#jean Prouvaire melancholy!!

[sunflower-enj0lras]

No thoughts, just thinking about the way Enjolras thinks about his friends

[thebrickinbrick]

The Barrel of Powder

Marius, still concealed in the turn of the Rue Mondétour, had witnessed, shuddering and irresolute, the first phase of the combat. But he had not long been able to resist that mysterious and sovereign vertigo which may be designated as the call of the abyss. In the presence of the imminence of the peril, in the presence of the death of M. Mabeuf, that melancholy enigma, in the presence of Bahorel killed, and Courfeyrac shouting: “Follow me!” of that child threatened, of his friends to succor or to avenge, all hesitation had vanished, and he had flung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in hand. With his first shot he had saved Gavroche, and with the second delivered Courfeyrac.

Amid the sound of the shots, amid the cries of the assaulted guards, the assailants had climbed the entrenchment, on whose summit Municipal Guards, soldiers of the line and National Guards from the suburbs could now be seen, gun in hand, rearing themselves to more than half the height of their bodies.

They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, but they did not leap into the enclosure, as though wavering in the fear of some trap. They gazed into the dark barricade as one would gaze into a lion’s den. The light of the torch illuminated only their bayonets, their bear-skin caps, and the upper part of their uneasy and angry faces.

Marius had no longer any weapons; he had flung away his discharged pistols after firing them; but he had caught sight of the barrel of powder in the tap-room, near the door.

As he turned half round, gazing in that direction, a soldier took aim at him. At the moment when the soldier was sighting Marius, a hand was laid on the muzzle of the gun and obstructed it. This was done by some one who had darted forward,—the young workman in velvet trousers. The shot sped, traversed the hand and possibly, also, the workman, since he fell, but the ball did not strike Marius. All this, which was rather to be apprehended than seen through the smoke, Marius, who was entering the tap-room, hardly noticed.

Still, he had, in a confused way, perceived that gun-barrel aimed at him, and the hand which had blocked it, and he had heard the discharge. But in moments like this, the things which one sees vacillate and are precipitated, and one pauses for nothing. One feels obscurely impelled towards more darkness still, and all is cloud.

The insurgents, surprised but not terrified, had rallied. Enjolras had shouted: “Wait! Don’t fire at random!” In the first confusion, they might, in fact, wound each other. The majority of them had ascended to the window on the first story and to the attic windows, whence they commanded the assailants.

The most determined, with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, and Combeferre, had proudly placed themselves with their backs against the houses at the rear, unsheltered and facing the ranks of soldiers and guards who crowned the barricade.

All this was accomplished without haste, with that strange and threatening gravity which precedes engagements. They took aim, point blank, on both sides: they were so close that they could talk together without raising their voices.

When they had reached this point where the spark is on the brink of darting forth, an officer in a gorget extended his sword and said:—

“Lay down your arms!”

“Fire!” replied Enjolras.

The two discharges took place at the same moment, and all disappeared in smoke.

An acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded lay with weak, dull groans. When the smoke cleared away, the combatants on both sides could be seen to be thinned out, but still in the same positions, reloading in silence. All at once, a thundering voice was heard, shouting:—

“Be off with you, or I’ll blow up the barricade!”

All turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded.

Marius had entered the tap-room, and had seized the barrel of powder, then he had taken advantage of the smoke, and the sort of obscure mist which filled the entrenched enclosure, to glide along the barricade as far as that cage of paving-stones where the torch was fixed. To tear it from the torch, to replace it by the barrel of powder, to thrust the pile of stones under the barrel, which was instantly staved in, with a sort of horrible obedience,—all this had cost Marius but the time necessary to stoop and rise again; and now all, National Guards, Municipal Guards, officers, soldiers, huddled at the other extremity of the barricade, gazed stupidly at him, as he stood with his foot on the stones, his torch in his hand, his haughty face illuminated by a fatal resolution, drooping the flame of the torch towards that redoubtable pile where they could make out the broken barrel of powder, and giving vent to that startling cry:—

“Be off with you, or I’ll blow up the barricade!”

Marius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the vision of the young revolution after the apparition of the old.

“Blow up the barricade!” said a sergeant, “and yourself with it!”

Marius retorted: “And myself also.”

And he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder.

But there was no longer any one on the barrier. The assailants, abandoning their dead and wounded, flowed back pell-mell and in disorder towards the extremity of the street, and there were again lost in the night. It was a headlong flight.

The barricade was free.

[dolphin1812]

“Joly will go to Dupuytren’s clinical lecture, and feel the pulse of the medical school.”

Puns are serious in politics.

More seriously, this chapter is nice in how it shows Enjolras’ love for his friends. He knows them really well, as demonstrated by their assignments. Courfeyrac, for instance, gets to utilize his social skills and general friendliness with the students who have the day off, whereas Joly gets to talk to fellow medical students and Bossuet gets to handle the law students. Picpus seems to have been a working class neighborhood with many craftsmen, suiting Combeferre’s curious nature. La Glacière was where ice was collected in winter to store for summer, so we can assume this was also a working class area suited to Feuilly, just as the Romantic Prouvaire is suited to a masonic lodge.

I tried to find information on the Cougourde, but the text for this chapter came up instead.

While it’s nice to see Enjolras’ knowledge of his friends from an emotional perspective, it also illustrates that he’s a good leader, utilizing each of their strengths to further their cause. He even remembers (and accurately describes) Marius, who doesn’t even show up anymore!

Grantaire may scold Enjolras as an “ingrate” here, but he did call republican ideas “twaddle,” so Enjolras is justified in being skeptical of him. The allusions in what Grantaire says are mainly to writings from the time of the French Revolution or that were very influential in it (like Rousseau’s Social Contract). The Hébertists were a radical group during the Revolution. He errs in saying the “constitution of the year Two” (there were constitutions for years I and III, but not II), but I believe he paraphrases the Declaration of the Rights of Man? So Grantaire does know what he’s talking about; he just isn’t making much of a point. As we’ve seen with his other speeches, he’s clearly well-educated from the breadth of what he alludes to, but he’s not really motivated politically.

The Robespierre waistcoat is such a dramatic touch.

And not to say too much about Enjolras loving his friends, but this!!:

“He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre’s philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s dash, Bahorel’s smile, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, Bossuet’s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once.”

He cares so much!

[pumpkinspice-prouvaire]

This is one of my favourite chapters in the whole book for many reasons (not least because I am an ExR girlie through and through), but I always enjoy this passage in particular:

Enjolras was content. The furnace was being heated. He had at that moment a powder train of friends scattered all over Paris. He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre’s philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s dash, Bahorel’s smile, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, Bossuet’s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once. All hands to work. Surely, the result would answer to the effort. This was well.

