listened to their laughter for a moment, then spoke.
The whole army of Paris is out, and a third of it is bearing down on this barricade. The people boiled over yesterday, but this morning they are not stirring, so there is nothing to wait for and nothing to hope for. You have been abandoned.