#the last verses of jean prouvaire

[thebrickinbrick]

What Is To Be Done In the Abyss if One Does Not Converse? Part 2

About two o’clock in the morning, they reckoned up their strength. There were still thirty-seven of them.

The day began to dawn. The torch, which had been replaced in its cavity in the pavement, had just been extinguished. The interior of the barricade, that species of tiny courtyard appropriated from the street, was bathed in shadows, and resembled, athwart the vague, twilight horror, the deck of a disabled ship. The combatants, as they went and came, moved about there like black forms. Above that terrible nesting-place of gloom the stories of the mute houses were lividly outlined; at the very top, the chimneys stood palely out. The sky was of that charming, undecided hue, which may be white and may be blue. Birds flew about in it with cries of joy. The lofty house which formed the back of the barricade, being turned to the East, had upon its roof a rosy reflection. The morning breeze ruffled the gray hair on the head of the dead man at the third-story window.

“I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished,” said Courfeyrac to Feuilly. “That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me. It had the appearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles the wisdom of cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles.”

Dawn awakens minds as it does the birds; all began to talk.

Joly, perceiving a cat prowling on a gutter, extracted philosophy from it.

“What is the cat?” he exclaimed. “It is a corrective. The good God, having made the mouse, said: ‘Hullo! I have committed a blunder.’ And so he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, is the proof of creation revised and corrected.”

Combeferre, surrounded by students and artisans, was speaking of the dead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even of Cabuc, and of Enjolras’ sad severity. He said:—

“Harmodius and Aristogiton, Brutus, Chereas, Stephanus, Cromwell, Charlotte Corday, Sand, have all had their moment of agony when it was too late. Our hearts quiver so, and human life is such a mystery that, even in the case of a civic murder, even in a murder for liberation, if there be such a thing, the remorse for having struck a man surpasses the joy of having served the human race.”

And, such are the windings of the exchange of speech, that, a moment later, by a transition brought about through Jean Prouvaire’s verses, Combeferre was comparing the translators of the Georgics, Raux with Cournand, Cournand with Delille, pointing out the passages translated by Malfilâtre, particularly the prodigies of Cæsar’s death; and at that word, Cæsar, the conversation reverted to Brutus.

“Cæsar,” said Combeferre, “fell justly. Cicero was severe towards Cæsar, and he was right. That severity is not diatribe. When Zoïlus insults Homer, when Mævius insults Virgil, when Visé insults Molière, when Pope insults Shakspeare, when Frederic insults Voltaire, it is an old law of envy and hatred which is being carried out; genius attracts insult, great men are always more or less barked at. But Zoïlus and Cicero are two different persons. Cicero is an arbiter in thought, just as Brutus is an arbiter by the sword. For my own part, I blame that last justice, the blade; but, antiquity admitted it. Cæsar, the violator of the Rubicon, conferring, as though they came from him, the dignities which emanated from the people, not rising at the entrance of the senate, committed the acts of a king and almost of a tyrant, regia ac pene tyrannica. He was a great man; so much the worse, or so much the better; the lesson is but the more exalted. His twenty-three wounds touch me less than the spitting in the face of Jesus Christ. Cæsar is stabbed by the senators; Christ is cuffed by lackeys. One feels the God through the greater outrage.”

Bossuet, who towered above the interlocutors from the summit of a heap of paving-stones, exclaimed, rifle in hand:—

“Oh Cydathenæum, Oh Myrrhinus, Oh Probalinthus, Oh graces of the Æantides! Oh! Who will grant me to pronounce the verses of Homer like a Greek of Laurium or of Edapteon?”

[ueinra]

During the hours of waiting, what did they do? We are bound to tell it, because this is historical. […] While the vedettes were watching with shouldered guns on the barricade, while Enjolras, whom it was impossible to distract, watched the vedettes, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and a few others, assembled, as in the most peaceful days of their student conversations, and in one corner of the wine-shop converted into a casemate, two paces from the barricade which they had raised, and with their loaded and primed muskets leaning against the back of their chairs,—these fine young men, so near their last hour, wrote love verses. […] The hour, the spot, the recollections of youth recalled, a few stars which were beginning to glisten in the sky, the funereal repose of these deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable adventure which was preparing, gave a pathetic charm to these verses murmured in a low voice in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we said, was a gentle poet.

— Les Misérables, Vol.IV - Book.XII - Ch.VI (Illustrated by Jacques Pecnard, 1958)

[pilferingapples]

OH WOW ok ok I'm taking just the Les Mis /Les Amis side of it, I'm sure some Newsies Expert will cover that show! I will earnestly try to keep this brief XD I'm going to give you their key lines and VERY basic personality traits , because this is just for the musical and everything else changes a lot between casts! in the book, there's nine named characters in the revolutionary group Les Amis though we're told there's more involved; in the show this (honestly kind of weirdly) reduced to eight named Amis : Enjolras, Combeferre, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Legle, Joly, and Grantaire (the one left out is named Bahorel and it is an Injustice but that's a total rantXD). I can go on for years about the book versions but this is just the musical essentials!:

Enjolras: You know this one. Red xylophone vest, revolutionary fervor, does not care about Marius' lonely soul. Combeferre: the philosopher! Enjolras' closest friend in the book, kinda adrift on that point in most musical shows since Marius has to get more focus. A medical student in the book; this is sometimes referenced by him helping others once the shooting starts. The one who calls Enjolras' name in the versions where that happens, when everyone's assembling for the café scene (Enjolras! At Notre Dame the sections are prepared...) Used to get the "though we may not all survive here, there are things that never die" line in the complete soundtrack, a line now gone, alas! but it expressed the character well! Courfeyrac: the closest friend Marius has in the book, a fun, dandyish, social party guy, and also devout revolutionary. On stage, he's M. "Students, workers, everyone!" in the Café intros . In the 2012 movie he was the one closest to Gavroche and got a fantastic scene when Gavroche died. Feuilly: a worker, a fan painter, an internationalist, The Orphan Who Adopted the World. he gets a LOT of focus in the show, from "At Rue de Bac they're straining at the leash! " to the "blood of the martyrs" verse in Do You Hear the People Sing, to the Ammo Report on the barricade (" how do we stand, Feuilly, make your report" ) . He also takes the lead on Drink With Me! a very trackable guy.

Prouvaire: the team bard! Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, a Romantic poet; shy, hugely emotional, and badly dressed. In the book he gets to read everyone a last poem at the barricades before they're attacked , and is one of the first Amis to die (there is historical metacontext here that I'm redacting but I gotta acknowledge it XD) . He features in Drink With Me (" here's to pretty girls who went to our heads" ) .

Legle: witty, funny, and unlucky. In the book, basically life partners with Joly (that's not Tumblr Fandom mode, the book outright says they share everything and live, eat, and sleep together) and besties with Grantaire. On stage, usually one of the closest to Grantaire; in some stagings he's practically the Grantaire Minder, keeping him on task, going to to him after Drink With Me takes that mood swing, etc. Sometimes seems to share a girlfriend with Joly, which, again, matches up with the book XD Joly: a hypochondriac med student, and besties/partners with Legle. In the book, he has a "very literary" girlfriend named Musichetta; on stage, that seems to get a nod with him singing "here's to witty girls who went to our beds". He's part of the Gossip Gang along with Bossuet and Grantaire, who spend some real page time talking about Marius and his love life; on stage, he's the first one to ask if Marius is OK in the Cafe scene ("Marius, you're late! What's wrong with you today")

Grantaire: Grantaire, put the bottle down! you know this one too XD Drunk , disbelieving, and devoted to Enjolras. Rude when he can be. All this scans with the book; he is also ,more recently, babysitter or mentor for Gavroche. That is NOT in the book and seems to be a later bit of stage characterization, though "later" in the Les Mis sense where it might have been going on for 20 years:P I'm sure someone knows the exact start point! anyway, yeah, you know this guy!

..that's as brief as I can be oh no, but I hope it helps!!

My embarrassing admission is that I've been seriously into Newsies and Les Mis at various points, but I still can't tell apart those swarms of hot young background guys that the fans go crazy about when I watch them. Hell I still don't know most of the barricade boys' names! There's Enjolras, Grantaire, and the Comb Ferret but beyond that I couldn't tell you.

[aflamethatneverdies]

End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire

Ten tocsin chimes had rung so far and the barricade was still quiet, while Enjolras and Combeferre conversed and Gavroche flew back with a song and ‘cocorico’. Bahorel was kneeling inside the six or seven foot barricade along with Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Joly. Gavroche took his place beside them in anticipation. Feuilly was commanding his own insurgents. 

The silence punctuated with the sound of heavy treads was disconcerting. The insurgents gripped their rifles, Joly and Bossuet clasped each other’s hands, Prouvaire nodded to Bahorel. The sound of boots rising and falling continued for several more minutes. It became heavy and unbearable. The clouds shifted only a little, the sky was still a blend of terrible purple and scarlet. The sounds grew more stony and echoed with a deeper thud. 

Bahorel had a moment of chuckle at Enjolras’ answer of “French Revolution”, before the flash of fire resounded and the flag dropped. They all watched as M. Mabeuf fell, pierced by the bullets.

Bahorel cursed inwardly at the National Guard, they had shot at an unarmed old man fixing the flag. He leapt forward and helped carry M Mabeuf to the Corinthe wine shop and laid him down. These few minutes while the revolutionaries were distracted were enough for the National Guard to continue to move in.

Bahorel glimpsed that the guards were pointing their bayonets at Gavroche, they did not spare the old man, they would not spare the child. He leapt with a growl and a wolf-like jump into the midst of the fray, and took the bayonet to the stomach. 

Great pain washed over him and then he lost the voices of his dearest friends. Everything went dark and silent for what felt like several hours but could only have been a few minutes; he opened his eyes to find himself changed into a lycanthrope. He watched the pooling blood around his body and the grim and tearful faces of his friends who carried his lifeless body to Corinthe to lay it beside M. Mabeuf. Instinctively he put a hand over the spot where the bayonet had entered and instinctively winced. 

He found himself unable to return to his corporeal form, which wasn’t surprising. He gave a small sorrowful laugh, “Well, that was to be expected when you have been killed.” 

The moon rose from among the scarlet clouds and his keen eyes searched for Jean Prouvaire under its light- Prouvaire would like to mourn him, Bahorel’s heart sank, Prouvaire was not present among the insurgents.

He made his way out through the Rue Mondetour passage and leapt over the roof of a house to reach the other side where several National guards were milling around, deciding what to do with the insurgent they had captured. In a small corner, between the wall of a house and the rubble that residents had thrown from their second story houses at the National Guard, was the seated form of the poet, the beloved Jean Prouvaire.

He had found himself in a scuffle with a couple of National Guards, who had managed to capture him and drag him forcefully to their side.