Firstly bc a) 'Enjolras was content' it's all I want for him fr.

But also I just love how well it shows that Enjolras values the other members of Les Amis, both in their contributions to the Cause, and as his friends. Like a good leader should, he clearly knows their strengths and how to play to them, and it's one of those moments where you really understand how Les Amis work as a unit (Grantaire's contribution notwithstanding...)

"Surely, the result would answer to the effort. This was well." He's so full of hope I'm screaming crying throwing up

[reflection-s-of-stars]

Something of a scholar

My @drinkwithme-exchange fic for @schroedingers-draht! Hope you enjoy!

The Café Lemblin was, in a word, sweltering. Even with the windows open, the breeze blowing in was a sticky one characteristic of July, and the old proprietress refused to extinguish the roaring fire even at Grantaire’s most persuasive requests. It was a good place to go in the winter, when the world outside is achingly cold and nothing sounds better than a mug of coffee in your hands.

And even in the balmy days of July, Jean Prouvaire was always cold, so this initially seemed like just his place.

“What’s the matter, Jehan?”

But, as often, Grantaire’s young friend was quite unreachable. Jehan Prouvaire never seemed to notice the world around him half as much as he did his own thoughts. He looked even odder today than usual: sunburnt to a crisp, with a tawny, girlish braid rapidly coming undone and a kelly-green waistcoat that looked to have been thrown around him in haste. Such was the fashion sense of this type of dreamer.

“Prouvaire, did you hear me?”

“Hm? Did you say something, R?”

Grantaire only laughed. “Nothing of importance, my friend,” he said, shifting to be closer, “just asking what was on your mind. It’s always something entertaining, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Jehan sighed. “Though it’s more melancholy than usual this evening.”

“How so?”

He sighed again, a little softer this time, but did not answer. Instead, he opted to gaze out the open window.

“You know, it’s not polite to accompany your friend to one of Paris’s best cafés only to-”

“Today is July 25th, isn’t it?”

“Er- yes, I think so. Why?”

He turned back to Grantaire and met his eyes, for the first time this whole evening.

“Today is the anniversary of the death of André Chenier.”

Grantaire took a moment to peruse his memories- Chenier as a name certainly sounded familiar, but if he was being honest, his mind was coming up quite empty.

“You’ll have to remind me of who that is.”

Jehan looked almost hurt. “The one who wrote De Nuit, la Nymphe Errante, don’t you remember? Et sa plainte amère excite leur risée?”

Still no recollection, and it clearly showed. Jehan turned towards the window once more, refusing to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I don’t think I’ve ever read any of his work.”

His own eyes light up. “Really?”

“Almost positive.”

“Oh, you’d love him! There’s a compilation of some of his work by De La Touche. I’d be happy to lend you my copy- he has some fantastic metaphors in Jeune Captive that I think you’d…”

The Café Lemblin was stiflingly hot. Grantaire’s coffee was cooling down already, and it was just a bit sweeter than he liked it. Even so, just for this moment, he was perfectly happy to listen to his friend’s daydreams.

“…And do you know, he was from- Grantaire?”

“You’re awfully smart, do you know that?”

Jehan kept his eyes down, as always, but Grantaire could clearly see his wide smile.

Quite a nice way to spend an afternoon, isn’t it?

[barricadebops]

As I'm about 99.9% positive you would agree, I will never understand why people say that Enjolras isn't a good friend or wouldn't be a good boyfriend. Like I get that the revolution and his work was important to him (I personally believe that he would balance his friends and work to the best of his ability), but you cannot tell me that he wouldn't drop everything, including his work, at a moment's notice if a friend needed him. This is something that I believe wholeheartedly, and someone would have to pry this head canon/belief/whatever you want to call it out of my cold dead fingers.

Yes, I of course agree with this 100%. I really don't understand why people would say that either, it is just not him! The thing about Enjolras is that he cares so much, enough to the point where it was what got him killed. Some may argue that he cares more for his cause than for people, and I would say that is because they are viewing the cause and people as two different concepts, when, in reality, they are actually one and the same! Because Enjolras' cause is the people and that includes all people—the common man Feuilly, his (probably previously) wealthy friend Combeferre, and even the man who on several occasions has let him down, disappointed him, and given him all the reason not to trust him, Grantaire. If his cause is the people, how could he ever feel cold towards the people who matter most to him?

I think the idea a vast amount of people have that Enjolras doesn't love comes from the fact that canonically Enjolras does not experience romantic love, and frankly, this sort of thinking is rather dangerous, because it erases the fact that love comes in so many more forms than just romance. Enjolras is filled with an incredible amount of love—love for his friends, love for the people around him, and love for the future, and every one of those aspects links back to the love he feels for those who surround him. It is the love for the people he would encounter everyday while walking on the streets, it is the love for the people he would meet when he would go to buy his bread, it is the love for the friends who would look to him as their beloved friend and leader—it is his love for these people that he launches an entire rebellion— and subsequently dies for it, too. His ideals are defined by the motto of France—liberty, equality, and fraternity—but these ideals are driven by his greatest ideal of all, the one he hold key above others: love, and he makes his value of the ideal abundantly evident in his speech following the execution of Le Cabuc when he says:

"This is a bad moment to mention the word 'love.' I mention it anyway, and I glorify it. Love, the future belongs to you... In the future there will be no killing, the earth will be radiant, the human race will love." (5.12.8.)

From this, it is quite clear that Enjolras does not just experience love, but feels one of the highest and most greatest forms of it, so the characterization that he knows not of the feeling of love is quite unfounded.

He absolutely does love his friends to death. The one time we see him ready to forsake his ideals is when rather than keep the valuable spy Javert, who holds information about the rebels at the barricades, he is willing to hold an exchange so that they may bring back Jehan Prouvaire.

"'Yes,' replied Enjolras. 'But not as much as by Jean Prouvaire's life.'" (5.14.5)

He also sees so much good in his friends, he believes in them wholeheartedly, and for Enjolras, his belief is his expression of love.

"He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre’s philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s dash, Bahorel’s smile, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, Bossuet’s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once." (5.1.6.)

I've always loved this passage because it allows us to glimpse into Enjolras' mind and see how he truly thinks of his friends, and the way he sees them is incredibly sweet. He sees these people as his brothers who are capable of amazing feats, who are just as passionate as he is, and will be the ones to help him fight for the future. The love he holds for them is incredible, and though we get to see inside of Enjolras' head so little, this passage here is quite enough to inform the reader of just how much Enjolras draws joy from his friends.

