#André Chénier

[aedislumen]

Les hommes illustres de la Révolution Française (1789-1793), engraving by Wentzel.

Source: C.C. Gillispie, R. Pisano, Lazare and Sadi Carnot: A Scientific and Filial Relationship, p. 431.

[novaiiuna]

La jeune Tarentine

Pleurez, doux alcyons, ô vous, oiseaux sacrés, Oiseaux chers à Thétis, doux alcyons, pleurez.

Elle a vécu, Myrto, la jeune Tarentine. Un vaisseau la portait aux bords de Camarine. Là l’hymen, les chansons, les flûtes, lentement, Devaient la reconduire au seuil de son amant. Une clef vigilante a pour cette journée Dans le cèdre enfermé sa robe d’hyménée Et l’or dont au festin ses bras seraient parés Et pour ses blonds cheveux les parfums préparés. Mais, seule sur la proue, invoquant les étoiles, Le vent impétueux qui soufflait dans les voiles L’enveloppe. Étonnée, et loin des matelots, Elle crie, elle tombe, elle est au sein des flots.

Elle est au sein des flots, la jeune Tarentine. Son beau corps a roulé sous la vague marine. Thétis, les yeux en pleurs, dans le creux d’un rocher Aux monstres dévorants eut soin de la cacher. Par ses ordres bientôt les belles Néréides L’élèvent au-dessus des demeures humides, Le portent au rivage, et dans ce monument L’ont, au cap du Zéphir, déposé mollement. Puis de loin à grands cris appelant leurs compagnes, Et les Nymphes des bois, des sources, des montagnes, Toutes frappant leur sein et traînant un long deuil, Répétèrent : « hélas ! » autour de son cercueil.

Hélas ! chez ton amant tu n’es point ramenée. Tu n’as point revêtu ta robe d’hyménée. L’or autour de tes bras n’a point serré de nœuds. Les doux parfums n’ont point coulé sur tes cheveux.

André Chénier

« La jeune Tarentine », 1785-1787, Bucoliques, 1819 (posthume).

https://www.lelivrescolaire.fr/page/7059598

Pierre Alexandre Schoenewerk (French, 1820-1885) Jeune Tarentine (Young Tarentine), 1871 Musée d'Orsay, Paris

[corydon8]

Tout homme a ses douleurs. Mais aux yeux de ses frères

Chacun d'un front serein déguise ses misères.

Chacun ne plaint que soi. Chacun dans son ennui

Envie un autre humain qui se plaint comme lui.

Nul des autres mortels ne mesure les peines,

Qu'ils savent tous cacher comme il cache les siennes ;

Et chacun, l'oeil en pleurs, en son coeur douloureux

Se dit : " Excepté moi, tout le monde est heureux. "

Ils sont tous malheureux. Leur prière importune

Crie et demande au ciel de changer leur fortune.

Ils changent ; et bientôt, versant de nouveaux pleurs,

Ils trouvent qu'ils n'ont fait que changer de malheurs.

[hildegardavon]

Denys Puech, 1854-1942

La Muse d'André Chénier, 1888, statue en marbre, 108x86.5x71 cm

Musée d'Orsay Inv. RF 3268

André de Chénier (1762-1794) was a poet and political journalist, generally considered the greatest French poet of the 18th century. His work was scarcely published until 25 years after his death. When the first collected edition of Chénier’s poetry appeared in 1819, it had an immediate success and was acclaimed not only by the poets of the Romantic movement but also by the anti-Romantic liberal press. Not only was Chénier’s influence felt on poetic trends throughout the 19th century but the legend of his political struggle and heroic death, celebrated in Chateaubriand’s work Le Génie du christianisme (1802), Sainte-Beuve’s Joseph Delorme (1829), Vigny’s Stello (1832), and Umberto Giordano’s opera Andrea Chénier (1896) also made him a European symbol of the poet-hero.

[klara-1838]

Hi guys <3

Currently working on my thesis and I’m looking for some online reliable sources for these topics:

David’s work

Les Derniers Moments de Michel Lepeletier (a.k.a. Lepeletier himself)

La mort du jeune Bara (Joseph Bara)

André and Joseph Chénier

The cult of Reason/Supreme Being

….and anything that has to do something with the art during the Terror

Thanks y’all 🫶

[syrupsyche]

#psst psst tell me more about them OP :D @pilferingapples

Thank you for ur interest in my very indulgent Teachers AU 🤓 here is a quick doodle of Prouvaire and Bahorel's first ~transcendental connection~

They go on to bond over their shared interests before immediately fighting over the most hair-splitting differences in Romantic opinions /lh 🙄

:O What does teacher au Bahorel do?