He had stumbled and twisted his left leg and was sitting on the rubble with his hands tied behind his back while a few National Guards conversed near him, as to what they should do with the insurgent they had caught. A shroud of darkness had enveloped his captors, Bahorel could barely make out their forms, he saw the glint of the rifles pointed at Prouvaire's head and the shakos they were wearing. One National Guard was sporting injuries given by Prouvaire.

Bahorel raised his head towards the sky and howled furiously, it echoed across the barricades, he heard some of his friends asking about Prouvaire and taking a roll call. The National guard shivered and looked at the moon before returning to their conversations. 

“I’m here Jehan.” Bahorel said, climbing down from the roof, “I’m here, Prouvaire, my dearest friend.”

He wiped Prouvaire’s lips, which were bloody, with his hand and was proud to learn that his friend had fought his captors to the last. 

“I knew you would find me.” Prouvaire said, “Bahorel, I –” he gestured to his bound hands and tried valiantly to smile showing chipped and bloody teeth, the blood of which he tried to wipe on his sleeve, “How was it?”

The moon had again flooded the scene and bathed them in its light.

“Dying?” Bahorel asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully, and trying to find a way to release his friend of his painful bonds, “As if you've been punched really hard, it sucks all the air out of you.”

He cursed at how his hands failed at untying the rope, he tried again and they went through it, he must have lost his human form permanently. Prouvaire saw his struggles and shook his head.

“Don’t– don’t worry about those. I have accepted my fate. Several times I expected to die before now, called it soft names, and now it is upon me. I will soon rejoin you, it would not nearly have been as much fun to live without you.” He bit his lip before continuing, “I wanted to know what the experience would be like so I could prepare.” He looked at Bahorel, “I’m afraid, Bahorel.” a few tears pricked Prouvaire's eyes and he looked down, trying to wipe them off quickly but not entirely succeeding.

Bahorel had said often that death was messy, death happened in the middle of the story, it complicated many things. And yet, Prouvaire had been right as well, death came unexpectedly but it had to be lived with, to be treated as a friend, nay an almost lover. All his jaunts as a Romantic and a Revolutionary had made him comfortable being in the presence of death, yet his heart still faltered a little, now that the meeting was so imminent. The mortification of an fleshy abode that felt pain and was afraid despite Prouvaire's resolve.

Bahorel hugged his friend, “Oh Jehan, you’re one of the bravest revolutionaries I know. I find that it is not the fact that you’re afraid, God knows I’ve been afraid several times, it is what you do regardless of that. You have shown courage in so many ways, friend.”

The National Guard seemed to have made up their minds. They roughly grabbed Prouvaire, “Get up, you traitor,” and blindfolded him roughly despite his protests ("Don't blindfold me") causing him to call out in pain, while they loaded their rifles and exchanged jokes. They were laughing at his discomfort, and telling him that it was no more than violent insurgents like him deserved.

“I will be there beside you the entire time. It should be quick at least, since it is an execution, and not a messy bayonet wound.” Bahorel said, his face full of worry at how Prouvaire would handle it.

He hugged his friend, the last time he would. 

Prouvaire nodded, wobbling a little, his leg still pained him a little when he put weight on it, but doing his best to stand straight and upright, it would not do for newspapers or anyone else to reproach that the ones who watered this barricade with their blood in the hopes of bringing a different future, were not brave enough. He pictured the red of the flag stained with M. Mabeuf’s blood, he thought of the sacrifice of all those who had come before him, valiant friends who had been brave till the last. He thought of the conventionist who had died to raise the flag.

He heard the clash of guns and the voices in the distance. Voices of his dearest friends, he would no longer hear in a few moments. He wanted to send a message, a last goodbye to all of them. He opened his mouth and then closed it waiting for his head to clear enough. 

He felt Bahorel beside him, clasping his hand and he wriggled it in its bonds to become more comfortable, it felt like his head had become much clearer and focused on what he needed to do. In his mind he could see the birds swirling in the sky, the tree branches swaying and writing in the wind, the water gurgling and flowing in the river; he could always see them, through metal bars of a cell, through the flashes of guns, through especially dark nights, he held onto these images. He saw them at this moment. And he saw the red spilled in the streets, the red of the flag framed in the light from the fight, and imagined flowers and beauty growing from all this pain, all this sacrifice, all this hurt.  He thought of the children yet to come who would breathe an easier air. He saw them all bathed in light and smiled.

“Eternally grateful that you are here beside me, dear friend. I’m ready to join you,” he whispered to Bahorel who squeezed his hands and shoulder warmly. Bahorel could not help crying which set off some wolf howls echoing around Saint Denis and Saint Merri. Prouvaire looked at him and shook his head, “We will meet each other again, I’m sure of that.” he said. “I will haunt every nook in Paris. Shall we depart this world, O dear friend?”

Bahorel laughed and nodded. 

Prouvaire faced the front and heard the sounds of several guns being cocked and though he could not see, felt that they were being aimed at him while a silence grew in between. He felt at once a longing for death’s arms and a sudden thrill at the thought that this was not the end after all of his story, not if you were a Romantic.

“Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!” he shouted in a deep voice, hoping it was loud enough to echo and resonate across several streets and reach his friends.  His eyes were fixed on the future yet to arrive.

This sudden burst of emotion angered the guards. The order was given, the flash of the guns occurred for an instance blinding the view, and then everything went still, it was an eerie stillness- the air seemed to bleed as well. 