In terms of the canonicity of the brick, I have always seen Enjolras' final moment as him realizing and accepting Grantaire's love for him (I would also argue that this moment is also when Grantaire himself, having not known exactly what it was he felt for Enjolras, also realized what exactly he felt for him), but dying with him only as a friend, but the fact that he smiles, and that it is him who extends his hand towards Grantaire says a lot about how strong his platonic love for his friends is. And of course, once again it is not just for his friends; far too many people see Enjolras as a man willing to sacrifice whoever and whatever in order to accomplish his goals, but his words once he discovers that Paris has abandoned their barricade say otherwise. When the rebels stubbornly insist that they all remain, no doubt fantasizing of dying "heroic martyr deaths," rather than encourage them, he instead essentially chides them by reminding them that:

"Vain-glory is wasteful[,]" (5.1.14)

so to paint him as merciless holds no merit. I feel as if this image comes from the quote:

"Enjolras was a charming young man capable of being terrible." (4.4.1.)

While yes, it is very capable for Enjolras to turn ruthless, the key word in that sentence is capable. The word that preceeds it, the one that follows after the definite word was, is the word charming, and the fact that charming is put before terrible holds great significance. Enjolras' first instinct, what comes to him naturally, is to do good, to be good, to be charming. He can be terrible, yes, but he must put his mind into doing so, whereas being a good person comes to him without thinking. Many tend to ignore the first part of the sentence in favour of the second, and they twist it to mean that his first instinct is to do bad instead of good, which really does not define his character at all.

Perhaps the biggest contributor to the misinterpretation of Enjolras' character is the way people have read his dynamic with Grantaire, and the way the lines between canon and fanon Grantaire have been so thoroughly blurred that it has ended up distorting Enjolras' image while erasing major parts of Grantaire's character that makes him the character and to a greater extent, metaphorical representation he is. I will not lie; I write fanfiction, and the version of Grantaire that I write into my stories is most definitely his fanon image; in other words, he is a vastly improved version. But it is incredibly important to acknowledge the way the two concepts deviate from each other, or you'll end up with a situation in which the character you have in mind isn't really the original character itself. It's okay for people to have different perceptions! Everyone understand literature differently, and that's the beauty of the arts! I think it's totally cool that everyone believes in characters in different ways! But for me, it really bothers me the way the fandom tends to paint Grantaire as a saint while portraying Enjolras as a character who always seems to know less than Grantaire, always is on a lower platform than Grantaire, and is always harsh and unjust towards Grantaire, because it simply is not true. A lot about Grantaire is ignored in terms of the canonicity of the brick. For example, it is true that Grantaire is, in fact, ugly, and he's described that way for a specific element of the narrative that Victor Hugo is writing in (@lilys-hazel-eyes is writing a great analysis on morality represented by beauty, which is exactly the point here—you should definitely go check it out!) In the brick, Victor Hugo describes Grantaire's cynicsm to be the "dry-rot of intellect" (4.4.1.) Hugo's stance on nihilism and cynicism is made quite evident in the way he portrays Grantaire, a character meant to represent the physical manifestation of cynicism (some say that he's the physical embodiment of Paris itself and I think that's a really neat reading on that!)

"A rover, a gambler, a libertine, often drunk... Grantaire, with insidious doubt creeping through him, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras... his soft, yielding, disclocated, sickly, shapeless ideas..." (4.4.1.)

From these descriptions, it is quite clear what sort of opinion Victor Hugo holds of cynics, which is why Grantaire's characterization is so deliberate. He is trying to make a commentary here about the harm those who do not hold passion or belief can do, to both themselves and society. It is why Grantaire's redeeming moment is the one in which he finally comes to accept the hope of the revolution and proves through action his belief in Enjolras.

In terms of what is presented in the brick, Grantaire does not exactly have much to really defend him. Often drunk, he expends his energy into drunk rambles rather than meaningful meeting contributions, (though admittedly, he does say some rather valid and eloquent things within his rambles—the quote "Take away 'Cotton is King,' what remains of America?" [4.4.4] comes to mind) he deliberately pokes and bothers people as seen when he calls Enjolras "heartless," (5.1.6) and when given a task, does not hold up his end of the deal and ger it done despite having asked for it in the first place. Enjolras' doubt in him is actually entirely understandable; after all, what has Grantaire really done to prove himself trustworthy and reliable? When Enjolras asks if "[he is] good for anything" (5.1.6) the question is, likely in his eyes, genuine rather than insulting. And even when he has every reason not to, Enjolras still puts his faith into Grantaire to get something of extreme importance done for him, which I do think says a lot about Enjolras' willingness to believe in the best in people.

Victor Hugo ends the chapter right before we can see Enjolras' reaction to Grantaire's failure, and while this part, I will say, is up for interpretation, personally I have always extrapolated that the most emotion this would draw from him is disappointment—though it is disappointment that he definitely thinks he should have seen coming, rather than imagining him as getting insanely mad at Grantaire.

Their next interaction is during the rebellion itself, during which Enjolras is put under quite a bit of stress and Grantaire's behaviour really is not helping matters, so him snapping is actually very believable, if a little harsh.

The Enjolras seen in fanon, derived from these interactions, always seems so harsh, so rash when he speaks to Grantaire and therefore is characterized as rash and reckless in general, and generally seems to not understand emotion very well, which is very unlike him. Rather than harsh, I would say that with the exception of course of the rebellion at the barricade and the lead up to that time, Enjolras actually seems to be quite calm.

"All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head." (4.4.5.)

Rather than instantly explode at Marius for his rather awful beliefs of Napoleon, instead, Enjolras keeps calm and silent, which demonstrates what an incredible depth of patience he has. And as for Enjolras not understanding emotion, when it comes to fanworks, I'm generally tolerant of people holding different perceptions for different characters, but of all perceptions, this one is one I cannot begin to comprehend, and this is one that I will say that to say he knows not of emotion is to have wrongly read his character.

"And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek." (5.1.8.)

I simply cannot allow myself to believe that the man who cried at the prospect of having to shoot the artillerman, who calls him his "brother," who is no doubt thinking that had circumstances been different, the action he would be taking would not be necessary—I do not believe this is a man who would not understand feelings and emotions.

The Grantaire in the book who has "the dry rot of intellect," (4.4.1) only ever makes unnecessary rants during meetings, and is very much untrustworthy, is a far outcry from the Grantaire who bases his cyncism on being what he would say is being "well informed," often makes valid points in meetings, and proves himself reliable. Similarly, the Enjolras that is thoughful, as he proves himself to be in his "Outlook from the Top of the Barricade" speech, still chooses to believe in the best in others despite being given every reason not to, and is actually quite patient, is very different from his rash and reckless, short tempered, seems-to-hate-Grantaire, fanon counterpart.