HI EMILE!!! Here is teacher!Bahorel!

Made him a history teacher because could you IMAGINE him in a History department meeting with Enjolras and Javert?? (And Feuilly, but we haven't talked about teacher!Feuilly publicly on Tumblr yet 🫣)

[laclefdescoeurs]

Portrait of the poet André Chénier (1762-1794), 1825, Émile-Jean-Horace Vernet

[oviri7]

André Chénier - Poésies

[betweenbeasts]

volière

!WARNING!

one of my WIPs, done whipping myself for not making it a 50k novella, many others already did that, i'm letting it be someone else's whipped cream or shaving cream or whatever now. inspired by my public ao3 bookmarks regarding hannibal, found @ akahomie and referenced on my main tumblr @ moetxt

dont try to read everything referenced or complete the gaps and unsaids. it just is. ill have a different W(h)IP posted story later or tomorrow or whenever

Summary: After the fall finds them in an idyllic 20th century villa on the French Riviera, where Hannibal sets out to learn just how tight a grip he can keep before Will slips through his fingers.

Display End Notes: [1] lines from the poem Le Jeune Captive (The Young Captive) by André Chénier. translation: "If there be bitter days, there must also be those more sweet! Alas! What honey has never left distaste? What sea has had no storm?"

Notes:

parts:

i. a fleeting act of the sea

ii. vestigial aches

iii. dancing in paradise

iv. outside the birdcage door

v. face the sun

really the vibe i'm going for is just beauty and the beast + a boy is a gun* but on the french riviera.

on the theme: this story is named for the french word for birdcage or aviary. it is a story about cages, both those in which you put the people you love, and those you stay in for their sake. will and hannibal were both prepared to die together. can't live with you, can't live without you. love as destruction triumphing over love as consumption. but they survived. so now, they must find a new framework for love.

hannibal, who had spent three years in the BSHCI after will rejected him ("i don't delight. i tolerate. i don't have your appetite."), who had once seen his freedom as the most important thing, settles on love as captivity. despite being once broken-hearted at the idea, he later ended up imposing it on himself. now, he sees will as doing the same. he sees will as his captive.

very much, hannibal would like to keep him, to pull him closer and grip him tighter. but he also wants to be himself, and tempering that is work. by setting himself free, succumbing to his desire to kill and eat again and putting their new cover life at risk, he's also letting will go, leaving the cage door open for him—because there's only so much he can tolerate, surely, before it tips into too much and he rejects him again.

to will, love before hannibal had always been so much self-erasing work. that's the last thing he wants. he knows what hannibal is, and what he always will be, and he's still here, isn't he? but he does have his rules. he doesn't want hannibal lying to him, and he doesn't want hannibal keeping secrets from him.

he'll kill if he's attacked. he'll kill bad people. he'll eat whatever hannibal cooks for him. will hopes he and hannibal can strike a balance.

will doesn't want the love that is a birdcage, and that's not how he sees himself. i'm not your captive. if we're going to do this, it has to be me as your partner. your equal.

c: You want to cage him, the same way you've been caged. h: Do you object? c: No. I just thought it's exactly like you to keep the man encaged, but free the wolf that takes over him when the full moon rises.\ h: You believe Will to be a wolf? c: I believe he can be, sometimes, when he chooses to be. Yet he could, just as likely, choose not to be. In that way, you are different. h: How so? c: You don't get to choose. You were born a beast.

once they're on a boat sailing across the atlantic, will pulls away so completely that hannibal gets worried. will won't even look him in the eye, and determinedly keeps his back to hannibal with the excuse of minding the sail and keeping them on track to avoid bad weather. when he does deign to speak to hannibal, his words are clipped, just barely gritted out, and even then with great reluctance, as if he would rather not spare hannibal a word at all.

once the shore is visible ahead of them, under the light of the full moon, hannibal approaches him again. he slowly touches a hand on will's back, in between his shoulder, and at this will jumps as if he had been burned. but unlike previous times, hannibal doesn't pull away and leave him to it.