Jean Prouvaire’s body crumpled in a heap beside Bahorel, pierced by several bullets and blood gathered in a pool around his long dark blonde hair. Bahorel let out an ear splitting howl of pain and tears flying lunged at the National Guard who scattered for a moment amidst the blinding light of the moon. 

He would find Prouvaire, but right now his heart hurt enough to burst. It felt as a great collision between sun and moon, a dimming of all the lights of the universe. He had told Prouvaire that he moved from one tragedy to another, but it ached him all over to lose such a dear friend, to lose many friends across many years, he willed himself to continue moving.

He hoped the howl against misery would not stop reverberating across the horizons.

[itisthefuturethattheybring]

The Last Poem of Jean Prouvaire

Jehan Prouvaire has never been afraid in his life

In his eyes, life is a poem. He knows it doesn’t make sense and won’t rhyme or fall perfectly into place at his will, but he believes that everything happens for a reason. Which is why he doesn’t fear the what he doesn’t know.

And he’s always let the wind blow him in the direction it felt it needed to, taking it in his stride and letting each verse of his life fall into poetry in his notebook. He knows that ultimately life runs nowhere and everyone is greeted with death, some sooner than others, but he’s never been afraid to die.

Even now, he does not fear it.

His wrists are bound and tied to a wooden beam, cutting into him like daggers and there is a blindfold tied roughly around his eyes, successfully disarming him of one of his most important senses. The stench of gunpowder and dried blood fills his nostrils and he suspects the blood is his own.

He does not expect to see the next sunrise. He does not expect to be able to paint the colours of the world as they streak the sky in the early hours of the morning, nor does he expect there to be any more poetry to fill the few blank pages he has left. He would say his last goodbyes now, should his friends have been with him. But, of course, they aren’t.

No. They are over the other side of the barricade, awaiting their deaths by the same hands that will surely take his own in just a few moments. They will hear him, he thinks sadly, if he were to shout they will hear his voice. Which can only mean they will hear the bullet that will silence it.

And Jehan is not a faithless person, nor is he the type to abandon any sort of hope, but he knows this was the end. If his life were truly important he would ask himself; do I live or die? But he knows those answers lay far from this world. And in any case, he has nowhere to run. He has nowhere to hide.

And, he realises, he does not care.

Tomorrow will start without him, sure. But it will start without his friends too. Without Enjolras and his fiery eyes. Without Courfeyrac and his cheery laugh. But that does not mean the world will forget about them. He may not be here to see the world they could create but when it comes, they will know. Whether that would be tomorrow or in the next lifetime.

“Do you surrender?”

The voice comes from directly in front of him and he hears the shift of a pistol. He tries not to let his breathing hitch.

He shakes his head.

“Last words?”

There are so many things he could say; he could shout for his friends, tell them goodbye, or he could bite out a cold response to the National Guards. But none of it means anything. None of it would be remembered.

He’s never been afraid to die, and he isn’t now, but he will not go down without the fight still pulsing through him. He knows the nineteen years he’s lived have been stranger and shorter than most can imagine; a blur of words painted by artists and songs sung into the night by revolutionaries who dreamed of a new world. Of riotousness, freedom and peace and of disbelief, friendship and sorrow. Words of uprising that can only be matched by the light schoolboys carry in their eyes and wine on the lips of cynics.

What has his life told him? What has it shown him?

He can string the dullest of words into a spiral of golden promises in the way only a poet can, should he be asked to. And yet standing there, his shoulders aching from hauling muskets and bayonets and his eyes prickling with tears at the losses of his friends; he finds only one thing.

“Long love the revolution.” He whispers, the room so quiet he can hear the beating of his own heart. He raises his head and draws himself up to his fullest height, his voice reaching those across the barricade,

“Vive la France!”

Jean Prouvaire had never been afraid in his life.

____

Friendly reminder that Jehan Prouvaire’s death is SO overlooked and I will never forgive the musical for not putting it in :(

And for anyone who’s interested: my ao3 is getoffmybarricade :)

[fremedon]

Brickclub 4.14.6, “The Agony of Death after the Agony of Life”

I don’t think I have anything to add to @everyonewasabird‘s writeup of “End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire,” so moving on.

And. God, this chapter. In my notes I have thoughts and feelings about Marius and thoughts and feelings about Eponine, and there’s hardly any overlap--because how could there be, even now?

So. Marius. I hadn’t realized, before the last chapter, just how early his self-doubt about his perceptions at the barricade start. That’s not just a result of his head injury--he’s dissociating hard enough already that he’s actively questioning the reality of everything around him. He hears Eponine call out his name twice before deciding that her voice isn’t a hallucination.

And then--like her father, just two days ago--he doesn’t know her until she says her name. Whatever Eponine allowed to possess her--whatever she’s become--the only person who still recognizes her instantly is Javert.

And all the time she’s dying, Marius is “thinking with the bitterest, most heartfelt grief about the obligations towards the Thenardiers that his father had bequeathed to him.” He still! can’t! perceive! anything outside that framework of debt. Even here, he has to make Eponine’s death--for his own sake--about him; about how he’s contracted another Thenardier life-debt and how he can discharge it.

At least sending Gavroche off with the letter is not a terrible way to repay this one, even though it doesn’t do what he’s hoping. Gavroche, meanwhile, is fully a psychopomp now. Eponine led Marius to his fate at the barricade with a voice so eldritch he not only didn’t recognize it, he took it for the voice of fate itself, or a hallucination. But we hear Gavroche’s voix de jeune coq--roosters are a symbol of resurrection as well as France--singing out as Eponine nears death. He’s already led his two brothers into the twilight world of the streets; now he’s leading his sister into night with a rousing song about Lafayette.