Of course, if you take characters who are shaped by their surroundings and circumstances in the nineteenth century and adapt them to fit the scene of the twenty-first century, it's obvious things are going to change! However, I think it's important to keep these key traits in mind when doing so, and more often than not, it is these key traits that end up getting mangled. When one sticks to these traits, it's easy to say Enjolras would be a wondeful friend/boyfriend (if you see him as having one.) Enjolras' whole deal is loving and caring immensely, and to put his absolute one hundred percent effort into everything he does, and that includes into his friendships and relationships.

Once again, I'm not bashing on the fandom here, I'm part of it. I'll repeat again, I too write with the fanon image of Grantaire in my head. Everyone takes away different things from literature, and that's fine! This is simply how I have interpreted it.

One more note on Enjolras.

Les Amis de l'ABC absolutely love Enjolras. The way Enjolras' character has been misinterpreted has ended up having an effect on the way the Amis are looked at as well. The Amis are all so passionate about the revolution, they attend meetings because they truly do believe in the change they can create in their world, so I'll never truly understand the characterization of the Amis as laughing at Enjolras' devotion to the cause, or finding his passion for it stupid or bothersome. Victor Hugo himself describes just how passionate of a group they are:

"All these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on the whole can only be discussed seriously, held the same religion: Progress... The most giddy of them became solemn when they pronounced that date: '89... the pure blood of principle ran in their veins. They attached themselves, without immediate shades, to incorruptible right and absolute duty." (4.4.1.)

Everyone here, with the exception of Grantaire, is here because they believe wholeheartedly in the revolution. This is not something Enjolras forced upon them, this is not something they groan when thinking about, it is something they all believe in so passionately. It is not something they make fun of him for.

"Affiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal underground." (4.4.1.)

They are all here by choice, by will, and by the values they hold close to their heart, and so to say Enjolras is someone who constantly whines about his cause and the others think he needs to lighten up is both an insult to him and the rest. Furthermore, the Amis really love Enjolras, and not just as their leader, but as a beloved friend, and as strongly as I believe Enjolras would drop all of his work to help any of the Amis when they are in need, I believe the Amis would do the same for him. The unity of Les Amis de l'ABC says a lot about the kind of charismatic leader Enjolras is, and his friends most definitely adore him.

So yeah, anon, I 100% agree, and rest assured, if they try and take this canon fact away, they'll have to pry it from both our sets of our cold dead fingers.

[antinousxwild]

For book muses, what is your muse’s favorite scene? Why? Can you provide a short excerpt?

@freakfragmcnted

I have two, and they are both showing the different sides of him. no excerpts are short though because this is Victor Hugo. one is Enjolras and his lieutenants. I just love him spending a paragraph walking around Paris thinking about his favourite aspects of his friends

He had, at that very instant, a powder-train of friends extended over Paris. He was composing in his thoughts, with the philosophic and penetrating eloquence of Combeferre, the cosmopolitan enthusiasm of Feuilly, Courfeyrac's animation, Bahorel's laughter, Jean Prouvaire's melancholy, Joly's science, and Bossuet's sarcasms, a sort of electric spark taking fire in all directions at once. All in the work. Surely the result would answer to the effort.

The other one is the scene with le Cabuc. for context a random revolutionary has killed a citizen. this is Enjolras' reaction. I love it because he's fucking terrifying, and can only apologise for the length.

"On your knees." The murderer turned and saw before him the white cold face of Enjolras. Enjolras had a pistol in his hand. At the explosion, he had come up. He had grasped with his left hand Le Cabuc's collar, blouse, shirt and suspenders. "On your knees," repeated he. And with a majestic movement the slender young man of twenty bent the broad-shouldered and robust porter like a reed and made him kneel in the mud. Le Cabuc tried to resist, but he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman grasp. Pale, his neck bare, his hair flying, Enjolras, with his woman's face, had at that moment an inexpressible something tf the ancient Themis. His distended nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of chastity which from the point of the of the ancient world belonged to justice. (...) "Collect your thoughts," said he. "Pray or think. You have one minute." (...) "Enjolras did not take his eyes off his watch; he let the minute pass, then he put his watch back into his fob. This done, he took Le Cabuc, who was writhing against his knees and howling, by the hair, and placed the muzzle of his pistol at this ear. (...) ..., the assassin fell face forward on the pavement, and Enjolras straightened up and cast about him his look determined and severe. Then he pushed the body away with his foot, and said: "Throw that outside."

[garbagecann24601]

Enjolras and His Lieutenants

Enjolras holds a meeting in the Cafe Musain. He wants to take a census of their followers to see how many would join in the fight. He assigns his friends to go to various parts of the city and talk to different groups of people. He wants to send someone to the Barrière du Maine, but there’s no one left available. Grantaire volunteers himself.

“Are you good for anything?”

“I have a vague ambition in that direction,” said Grantaire.

“You do not believe in everything.”

“I believe in you.”

Grantaire insists that he can do it.

“Be serious,” said Enjolras.

“I am wild,” replied Grantaire.

At last, Enjolras agrees to let Grantaire go. Grantaire goes first to change into a red waistcoat before leaving.

“Enjolras was content. The furnace was being heated. He had at that moment a powder train of friends scattered all over Paris. He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre’s philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s dash, Bahorel’s smile, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, Bossuet’s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once. All hands to work. Surely, the result would answer to the effort. This was well. This made him think of Grantaire.”

Enjolras stops by the Barrière du Maine on his way to his own assignment, just to check on Grantaire.

He finds him in the middle of a heated discussion.

About dominoes.

[eirenical]

No Man is an Island | Chapter 5 (2918 words) by eirenical Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac Characters: Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Feuilly (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC, Marius Pontmercy Additional Tags: Courferre Week, Enjolras & Combeferre - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Folklore, Fantasy, Beach House, Islands, Lost Love, Elemental Magic, Melancholy, Returning Home, Broken Families, Rating May Change, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Background Enjolras/Feuilly, Combeferre & Jean Prouvaire - Freeform, Combeferre & Marius Pontmercy - Freeform

Summary:

Only 24 hours had passed since Combeferre’s close call in the parking lot—since the last time he’d seen Courfeyrac—but it already felt like so much longer… because the last time his house had been this full, those first 24 hours without Courfeyrac had been the first of many, many more… and Combeferre didn’t have two months to wait. 

June 25, 2020: Well... I always said I planned to come back to this one, and here we are. ^_^ If anyone is glad that I did, you can thank @akallabeth-joie for prompting me to write it for the @bishopmyrielfundraiser (which is still going, if anyone is interested!)  ^_^ And in all seriousness, I thank you, too. I'd forgotten how much I loved this story, and it took me a few days to get back into the swing of it, but once I did it felt so good. I hope it lives up to your expectations! ^_^

[rapid-oxidization]

Popular Allusions in the Les Mis Fandom include: Grantaire vs. Icarus h o w e v e r this idea Hit Me Upside The Head like a Mother Bear does to her Cubs and Gave Me Whiplash so i decided to spew Enj vs. Icarus imagery onto this hell forsaken website

he lived a sheltered childhood in the countryside. his mother would keep him inside for fear that the sun would burn him; his father determined that he should not waste time on things like idle play. his books and his tutor were his only companions.

he would watch dawn rise from the window of his bedchamber, face and palms pressed against cool glass as songbirds flittered from tree to tree.

oh, what he wouldn't give to fly like that, to know the taste of liberty on his tongue.