"Do you regret it?"

the question startles will. "Regret what?"

"That we survived our fall. I know you did not intend for us to live after the cliff."

"I don't see how what I intended matters now."

"But it does matter, to me, what you intend from here on out."

"I'm still here with you. Isn't that answer enough?"

"You are, and yet you do your best to make me feel as if that were not the case."

"I'm not avoiding you."

will finally glances at him, but looks away again after a moment. clearly, hannibal doesn't believe him on that.

when he speaks next, he stubbornly keeps his back to hannibal. where hannibal can't see, he closes his eyes. "The last time I did this was when I was looking for you. I felt your absence so sharply I ached with it. More than the scar, more than the memory of you giving it to me, it was the remnants of you that kept piercing me over and over. The sound of your voice, echoing in my mind. The phantom of your touch, lingering on my skin."

he opens his eyes and turns, finding hannibal's own eyes shining. it's not shock, or a loss of control, but hannibal, willingly and consciously, letting will see him, giving him a glimpse of the litany of emotions will stirs within him.

now facing hannibal, he continues, "I wanted to find you. I thought that if I saw you again, I'd be able to rip out the part of you that's lodged so deeply within me."

"And now?"

will gives him a small smile, gone in the next second. "You can stay. I don't think I mind, keeping you there."

w: I never thought that for a French hideout you'd go for somewhere so far from Paris. Opposite end of the country, even. h: I had a place prepared just outside of Paris, a property I'd bought many years ago. For our current purposes, I found it an unnecessary risk. w: So this place is a contingency. h: Perhaps once our pursuers have gotten tired of the chase and become occupied by new killers, we will make our way there.

at first, will tries.

he comes along with hannibal on walks perusing the city, and lets hannibal play tour guide, teaching him where everything is with the accompanying rambles about the history of the place. hannibal takes him to the will learns the streets and shops of saint-tropez, spends some time by the dock greeting sunrises. he watches jealously when he sees people with their dogs, but so far he hasn't found any strays, and he's definitely not going to ask hannibal about it.

will watches and listens attentively

he speaks in awkward, unpracticed french to the gardener, and the baker, and the vendors at the local produce market. he gets some raised eyebrows and a few chuckles for his odd phrasings and word choice, and one time gets asked if he's from quebec, to which he replies no, further south than that.

more than enough embarrassed, will decides to pick out one of hannibal's books and read it aloud one afternoon just to get a feel for the language again. there are some unfamiliar words and foreign phrasings that he'd never see if he were back in louisiana, and his accent is pretty obvious. at some point hannibal walks into the room, causing will to stop, but hannibal asks him to please, continue. he sits there for a long time, just listening to will and looking at the azure gulf out the window.

The next day, Will finds a stack of books on a table in that same room, with Hannibal having set up an easel and canvas on the opposite end. Most of the selection is unsurprising: de Sade's Juliette, Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal, de Laclos' Les Liaisons dangereuses. Flaubert's The Temptation of Saint Anthony is a bit out of place, and then there's a 16th Century French translation of The Iliad. Will picks up the latter, leafing through familiar verses in unfamiliar words until he finds what he's looking for. [Verse describing the Trojan horse] An ostensible peace offering that, within itself, actually contained the key to destruction. Will wonders of the day when Hannibal would present him with a gift horse of his own, a token of seeming indulgence and sentimentality, but its message would be Go away, or Destroy yourself. And as Will runs his hands over the ink on the page, he knows it would hurt him more than any straightforward rejection or even act of violence ever could. The worst thing he can imagine, from someone like Hannibal, is being let off easy. He flicks back to the first page, sits down, and begins to read. Hannibal doesn't ask to paint him. Will doesn't say he can't.

during the voiles de saint-tropez, hannibal specifically warns will against going out because some celebrity is in attendance and with them, media. it's too much of a risk. will reluctantly complies, but then hannibal goes against his own warning and sneaks off to murder a tourist. not only that, but he lies to will about it afterwards.

h: did you ever consider that perhaps i cherish you more than i want to indulge my own urges? that after all this time, finally getting to be with you would be enough? w: do you remember our conversation during the first session we had after i was acquitted? h: ...yes. w: i am the one person in this world you don't have to lie to. (and you lie to me anyway.)