Eponine, meanwhile. I’ve been wondering ever since we realized what it implies that suicidal Marius goes to say goodbye to Cosette with two loaded pistols whether Eponine knows, at some level, that she is saving Cosette’s life--taking on the death by gunshot, with Marius and for his sake, that fate meant for Cosette.

And I’m still not sure. She does pass on the letter--but she doesn’t think Marius is going to live long enough to see Cosette again; she’s worried that he’ll be unhappy with her “when [they] meet again, before long. People do meet again, don’t they?”

And she does perceive, immediately, that the barricade is doomed: “No one will leave the barricade now.”

She babbles, as she lies dying, about pretty much every interaction she’s had with Marius, and how the birds were singing when he pretended not to know her and how bright the sun was when he offered her money she didn’t want. It’s a horrible mirror of Jean Valjean’s deathbed memories of Cosette’s childhood--there are only a handful of such moments, none of them more than four months ago, and every one of them was dodgy at best. But it’s what she has.

That, and dying in the arms of the person she loves, whom she has summoned to his death and then saved just long enough that she can die before him. It’s not great--but whether she knows it or not, she’s dying in Cosette’s place; and she’s brought Marius to the one place where the hollow inside him can be used by the Revolution before something much worse takes hold.

"She tried to smile again, and died”: Eponine, too, dies with a smile not yet finished.

[brickstudies]

To Make the World a Home, a Feuilly & Les Amis fanmix for @feuillyweek​ 2020 (Deezer / Spotify)

Tracklist kinda crack-y??? judge for yourself:

1. Five for Fighting – World 2. Silvio Rodríguez – La Era Está Pariendo un Corazón (tr. The era is giving birth to a heart) 3. Big Thief – Forgotten Eyes 4. Nadin Amizah – Kanyaah (tr. Dearest) 5. Tracy Chapman - Talkin’ Bout a Revolution 6. AJJ – People 7. Emmylou Harris – Sweet Old World 8. Sleeping at Last – From the Ground Up 9. Bon Iver – PDLIF 10. White Hinterland – Napoleon at Waterloo 11. Bastille – 4AM 12. John Murphy – Cosette’s Piano (from BBC LM) 13. Banda Neira – Yang Patah Tumbuh Yang Hilang Berganti (tr. What’s broken will regrow, what’s lost will be reborn)

Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one thought, to deliver the world.

What kind of world do you want?/Think anything/.../Should there be people or peoples/.../Let every man own his own hand (1)

Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples.

The era is giving birth to a heart/And we must run to its side/.../And if necessary, we must burn down the sky/For the sake of any man in the world, for the sake of any home (2)

In the absence of his mother, his thoughts had dwelt on the motherland. He did not want any man on earth to be without a motherland.

The wound has no direction/Everybody needs a home and deserves protection (3)

This poor workingman had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she recompensed him by rendering him great.

O, red flower/you call to the weary/you revive them/Like an embrace that permits me/to be more vast and less troubled/Like an embrace that allows me/to be less vast and be troubled (4)

“Listen to me, Feuilly, valiant worker, man of the people, man of the peoples. I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity for your mother and right for your father. You are about to die, that is to say to triumph, here. [...]”

[More under the cut]

...

‘Cause finally the tables are starting to turn/Talkin' bout a revolution (5)

“[...] Citizens, whatever happens today, by our defeat just as much as by our victory, what we are going to achieve is a revolution. As fires light up a whole city, so revolutions give light to the whole human race.”

People are my religion because I believe in them/People are my enemies and people are my friends/I have faith in my fellow men/and I only hope that he has faith in me (6)

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in their student life, and, in one corner of this wine-shop [...] with their carbines loaded and primed resting against the backs of their chairs, these fine young fellows, so close to a supreme hour, began to recite love verses.

See what you lost when you left this world/This sweet old world/Millions of us in love/Promises made good/ Looking for some truth/.../Dancing with no shoes/The beat, the rhythm, and the blues/The pounding of your heart strong/Together with another one/Didn't you think anyone loved you? (7)

The time, the place, these recollections of youth, a few stars beginning to twinkle in the sky, the deathly quiet of those deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable drama that was about to unfold lent a pathetic charm to these verses softly murmured in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a gentle poet.

One by one the knots we’ve tied will come undone/Like picking locks, we’ll sow our seeds beneath the sun/Our accomplice is the rain, with patience, that of saints (8)

Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it.

Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the wall which faced the tavern:

—LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!

These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be still read on the wall in 1848.

Please don’t live in fear/We can’t see from here right now/.../I will say there will be a better day/There will be a better day (9)

"Can any one understand," exclaimed Feuilly bitterly, "those men,—[and he cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names, some belonging to the old army]—who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid us, and who had pledged their honor to it, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!"

And Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile.

"There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes the stars, from a great distance."