Enjolras had just turned sixteen the first time he saw Paris in person. her skyline looked godlike from afar, harbouring the ghost of some ancient metropolis. But once he stepped inside her gates, her narrow streets pressed in on him like prison bars.

the slums were perhaps the most stifling of all. the air reeked of populus; overcrowded apartments seemed as if they would collapse onto the street at any second. he felt equal parts guilt and relief when he saw that his aunt's house was spacious and comfortable, a plush mattress in the guest room. the stare one child gave him, green eyes glinting with the air of an embittered prisoner, would haunt his sleep for weeks. reminding him he had such comfort when others had none at all.

he followed in his father's footsteps, attending the old university to study law. though they had their differences (in the days leading up to enj leaving for paris, dinner often turned to a yelling match) they ultimately parted on agreeable terms.

his father's last words to him: "in a handful of years, this nation belongs to your fellow students - and to you. do not waste your time in idleness."

to which he responded with a wry smile: "you did not grant me the opportunity to fall into the habit."

"i had hoped to discourage you from it. i had hoped to grant you focus."

"a lens will fix light to scorch the object upon which it focuses."

even at sixteen, enjolras burned. it was a slow and inevitable decline, he knew - but he hoped to go out like a supernova. he studied late into the night, and rose early in the day. his friends and professors told him to rest, that he would extinguish himself before he earned his degree. one evening, after a few glasses of wine, his friend, Combeferre, wondered at the inexhaustible fuel source of the sun. he looked Enjolras in the eye and told him he must be made of the same stuff. 

it wasn’t long before he was surrounded by a group of fiery friends. even the mildest of them, Jean Prouvaire, was subject to bouts of passion. he was Desmoulins reincarnate, one moment hardly able to speak above a whisper, the next projecting improvised words from the centre of the room. nova indeed; the illusion of a new soul radiating from the original.

even Grantaire, the man who held no faith in their lofty idealisms, existed as if he were on the verge of collapse. spewing out his last dregs of existence the same way the voice got louder immediately before one runs out of air. 

even so - none as fixated as Enjolras. his gaze did indeed scorch his focus. there were times he questioned his footing, as if looking down and seeing that he balanced on a high beam. he stood among birds, but only through the construction of hope. reality was still there. he could not yet counteract gravity. years pass, and each time he looks down, he’s risen higher, and the beam has grown narrower. 

still, when he looks up, there’s so much higher to climb. he’s level with the songbirds; above are the birds of prey. 

so as long as he stared ahead, everything was alright. so as long as he stretched his arms wide. moving to embrace his nation brought him balance and reassured him that all was well. or that it would be. that the people, too, would find faith in their country. that they would realize liberating her meant liberating themselves.  

in the end, whether forming barricades was a decision rash or miscalculated was irrelevant. the fact remained that the heat of that June day burned his skin. the moment he stepped into that street outside the Corinth he felt it in his bones that this should be his fall, that he should feel the scorching heat of the sun. he made up his mind that he would not plummet until this insurrection left ash on injustice. he must stay adrift that long. he owed his nation that much.

he did not intend to drag his friends down with him.

but that was what happened in the end. they were bound to each other, geese in a flock. reliant on each other with the knowledge that one miscalculation from another would bring doom for all.

Though as the battle collapsed in on itself exhaustion and fear weighed heavy in his bones, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face as the most vehement skeptic among them stood with him. For a moment he saw vividly what France could be, as though transported there. They took hands. In the dinge that surrounded all this death, this was light, this was light, this was light. 

Spiraling to the ocean’s depths seemed a melancholy kind of satisfying. Sunlight still glowed in the palm of his hand, left unextinguished as the smooth coolness of water moved to cradle him. This was where he would stay - the wings still tied to his back were little more than frames, the wax and feathers having already disappeared to wherever those things go. 

When he broke the surface, he did not thrash about, instead turning buoyant in the waves. The sky above was bright. 

His friends soon joined him, held by the vast ocean. Floating on their backs as they reach hands toward the sun. 

[pilferingapples]

The Heroes of Les Mis: Part 2

Part 2 of a response to @aflamethatneverdies; part 1 over here!

The Amis are the Heroes , the characters from the age of the Epic, the Tragedy, Fatality; and the Amis die to end that age. But that doesn’t mean Hugo is dismissing the revolution or the Republic as obsolete!  

What follows the Age of the Epic is, per Hugo, the Age of the Drama, defined by an awareness that...well,  time to quote the Preface to Cromwell again: 

Another era is about to begin, for the world and for poetry...And first of all, as a fundamental truth, it teaches man that he has two lives to live, one ephemeral, the other immortal... It shows him that he, like his destiny, is twofold: that there is in him an animal and an intellect, a body and a soul; in a word, that he is the point of intersection, the common link of the two chains of beings which embrace all creation—of the chain of material beings and the chain of incorporeal beings; the first starting from the rock to arrive at man, the second starting from man to end at God.

..."Thou art twofold, thou art made up of two beings, one perishable, the other immortal, one carnal, the other ethereal, one enslaved by appetites, cravings and passions, the other borne aloft on the wings of enthusiasm and reverie—in a word, the one always stooping toward the earth, its mother, the other always darting up toward heaven, its fatherland"—on that day the drama was created.

.. the poetry of our time, is, therefore, the drama; the real results from the wholly natural combination of two types, the sublime and the grotesque, which meet in the drama, as they meet in life and in creation. For true poetry, complete poetry, consists in the harmony of contraries

For  Hugo one of the Big Ideas at the heart of his whole Epochal Progress Theory was that the modern soul and modern art were and should be made more complete than previous eras by including "the grotesque"- a concept that basically includes everything that isn't Beautiful And Good And Orderly. Suffering, deformity, obscenity, chaos, anarchy --any True Drama and any true modern morality  had to find space to combine the two. 

Who's left of the Amis, after the end of The Heroes, when the Epic is over?

Enjolras-- who, more than any of the others, IS the Republic, and who,after  having been introduced as an untouchable being of  almost pure Ideal,  being linked with angels and goddesses and Divine Right, has spent his time on the barricade going through  stages of his own rapid descent from The Ideal to Humanity, suffering, sympathy, human concerns, who has through all this entered the supreme Melancholy, the  true, unique emotion of the new era

And Grantaire, of course-- who is and has been from the start the despair and doubt and apathy to Enjolras' faith and divine purpose, the Grotesque to all that Sublime.