unbeknownst to will, hannibal did all that on purpose to push him away. this is because while hannibal is now free, he sees will as his captive (as alluded to by his painting being titled La Jeune Captive, after Chénier's poem) who is being kept tempered and caged by hannibal's side, forced to hide, instead of living the full life he deserves. the attempt to push will away is a test, and if will leaves, that means hannibal should've never fooled himself with the idea that they could make a life together.

two people inhabiting the same spaces on opposite sides of a looking glass, living in mirrored universes where the other didn't exist.

seeing that will has become more distant, and his status as captive has been weighing him down more and more, hannibal gets him a sailboat, and says it's because "i know you don't do well when you're idle." he sees him off at the port the first time will sails it. it's so transparently a goodbye, but neither of them dare utter the word. will doesn't meet hannibal's eyes until the last moments, with the anchor raised and will poised to leave. unable to stomach the silence and hannibal's measured calmness at will's departure, unable to stomach being let off easy, will finally broaches the subject.

w: how do you know i'll come back to you? h: i don't. part of me expects i will never see you again.

will almost doesn't return. he spends the whole day at sea. at dusk, he glances back, and the sight of the setting sun behind him reminds him of the afternoons he'd spent sitting and reading the iliad while hannibal painted him. he thinks back to the painting, how the title was so familiar but he couldn't place it, and the time he spent poring through the volumes on hannibal's bookshelves without finding what he was looking for.

it hits him now: la jeune captive was a poem about a young woman who was about to face the guillotine, a young woman whom the author saw as having a brilliant mind and her whole life still ahead of her, but was about to be cut tragically short. and will realizes what hannibal had done, and that he'd done it all on purpose. will realizes how hannibal sees him, and how hannibal sees himself. he feels tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and he turns the boat back around.

S'il est des jours amers, il en est de si doux! Hélas! Quel miel jamais n'a laissé de dégoûts? Quelle mer n'a point de tempête?

"I want to give up on revenge. I want to leave the guilt behind. I want to be with you—and not just surviving; I want a life with you."

wrong. the why is not here. you read it too fast. dont read any of it again. ill have something new next time. if im too pretentious, you dont know where im from. i have pinned post on my main. if im nonsensical, you didnt watch hannibal or you watched mads and hugh too much. 0/100, new test in 1-1000 business days. learn python or c/++/#/obj/holy. REALLY listen to tyler the creator. live live live again. fuck you and good night

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

But also

Jean Prouvaire was in love; he cultivated a pot of flowers, played on the flute, made verses, loved the people, pitied woman, wept over the child, confounded God and the future in the same confidence, and blamed the Revolution for having caused the fall of a royal head, that of André Chénier.

Of all of the characters for Gillenormand to have something in common with, Jean Prouvaire was not the one I would have guessed.

Love seeing Gillenormand try to say one (1) nice thing about The Giants of '93. Try not to have a stroke, you Royalist shitheel.

[benbenlang1]

祖国的敌人伴奏--选自歌剧《安德烈·谢尼埃》André Chénier|Nemico della patria|U.Giordano

https://www.99banzou.com/product/1436029.html Nemico della patria (Conducted by Sir Georg Solti) – Ettore Bastianini/Orchestra of the Lyric Opera of Chicago Composed by：Umberto Giordano Nemico della Patria È vecchia fiaba che beatamente Ancor la beve il popolo Nato a Costantinopoli Straniero Studiò a Saint Cyr Soldato Traditore Di Dumouriez un complice E poeta Sovvertitor di cuori e di…

[alrederedmixedmedia]

Alredered Remembers French poet and political journalist André Marie de Chénier, on his birthday.

[charmemma]

L’amour endormi

Là reposait l’Amour, et sur sa joue en fleur D’une pomme brillante éclatait la couleur. Je vis, dès que j’entrai sous cet épais bocage, Son arc et son carquois suspendus an feuillage. Sur des monceaux de rose au calice embaumé Il dormait. Un souris sur sa bouche formé L’entr’ouvrait mollement, et de jeunes abeilles Venaient cueillir le miel de ses lèvres vermeilles.

André Chénier

[wavveisnothere]

Finished! :D

I read “Le pas du juge” by Henri Troyat two months ago, and that’s how I discovered André Chénier.

[usergreenpixel]

Hi, Citizens!