As one by one we fall/.../They put their trust in his hands/And a medal on his chest/And the ladies who swoon say/That's the place where his purple heart is/There goes now another man down/There goes now another man down... (10)

*Here, here, my friends and me/You are my familia/.../Four in the morning/we find ourselves here/Best of us passed out/I don’t know who’s where/I got all my old friends and new friends I’ve met once before/In a blanket of smoke as we sink through the floor (11)

[Cosette’s Piano] (12)

(And yet)/what’s broken will regrow, what’s lost will be reborn/ruins will heal/what’s futile bears fruit/these repetitions will someday ceased/and the fallen will take their stands again/What’s broken will regrow, what’s lost will be reborn (13)

[Brick passages are from Donougher and Hapgood; *I’m so sorry]

[prouvvaire]

grantaire - nara (alt-j)

i’ve discovered a man like no other man

i’ve found a love to love like no other can

[kcrabb88]

*Slides in at the very last minute for Poetry Smash week with some angst from a specific fic verse* Here is a quick mini-fic from the Between the Soul and the Star verse. Bahorel waits for Jean Prouvaire to wake up from his ordeal at the barricade. When he finally does, emotions ensue. Can be read if you haven’t read the larger fic, with knowledge that it’s an Everyone Survives AU, and Prouvaire gets knocked in the head instead of shot. Enjoy!

“Bahorel, you’re bleeding.”

Bahorel jumps at the sound of Joly’s voice, not tearing his eyes away from the unconscious Jean Prouvaire still lying in his bed. He didn’t make the bed, before leaving for Lamarque’s funeral. He hardly makes his bed at all truth be told, but he wishes he had. He wishes that he’d known Prouvaire would need it. He smooths the bedclothes, realizing he needs to answer Joly.

“I’m all right, Joly.” Bahorel makes himself turn around in his chair that’s as close to the bed as he could get, trying and failing to give Joly his usual grin. “You sprained your ankle, you shouldn’t be fussing with me.”

“I’ll fuss if I like.” Joly speaks softly, putting one hand on Bahorel’s shoulder. “Combeferre’s looking at the others’ wounds and my ankle is bound up, I can stand a moment and look at your side.”

Bahorel turns his gaze back to Prouvaire. “When will he wake up, Joly? Will he wake up?”

“I don’t know when, but I know he will. He’s concussed, that’s all. He wouldn’t want you bleeding and hurt on his account. We don’t have to leave the room, we can stay right here.”

Bahorel huffs, but he can hardly argue with Joly, of all people, and the argument about Jehan wanting him to take care of himself was a good one.

“All right. Just a quick check.”

Bahorel takes his shirt off, sucking in a breath through his teeth when the bayonet wound on his side twinges in protest.

“National guard bastard,” Bahorel mutters. “Coming at me from behind. I’d have had him, in any fight.”

“I know,” Joly says, bending over and taking a look at the wound before reaching in his medical bag for a bandage.

“And what they did to Prouvaire,” Bahorel continues. “What did they do, smash his head into the paving stones? They must have disarmed him, that’s not a fair fight.”

“I expect they did,” Joly whispers, cleaning the wound with careful precision. “That’s what I saw them do to Enjolras, before they dragged him off. Works for subduing.”

God, Bahorel can’t even think about Enjolras. He can’t think about telling the rest of his friends that Enjolras asked him and Feuilly to cover him if he had to sacrifice himself to get the rest of them out. For one brief moment Bahorel thought of outright punching Enjolras to stop him from even thinking about it again, to stop him from doing it, but then he saw the reason behind it. Enjolras wasn’t wrong, either—when they burst through, when Bahorel found Prouvaire alive, Enjolras throwing himself at the guards was the distraction they needed.

Now, he’ll have to tell Jehan that when he wakes up.

Joly doesn’t ask him if he knew what Enjolras was up to, and Bahorel’s grateful for that. He expects Combeferre won’t let him off so easily.

Joly finishes bandaging him up, clasping his shoulder once again. “Don’t move too much, you’ll aggravate the skin. I’m going to check on the others, but I’ll be back.”

Joly pats the unconscious Jehan’s leg before he heads toward the door.

“Put your foot up!” Bahorel shouts after him. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, Joly.”

Joly gives him a sad, tired smile as he turns back around, nodding in agreement before he shuts the door behind him, seeming to sense that Bahorel wants a moment alone with Prouvaire, even if Prouvaire can’t answer just yet.

“Wake up, dammit,” Bahorel says as soon as the door shuts. “Why are you so stubborn?” Prouvaire doesn’t answer of course, and Bahorel huffs a second time. “I’ll kill you myself, Jean Prouvaire. For scaring me like that. For making me think you were…”

Bahorel remembers in painful clarity the moment when they all realized Prouvaire was missing. Prouvaire, and another of their fellows. He remembers the quiet and then the gunshot piercing the air. Just the one, so they didn’t know who was dead and who was alive. He remembers seeing Prouvaire lying on the paving stones in the chaos of breaking through the barricade, blood from his head wound smeared on the ground. Bahorel punched a guard directly in the nose, red spraying everywhere as he picked up Prouvaire and ran for it, holding onto the sound of his breathing.

“If I read you some poetry will that wake you up?” Bahorel asks the question to nothing and no one but Prouvaire’s unconscious form. “Fine, you left one of your volumes here the night before the funeral, let me just….” He digs around in the drawer of the table beside his bed, searching for the book in question. He flips through the pages, looking for one poem in particular. “Ah. Here. You like Ode to a Nightingale, we’ll try this.”

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk/Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains…”  Bahorel starts reading, his eyes flicking from the page to Prouvaire and back again. .

He thinks he sees Prouvaire shift.