The end of the battle, thematically, is not the fall of the barricade, or the death of the other fighters. 

The end of the battle-- the last real beat before we move back to Valjean, who has never  been the Epic Hero, here, because he  is something else entirely-- is OFPD. 

The end of the battle is when the Grotesque sees and fully accepts the power of the Ideal, when the Sublime smiles and takes the hand of the Grotesque not in pity but in love.  That’s the end, because that’s the victory,  the change of eras. That’s  transcendence, divinity through unity of opposing principles.   That’s  the Republic becoming the worthy dream of the living future, instead of the faded glory of the Epic past.

This is the spiritual and thematic opposite of Napoleon stumbling away from Waterloo, confused and alone. This is why OFPD is tragic, yes, but still a triumph, it's the promise that those who die on the barricade will be born again. It's the moment of Era Shift where the ideal moves into the future.  It's why the Republic gets to be The Future, instead of just an echo of the Epic Past. 

And it can't happen if the Amis aren't Epic, aren't Heroes, first. Because this is about metamorphosis, the completion of the incomplete.  This is something Enjolras and the other Epic characters have to do for the narrative and its message.

Valjean can’t do this, Marius can’t do this, because they are already from the start  characters of a Drama. They are not Epic-- they are neither that ideal nor that incomplete! Valjean is a Christ-figure from the start-- Voila, Jean! Here is the man!-- and Marius is possibly the most human  figure of the novel, not Grand or Great or any kind of embodied ideal. Valjean, Marius, Eponine, Javert--  they’ve got to deal with the struggle between the sublime and grotesque internally, find their own way to unity and their own individual path to the ideal. They don’t get to have the simplicity of the Epic. They, like us, have to live--get to live-- the human drama.

***

(An Addendum, which I include mostly because it's you, @aflamethatneverdies, who asked,  and I know you care as much as me)

This whole transformation of the Epic Past to the Dramatic Present via the crucible of the barricade  may seem to somewhat shortchange two of our group of Heroes: Bahorel and Prouvaire, who don't live long enough to partake in the full Epic.  Given that their deaths actually get noticed--and Prouvaire in particular is given a whole chapter!-- this can hardly be written off as an accidental slip. 

It's long been my theory that they die ahead of time because (among other issues of narrative/theme/etc) because they don't need this .  They're already Romantics!   Prouvaire's whole thing  is Melancholy, the feeling unique  (again, per Hugo) to the Dramatic Age. Bahorel's first line of dialogue  is "Down with Tragedy--!"-- Tragedy, the art of the Epic.   Prouvaire, who is Above All Good, is rightly the Sublime of the two of them-and he's already comfortable with absurdity, humanity, the role of the grotesque to strengthen the ideal. That's what Romanticism is, really.   Bahorel would be the side of the Grotesque here, with his anarchic chaotic spirit--except he's also a serious idealist, who's already fully committed to serving the good and true.   They've gone on ahead of the other Amis in so many ways well before the barricade, and so they're free to go ahead in the most final way.

[littlesmartart]

DRAWTOBER #4 - No Use For Melancholy by cheesethesecond

Courfeyrac has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Les Amis try to help, with varying degrees of success.

an oldie but a goodie, this fic has so many things that I love - a complex and interesting courfeyrac that has he himself call out the general oversimplification of his character as well as deal with painful conflicting emotional problems, enjolras being somewhat socially insensitive but loving his friends sO MUCH, jehan being both empathetic and very protective (and putting the fear of Jean Prouvaire into enjolras sdgkljdsgjd), and combeferre interrupting byron to talk about syphilis. 10/10.

[aflamethatneverdies]

Jean Prouvaire for the character meme? Since we've been talking about him a lot! :D

           Aaaah!!! Thank you so much for letting me talk about Prouvaire!!

Why I like them: He’s a Romantic and a poet and I love that he dies with a Vive la avenir on his lips taking the role of poet-prophet. I also love that he is described as soft and as a dreamer but he is also completely focused on economical and social problems and women and children’s issues. I love the duality that exists in him combining the soft dreamer with the concern with concrete issues and which makes him such an interesting character. Even the poets he likes are directly related to his thoughts on social issues and challenging authority. He’s shy, really well read and it would be wonderful to talk to him for hours. He loves to grow flowers- finding usefulness in beauty, but he’s also intrepid and completely dedicated to the cause. 

Why I don’t: Why would anyone not like Prouvaire? Jehan ‘Above all, he was good’ Prouvaire? Does not compute to me, which is to say I like him a lot.  

Favorite episode (scene if movie): The scene in Shoujo Cosette of Prouvaire’s death was pretty heartbreaking, I cried so much at all the amis deaths in that. Favourite scene in the book was probably, the one where he is talking earnestly and confusing god and religion with mythology. Also him recognising Marius’ love as something serious. And the last verses of Jean Prouvaire, it is a wonderful moment  

Favorite season/movie: Hmm…I’d say Shoujo Cosette again. I’m trying to think of adaptations that have done Prouvaire justice but I can’t think of any right now.  

Favorite line: His last verses and his cry of Vive l’avenir

Favorite outfit: His medieval doublet that he probably wears or maybe something he wore to Hernani if it was as colourful as Theo Gautier’s costume, which I’d like to think it was. 

OTP: Poetry smash, and also Combeferre/Prouvaire 

Brotp: Bahorel for sure. I love that Prouvaire’s specific brand of Romanticism is balanced so well with Bahorel’s and even though they are different in personalities, they get along and complement each other so well. 

Also Mabeuf, I think it is a pity that these two bibliophiles never met in canon. 

Head Canon I think he was enrolled in either law or medical school for a semester or two before dropping out and devoting himself to poetry and Romanticism completely. 

Also I always headcanon him hanging out with the larger group of actual Romantics and being part of the social movement in art and I think that he has cosplayed from his favourite books quite a few times. 

Unpopular opinion: I’m not a fan of Modern AU Jehan and also the JehanParnasse ship? Eta: I guess I also see him as being capable of sharp edges from time to time and being witty, he’s not always sweet. 

A wish: That all of them hadn’t died?

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: They did die so… ;_;

5 words to best describe them: poet, visionary, shy but intrepid, Romantic, melancholy

My nickname for them I refer to him as Prouvaire quite a lot in my head, instead of Jehan. I don’t have a nickname for him as such. 

[eglantinian]

Missive Mishaps - Ch. 02, In Which Libérté Means, “I Love You, Most Ardently” 

Conclusion of Missive MIshaps (Part 1: tumblr | ao3) for @decembersiris. 

We finally know what Éponine wrote! (And what the amis thought, upon its revelation!) 

Read part 2 in ao3 or continue under the cut! 