So, in my review of “Andrea Chénier” (the Frev opera) I mentioned that the real Chénier was a royalist (that’s the reason why he was actually executed) and even wrote an ode to Charlotte Corday.

Well, I found the ode! Not as proof I’m not lying, just as a fun tidbit.

The original version (from this website):

Quoi ! tandis que partout, ou sincères ou feintes,

Des lâches, des pervers, les larmes et les plaintes

Consacrent leur Marat parmi les immortels,

Et que, prêtre orgueilleux de cette idole vile,

Des fanges du Parnasse un impudent reptile

Vomit un hymne infâme au pied de ses autels ;

La vérité se tait ! Dans sa bouche glacée,

Des liens de la peur sa langue embarrassée

Dérobe un juste hommage aux exploits glorieux !

Vivre est-il donc si doux ? De quel prix est la vie,

Quand, sous un joug honteux, la pensée asservie,

Tremblante, au fond du coeur, se cache à tous les yeux ?

Non, non. Je ne veux point t'honorer en silence,

Toi qui crus par ta mort ressusciter la France

Et dévouas tes jours à punir des forfait.

Le glaive arma ton bras, fille grande et sublime,

Pour faire honte aux dieux, pour réparer leur crime,

Quand d'un homme à ce monstre ils donnèrent les traits.

Le noir serpent, sorti de sa caverne impure,

A donc vu rompre enfin sous ta main ferme et sûre

Le venimeux tissu de ses jours abhorrés !

Aux entrailles du tigre, à ses dents homicides,

Tu vins redemander et les membres livides

Et le sang des humains qu'il avait dévorés !

Son oeil mourant t'a vue, en ta superbe joie,

Féliciter ton bras et contempler ta proie.

Ton regard lui disait : " Va, tyran furieux,

Va, cours frayer la route aux tyrans tes complices.

Te baigner dans le sang fut tes seules délices,

Baigne-toi dans le tien et reconnais des dieux. "

La Grèce, ô fille illustre ! admirant ton courage,

Épuiserait Paros pour placer ton image

Auprès d'Harmodius, auprès de son ami ;

Et des choeurs sur ta tombe, en une sainte ivresse,

Chanteraient Némésis, la tardive déesse,

Qui frappe le méchant sur son trône endormi.

Mais la France à la hache abandonne ta tête.

C'est au monstre égorgé qu'on prépare une fête

Parmi ses compagnons, tous dignes de son sort.

Oh ! quel noble dédain fit sourire ta bouche,

Quand un brigand, vengeur de ce brigand farouche,

Crut te faire pâlir, aux menaces de mort !

C'est lui qui dut pâlir, et tes juges sinistres,

Et notre affreux sénat et ses affreux ministres,

Quand, à leur tribunal, sans crainte et sans appui,

Ta douceur, ton langage et simple et magnanime

Leur apprit qu'en effet, tout puissant qu'est le crime,

Qui renonce à la vie est plus puissant que lui.

Longtemps, sous les dehors d'une allégresse aimable,

Dans ses détours profonds ton âme impénétrable

Avait tenu cachés les destins du pervers.

Ainsi, dans le secret amassant la tempête,

Rit un beau ciel d'azur, qui cependant s'apprête

A foudroyer les monts, à soulever les mers.

Belle, jeune, brillante, aux bourreaux amenée,

Tu semblais t'avancer sur le char d'hyménée ;

Ton front resta paisible et ton regard serein.

Calme sur l'échafaud, tu méprisas la rage

D'un peuple abject, servile et fécond en outrage,

Et qui se croit encore et libre et souverain.

La vertu seule est libre. Honneur de notre histoire,

Notre immortel opprobre y vit avec ta gloire ;

Seule, tu fus un homme, et vengeas les humains !

Et nous, eunuques vils, troupeau lâche et sans âme,

Nous savons répéter quelques plaintes de femme ;

Mais le fer pèserait à nos débiles mains.

Un scélérat de moins rampe dans cette fange.

La Vertu t'applaudit ; de sa mâle louange

Entends, belle héroïne, entends l'auguste voix.

Ô Vertu, le poignard, seul espoir de la terre,

Est ton arme sacrée, alors que le tonnerre

Laisse régner le crime et te vend à ses lois.