“One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot/But being too happy in thine happiness,— come on Jehan, wake up…” Bahorel breaks off reading, and yes, that’s Prouvaire blinking, he’s certain that it is. “That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees/In some melodious plot…”

Prouvaire’s eyes fly open and he jolts in bed, making Bahorel jump too, even though he was expecting it, hoping for it. Bahorel puts the book down on the table, leaning over and placing a soothing hand on Prouvaire’s forehead.

“Shhh, it’s all right. You’re in my bed. We’re away from the barricades. Don’t sit up just yet, you’ve hurt your head.”

Prouvaire blinks, a slight smile sliding onto his lips when he meets Bahorel’s eyes. “Was that Keats?” His voices sound hoarse and drowsy, but Bahorel is so relieved to hear it. “Why were you reading me Keats?”

Bahorel runs a thumb up and down Prouvaire’s forehead. “I thought it might wake you up. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“So you were.” Prouvaire groans, shifting again. “My head is….they hit me with a pistol, I think. I don’t remember well. Did you take me from the barricade? I remember…I remember shouting and gun-smoke and the sound of your voice but it’s all blurry.”

“We broke through the barricade, and I found you on the ground.”

“Is everyone here?”

Bahorel pauses, because he doesn’t want to answer this question, though he knows Jehan of all people, won’t let it drop.

Jehan reaches for Bahorel’s hand, entwining their fingers and holding on tight. “Bahorel. What happened?”

“Enjolras was arrested. Everyone else is here.” Bahorel forces the words out, but he looks away from Prouvaire even if it’s the last thing he wants, because Prouvaire knows him too well and will know he’s hiding something.

“Bahorel,” Jehan says softly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You need to rest.”

“And you need to tell me what’s the matter.”

Bahorel looks at Prouvaire again, those hazel eyes, those eyes that seem to know everything, all the time, won’t let him go.

“Enjolras asked Feuilly and I to cover for him, if he needed to hand himself over to distract the National Guard,” Bahorel admits, quietly enough so he’s not overheard. “I agreed to it. I hate myself for agreeing to it. What an arse, asking me to do that, he’s so…”

“You don’t mean that, Bahorel.”

“I do mean it. He charmed me into it, he gave me that look and I couldn’t say no, I just…”

“Bahorel.” Prouvaire squeezes his hand, and Bahorel looks down at their entwined fingers. “Enjolras knew what he was doing. We’ll get him out, I…” Tears shine in his eyes, and Bahorel wipes one away with his free hand when it falls. “I know we’ll get him out. Wherever he is.”

“Then can I shout at him?”

“Not right away, maybe,” Prouvaire smiles. “Perhaps later.”

Prouvaire lets go of Bahorel’s hand and sits up, ignoring Bahorel’s protests. Bahorel wants to ask what happened when he was with the National Guard, but he doesn’t press yet, knowing Jehan will tell him in his own time, not being the sort to keep emotions hidden or pushed down. Bahorel takes a long look at Prouvaire, drinking in the sight of him breathing and awake and alive. His too-long, reddish blond hair sticks out awkwardly from beneath the bandage wrapped around his head, and he looks pale as sin, but he’s here. He’s here.

Bahorel seizes the front of Prouvaire’s dirty shirt with as much gentleness as he can muster with his emotions bearing down on him, holding the material tight. “Don’t you scare me like that again, Jean Prouvaire.” Bahorel blinks, feeling tears break loose from his eyes. “I mean it. Be at least a quarter less intrepid, from now on.”

Prouvaire laughs, pushing Bahorel’s hand off his shirt and taking both in his own, entwining their fingers again. He rests his forehead against Bahorel’s, his voice sounding a touch clearer now.

“What will you give me in return for that?” Prouvaire asks.

“Not a damn thing,” Bahorel growls. “I’m not the one who almost got killed.”

“I recall a bayonet wound,” Prouvaire argues. “So you owe me, too.”

“Fine.” Bahorel sighs, but it’s cut off by a real, genuine laugh. “I’ll brawl a quarter as much. Fair?”

“It might be fair, but we’re both liars,” Prouvaire points out. He lowers his voice, the sounds of their friends on the other side of the door growing louder. “Thank you. For getting me out of there.”

Bahorel wraps his arms around Jehan in answer, and for a long while, he doesn’t let go.

[ao3feed-lesmiserables]

Some Will Fall

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/396uTKE

by megSUPERFAN

"If he was to be the sacrifice, so be it."

Two barricade scenes that nearly parallel, except one man dies alone. Deaths of Prouvaire and Enjolras.

Words: 843, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Children of the Barricade

Fandoms: Les Misérables - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: Gen

Characters: Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Enjolras (Les Misérables)

Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship

Additional Tags: Character Death, Parallels, Last Verses of Jean Prouvaire, Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk, Sad, Angst and Feels, Barricade Scenes

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/396uTKE

[orestesdreams-pyladesloves]

BrickClub-4.12.6 Waiting

Nearly all the Amis sitting around in the moments Before reciting a love poem together is so Dramatique and beautiful and I’m writing this even before I’ve reached the poem and I’m already sobbing, oh dear.

“The time, the place, the recollections of youth, a few stars beginning to twinkle in the sky, the deathly quiet of those deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable drama that was about to unfold lent a pathetic charm to these verses softly murmured in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a gentle poet.”

That paragraph is just as beautiful as the poem. I love my son.

And since this post is just me yelling about good writing? That last sentence:

“This light lent to the scarlet flag an indescribably terrible crimson hue.”

LIGHT SYMBOLISM.