Joly,

Perchance you heard a word or two of Enjolras?  Or of Éponine? Bahorel thought he has perhaps gone cinglé, and Combeferre has completely busied himself with his patients, and therefore, is best left unperturbed. Any report would ease the matron of their household.

Perplexed,

Feuilly

—

Feuilly,

Rest your worries, dear ami. According to Courfeyrac —  or was it Grantaire who recounted the tale? I am unsure, for it was in the merry hours of Mr. and Mrs. Pontmercy’s wedding anniversary a fortnight ago that the account was given, and oh, it might have been Bossuet who gave a fortunate spin on it? — one evening, they were promenading across the bridge of the Seine, deep in discussion, and there Gavroche — who was out with his momes but hush about it and do not tell his sisters — soon found them in quite a severe, and haha, amorous embrace!

Yes, you are right to read that with dubious cheer!

Divinely appeased,

Jolllly

P. S. Prouvaire, I believe, has a fuller account on this, as he previously made an account to Bahorel, who made an account to you, who undoubtedly received it from Combeferre, who received the concern from the Mme. Enjolras, who may now retire with ease and fret over nuptials, which Prouvaire, in full circle, believes that we shall see a month from now. I wager a a year to pass for engagement, before seeing matters settled, but even my dearest Musichetta, mocked my reasons and ejaculated, “You think they carry enough patience for that? Ha!” I am most embarrassed.

—

Prouvaire,

Word has now fully come around the Latin Quartier of Enjolras and Éponine, but for purposes of making a full account, could you, perhaps, persuade the two to write to Mme. Enjolras and retire the matter?

Exhausted, quite,

Feuilly

P.S. Joly remarked that you sensed that they will wed soon, and keep this to yourself, but I readily agree. Careful as Joly is, to err is understandable, but when it comes to impassioned characters the likes of these two, to wait is to die. As we all know now, it is much better to live.

—

Feuilly,

Ah, not to fret, for I shall not only persuade them to come clear with the Mme. Enjolras (in this I shall, with my dearest Azelma, sup with them to conjecture this), I shall also provide you a complete account of what has transpired!  

You see, dear ami, it began the 29th of January when Enjolras, as Combeferre stated, “finally metamorphosed his feelings into actions for her” by way of a missive. Understandably, Éponine withheld a reply at first, resulting in Courfeyrac’s fears that Enjolras might become a “ninny” for penning letters back and forth with Combeferre of conjectures on what may have caused the delay — unknowing that the delay comes in the person of Gavroche, who recounted all this at the Musain and was taking a respite after an afternoon of running hitherto and thereto with much laughter.  

It was an accident to have this sweet music fall near my ears, but once heard, I could not help but make merry and form wagers with Courfeyrac on what could have Éponine finally replied — yes, the letter was finally with Gavroche during his respite that time, on the fateful day of the 7th of February, and yes, I appear circling and circling around this matter, but you cannot imagine the ridiculous notions that Courfeyrac dared what Éponine would have said (or done)!  

Courfeyrac thought she would have cast the letter in flames, knocked on the door of Enjolras at No. 10 Rue de La Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and demanded a recantation, before locking him in an amorous, passionate embrace!  

(Gavroche agreed and raised his glass, clinking it together with the fool.)  

I merely laughed, and answered with faint certainty that Éponine would not have left such a thing unanswered as: 1) I pointed out that Éponine did form a reply, so such a notion would have been absurdly misrepresentative of their characters; 2) they are equal in most manners, so if anything would be in flames, it would be the nature of the missives written by these two proud, but frank individuals; and 3) yes, a nuptial would soon be had (many thanks, as well, for your acquiescence)!  

Our argument rising to a din, which caused Mme Hucheloup to threaten us to be quiet or else be forcibly ushered to the door of the Musain, we quieted, hastily read Éponine’s letter, and shouted — resulting, indeed, in us being forcibly ushered to the door of the Musain — in exultation for what was written, and thus, ushered, we bid Gavroche run to Enjolras, and finally provide us one of the greatest symphonies of our circle.  

What a letter it was, I tell you!  

Excited,  

Jehan Prouvaire

P.S. I enclosed here another page to provide you an excellent imitation of the letter that I committed to memory for it was certainly fervent a letter!

—

DATE: 07 FEBRUARY 1834

TO: ENJOLRAS

      NO. 10, RUE DE LA JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

FROM: ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER

           NO. 32, RUE DE LA GRAND TRUANDERIE

Dear Enjolras,

When first I received your letter,  I was impassioned to believe it false and unexpected of your character. But I held it to my heart, upon reading the missive from dawn until noon, from noon until midnight, from midnight until dawn. I ascertained that the fine cursive was not furtive, but determined, and that the paper was heavily imprinted upon, as you are wont to do during the days of revolution and more so, after the war when driven. I do not ask forgiveness for my scepticism, nor do I expect it from you, for I understand that we are of the same mind that misunderstandings in this form harbour no ill will. Thus, I believe you, and share your concern that I would have at first found it disconcerting.

Now my reply, tardy as it was, and for which I will ask forgiveness for, came to be for I could not first form a sufficient one to yours. But as you said, discourse is a fine instrument to meet one’s soul, mind, body, and heart with another.

Indeed, I agree, and share the sincerity of your passion. And I will not delay it, for it cannot be denied —

I do not love you alone in words.  

A reprise, usually unhappy, with you will not be found melancholy. A rapture most divine, you would have figured, has belonged in my heart for you, and you cannot imagine my deepest joy to find it returned, without my asking, without any condition, without any fault. For — yes, I can now freely admit — that I cherish you wholeheartedly.

That through you, I hope, in spite of fear.

That through you, I resolve, in spite of regret.

That through you, I love, and am loved in return, in spite of everything.

That this story, previously filled with travesty, can be one that fights for a tomorrow — a tomorrow that comes no longer with misery.

I do not love you alone in words.

I do not love you alone in fear.

But I love you with fullest hope and surest actions.

Courage, and onward,

Éponine

[lesamistheabc]

omnivitia liked your post:like for a starter!

“I’d like to find myself a story to be involved with.” Jean Prouvaire was a simple man, a man who’d loved to tell the stories of the past and the ones of the future with grandiose prose. “Very rarely do I feel myself involved in a story.” A bout of melancholy often claimed him and now Montparnasse was the latest in line of the people who’d be forced to hear about it.  Not forced he supposed, but at the very least he was sitting next to Jehan in the smoke circle, joint passed to the left. “Does that sound silly?” He supposed it did. Even still, it was how he felt, silly or not. “This story is written for someone else - perhaps it’s yours, with your devil’s mind. Perhaps it’s the story of Enjolras, a leader of the masses. I am just a member of the masses.” 

