“…Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your brother.” “He is,” said Enjolras. “Yes,” replied Combeferre, “he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him.” “Let me alone. It must be done.” And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras’ marble cheek.
By by the time I painted this Barricade Day was almost over. Let's if that, shall we? Let's also ignore the fact that I don't know a thing about nineteenth century firearms.