Here’s the English version (from this website):

What! Everywhere, pretended or sincere,

Of cowards and of rogues the plaints and tears

Of their Marat’s ascension spread the news,

And, prideful priest of deity most foul,

A slimy would-be poet on the prowl

A noxious hymn upon his altar spews,

Yet truth keeps silent! Frozen, terrified,

By icy bonds of fear its tongue is tied,

Denying glorious deeds their just acclaim!

Is life so sweet then, and is death so frightful

When our free thoughts we must conceal and stifle,

Enslaving them under a yoke of shame?

No, I won’t honor you with silent praise

Who for the life of France gave up your days

To punish evils on the world released.

You armed yourself with steel, O maid sublime,

To shame the gods, and to undo their crime

Of giving human features to that beast.

The serpent coiling in his filthy lair

Saw your undaunted hand reach out and tear

Of his accursed days the poison thread.

You came to face the tiger gorged on killing,

Demanding restitution of the villain

For the warm flesh and blood of all the dead.

He saw you in the dimming light of day

Rejoice in triumph as you watched your prey.

“Go, vicious tyrant,” said your gaze, “begone!

Others will follow you into the night.

Bathing in blood has been your sole delight;

Now, fear the gods whilst bathing in your own.”

Illustrious maid! If Greece your like had harbored,

They’d raid their quarries for the purest marble

To raise your statues, to great heroes next;

Choirs at your tomb, in ecstasy most holy,

Would sing of Vengeance, goddess who works slowly

Yet strikes the tyrant when he least expects.

But here in France, to die by axe you’re fated.

It is the monster who is celebrated

Amidst his friends, monsters of lesser scale.

Oh! How you smiled — in what superb disdain

—

When thugs out to avenge the thug you’d slain

Believed the threat of death would make you pale!

Let them turn pale, those magistrates of hate,

Odious officials of an odious state:

At their tribunal, subject to their will,

Friendless and fearless in that awful hour,

You showed them that, though villainy have power,

One who renounces life is stronger still.

For months, beneath a sweet and cheerful look,

Your soul in its well-guarded secret book

Concealed the sentence on the scoundrel passed.

So smiles the azure sky, bright and alluring,

While, hidden still, a mighty storm is brewing,

Ready to shake the mountains with its blast.

Young, fair, led to your death, on that last ride

You looked resplendent like a lovely bride,

Your face, your gaze full of serenity.

Calm even on the scaffold, you despised

The baying crowds in outrage quick to rise,

A servile mob that still believes it’s free.

No, only virtue can be free. Our story

Is one of lasting shame, and yours of glory:

You were the only man, avenging maid!

And we, vile eunuchs, soulless, craven herd

Can murmur, woman-like, a plaintive word,

But our enfeebled hands can’t lift a blade.

You did not think one traitor sacrificed

To our ancestral spirits would suffice

A broken France from chaos to restore:

No, you had hoped that, by your courage shaken,

Our timid souls would finally awaken

And slay the plundering gang grown fat on gore.

One fewer snake crawls in this pit of slime.

Fair heroine of our forsaken time,

Virtue applauds you; hear her noble voice!

O virtue! When to evil laws succumb

And thunder sleeps, the dagger must become

Your sacred weapon and our only choice.

Well, that was an… interesting read. What do you think, Citizens?

[deathanddogs]

Translation:

Jehan: "Revolution without the guillotine", how I've longed to hear that phrase!

Jehan: Had you been there for the French Revolution, the great poet André Chénier would not have been decapitated

Jehan: I wished to convey that splendor, so I wrote a poem.

Jehan: It is called "The Poppy: Blooming in the Snow"

Grantaire: You are all like the sons of the French Revolution

Grantaire: The rights of the people, the Republic, democracy, civilization, progress, religion, revolution

Grantaire: What's the point of such things?

Grantaire: There are other things to learn: The best coffee is to be had at the Cafe Lemblin, a wonderful chicken dish to be had at Mother Sauget's

Grantaire: Good lasses at the Ermitage on the Boulevard du Maine, that sort of thing.

Courfeyrac: Then why did you follow me?

Grantaire: ...ah... I don't know either

Grantaire: ....... hello~

Grantaire: My apologies for the mess

Grantaire: Forgive me, I am Grantaire

Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras.

He had need of Enjolras.

That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his being clearly aware of it,

and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him.