[midautumnnightdream]

Fraternity, Equality (and Death)

Enjolras had noticed the old man who had joined them at Rue Lesdiguières almost immediately: his white hair and uneven walk had made him stand out even in the ragtag group they had gathered over the course of their march from the other side of the river; and his silent vigil at the wineshop counter, once they had secured their position on rue de la Chanvrerie, had drawn the concerned attention of more than one insurgent. However, Courfeyrac had seemed to know him, had been speaking to him, so Enjolras was quite sure that the old man's choice to remain with them had been made in full knowledge of their intentions and the danger such choices presented. If he refused to withdraw, even after being urged to do so several times, it was only to be assumed he was quite firm in his convictions, whatever they were.

As for the rumors he had heard passed on in whispers during the march and the construction of the barricade... well, that a member of Convention, particularly one who had voted for the king's death, could live in Paris, unknown and undisturbed, defied credulity; and the idea that he was a scepter of one of those great men, coming back to exact justice for his fallen Republic, even more so. But the awareness of the facts had done little to deter insurgents in desperate need for hope and inspiration and Enjolras couldn't see any sense in trying to shut down such speculations. After all, the spirit of 1793 reached far beyond the handful of men who had wielded power on the convention floor, and there was nothing to scorn in a support of any man who had served as an eyewitness to that great and terrible epoch.

But a regicide or not, a scepter or not, there were some things owed by the young and hale to the old and frail, in this place of fraternity more than anywhere else. Their freshly minted barricade was as prepared for an attack as they could make it. The red flag was secured on an ombnibus pole, illuminated by the torchlight in a mournful prediction of inevitable bloodshed. Enjolras checked and rechecked all the defenses, before quietly asking Combeferre to take over the guard duty for a few minutes and made his way inside the wineshop, where Jean Prouvaire had taken it upon himself to keep the spirits up.

The old man sat alone at the counter, seeming completely unaware of his surroundings. Enjolras approached slowly, taking care not to startle the man. He stood beside the counter for a moment: when no acknowledgement of his presence seemed to be forthcoming, he seated himself and waited, until eventually it seemed to him that something had flickered in the older man's expression.

"Is there anything you need, citizen?" he asked, taking care to keep his voice quiet. "We're already out of food, I'm afraid, but there is wine, or water if you prefer."

Slowly, very slowly did the white head rise for a fraction and the pair of watery blue eyes, dulled with unspeakable grief, met his own. The old man shook his head slowly, before lowering his glance. For a moment it seemed that was going to be his only response, but eventually the man spoke, his voice thin and soft, with a hint of bewilderment underlying the obvious pain.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid there is nothing anyone here can do for me," he said, then hesitated for a moment, as his voice took on a tone of pained confession. "Not any more. I have sold all my books. You see?"

"I see," Enjolras confirmed, honestly enough. The exact circumstances of the old man's tribulations were unknown to him, but the tone of his loss, the confused pain of grief was all too common; something he had heard several times over this day of insurgency and weeks, months, beforehand. We had to sell every-thing we had. Our home, they took it. They took our jobs. Our freedom to speak, to gather. Our words, our works, our dignity, our lives, our freedom, they took it all.

"I sold them all, one by one." The sense of urgency in the old man's voice now would have seemed impossible even a minute ago. The words blurred into each other, tumbling out with uneven speed, as if a great dam had been unleashed. "My own Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz, my life’s work. I sold the texts as waste paper and pawned the plates. They were sold to some copper-smith, who melted them down for stewpans." Enjolras winced. "Then I sold my other books  – Les Quadrins Historiques de la Bible, edition of 1560; president Delancre's De l’Inconstance des Démons; Florilegium Rabbinicum of 1644; a Tibullus of 1567 – all of them rare copies, for twenty or thirty sous a piece – but what can you do? Then my Diogenes Laertius " His voice broke a little. "I never meant to sell it at all. What difference does it make, to die now with one book, or in a few weeks with none at all? But my poor Mother Plutarque... My poor mother Plutarque was terribly ill, so I sold it. I brought her the money and the medicine. Then I came here." He fell silent for a moment, his eyes suddenly focusing on Enjolras, as if truly noticing his presence for the first time. "Books are important," he whispred, his voice low and urgent and for a moment it seemed to Enjolras that he truly carried the full weight of the old Republic in his words. "But people are important too."

Enjolras could only nod, unable to bring himself to say anything that might break this moment of great clarity.

Nevertheless, the old man seemed to lose some of his urgency, but he remained far more focused on his surroundings, looking around the tavern room and through the open door, with something almost like curiosity. "Is this why you are all here?" he asked, gesturing towards the general direction of the greater barricade "For the people?"

"For the people, always," Enjolras answered and thought of Combeferre's fervor on the subject of general education, of Feuilly spending his rare free hours making the best use of his hard-won literacy. Of his own uncle, the way his brow furrowed when yet another censorship law chipped away on what little freedom they had gained from the last revolution. Of the pamphlets printed in the dead of night and passed around in secret, of Jean Prouvaire and his words echoing even now between them, in this moment of silence  Et que, dans notre humble et petit ménage,Tout, même l’hiver, nous était printemps? "and perhaps a little for the books too." For the abaissé and for the ABC.

Perhaps... if they all survived this fight, something could be done for the old man and his lost books. He hesitated from bringing up the possibility - after all, the books might very well be gone forever, and it would be both foolish and cruel to offer false hope before investigating fist. But Enjolras wasn't fighting for a future that would forget the little tragedies of its champions the moment it didn't need every available body to man the barricades. He would at least try.

The old man was looking at him with something akin of wonder, as if he hadn't been expecting such answer. "And indeed why not," he mused. "People have a need of books, to be sure. What about gardens," he asked, suddenly. "Will there be gardens in this future of yours? It is well not to starve, but the people have a need for flowers."

Enjolras gaze wandered back to Jean Prouvaire, thinking about the pot of flowers his friend had inexplicably decided to bring with him to the barricade, now tucked safely under the main table, out of the way of the construction efforts and fighting.

Nos jardins étaient un pot de tulipe; Tu masquais la vitre avec un jupon;

"Yes," he admitted, biting back a smile at the literal nature of this promise. "We fight for flowers too."

The old man smiled suddenly, a fleeting expression tinged with melancholy, but genuine, and touched with wonder and something akin of hope. "This future of yours, my friend, sounds the most splendid."

"Our future," Enjolras answered. "And yes. It will be."

The other shook his head, knowingly. "I won't hold you to that. But the rest of it, yes. People and books and flowers. Yes." His gaze turned back to the tabletop, lost in thought. He said no more.

(Yes, the Bread and Roses reference is intentional. So is the reference to the mômes in Luxembourg. Prouvaire's Battle Plant comes, of course, from the Oslo production of Les Mis.)