[pilferingapples]

The other half of my Barricade Day playlist, Quel Horizon!  For after the Furniture Wall is up and Everything Starts Happening. Notes under the cut!

First Day Awake the Day- The Preparations Since You’ve Asked- Do You Remember Our Sweet Life

Stabat Mater- Death of the Porter/Execution of le Cabuc If It’s True- Love, Thine is the future

Revolution- The Flag, Death of Mabeuf Let My Last Words Not Be In Rhyme – First Breach, Death of Bahorel When I Go- Last Verses of Jean Prouvaire

What Can You Do In The Abyss But Talk?

Sleeping Dead- Enjolras advised two hours’ sleep Let Them Hear You- Vivent Les Peuples Lord, Blow The Moon Out- Day was beginning to dawn All The Life Around – “What is the cat?”    Sons– Combeferre spoke of the dead Better Weather-The insurgents were full of hope

The Final Battle

Bright Morning Stars-Enjolras’ Reconnaisance; We are abandoned Armstrong’s Army- “The republicans do not abandon the people” Mary – “Let him find her, and say to her: Here I am, Mother”

Show The Way -What Horizon The Mountain Army Dreamers- Death of the Artillery Sergeant

Behind The Barricade- Valiant Good Humor For My Lover- the name of Enjolras’ Mistress

Dancing On Our Graves- Gavroche Outside

Farewell Rocketship- “We will soon take the stagecoach to another planet” Brother Stand Beside Me- The Heroes Death Singing- Fall of the Barricade The Golden Age- The Heroism of Monsters

Black and White- “ Shoot me.” The Way Old Friends Do – Orestes Fasting, Pylades Drunk

Small note 1) : The Mountain doesn’t have a specific single point it’s linking to; if anyone needs me to, I’ll talk about why, but otherwise just know I didn’t forget about it, That Space Intentionally Left Blank.

Small note 2)  If it seems like this set is missing some people/storylines, well, it is– otherwise it would have wound up fifty songs long (I tried that first).  So this one is for the people who gave their lives to the barricade for the cause, and for the barricade itself. The survivors and other participants will have their own songs.

The most important note! Massive thanks to artificialities and robertawickham for helping me find songs! I really couldn’t have done it without them at all.

[confound-god-and-the-future]

explain your new url? it sounds interesting. i also sincerely hope you are okay, your message got me really worried. is there any way to identify and charge whoever sent you the message? i hope you're safe.

on my new url:

it’s a quote from the brick about jehan!

“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 Andre Chenier.”

it felt kind of fitting due to the circumstances of needing to change my url haha. i will probably change back to my old one as i am very attached to it (have had that url sicne 2013, it’s a reference not only to enjoltaire but to my favorite artist) but for now it’s better safe than sorry.

on the doxxing scare:

sending messages like that (the message i got said ‘I hope you fucking choke. Prepare to be doxxed’) isn’t actually illegal, and doxxing is in very murky territory in terms of whether or not it’s a crime. like, if the person only goes through all of your social media and finds things that are publicly available but makes them /more/ public, that’s not technically illegal. it’s only illegal if it’s coupled with harassment or slander or if the information was obtained illegally. also the message was on anon, so i can’t technically know if it’s the person i think it is, but i have a strong suspicion since i looked him up on google (his kik username is in his tumblr bio) and his username matched up with a bunch of, like, sexually explicit advice websites where he said some pretty gross things.

im hoping that the person who sent it has no actual intention of doxxing me. im hoping that the satisfaction of scaring me into deleting my blog will be enough. otherwise, i went through all of my accounts and changed privacy and visibility settings, removed my last name from some of the things i know are publicly available, and changed all of my passwords, making sure that things like my email and bank account are under very secure and very different passwords. hopefully soon (I don’t know how long this takes) Google will have phased out all the accounts that are attached to my name in search results, so I’ll be a lot less accessible.

hopefully this is the last i’ll hear of it and nothing will come of it. thank you for your concern; it’s been a really stressful day.

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

“...and the power structure itself leads to a slow but steady deterioration of power for the people as it gets accumulated by the wealthy and influential who milk the economic desperation and petty xenophobia of the common citizens as a way to keep from being held accountable by the very people who should be most incensed by the rampant corruption of their leaders. It's awful! It's obscene! And no one even notices, which is incredible to me. Have we as a society grown so complacent that criminals only need to put on a suit and a microphone and be seen as heroes instead? Have the ordinary people of this system become so accustomed to being oppressed that they don't even notice the reality of their own oppression?”

Jean Prouvaire paused for breath, which gave Bossuet a moment to steal his wine glass and refill it without risking being hit in the nose by one of Prouvaire's wildly gesticulating hands. The young poet had been on his tirade for a solid five minutes, pausing only to try and drink from the wine glass, which had been empty for the last half hour. There was a certain irony in a man bemoaning the oblivious nature of the people being so unobservant himself, but Bossuet had long grown accustomed to Jean Prouvaire's peculiar contradictions.

“Of course they have,” Bahorel said. He sat with his legs resting on a desk filled with someone else's papers, carefully shined books firmly planted on a stack of legal forms, a deliberately crafted declaration of his esteem for the documents. He too held a glass, and accepted Bossuet's silent offer of a refill with a nod of thanks. “And don't think for a moment that it's not by design. It suits the power leeches to keep us unthinking and unaware. The problem we should address is not why the people fail to notice the abuses of power happening under their noses and rather how to go about changing their perceptions. Personally I lean towards disrupting traffic and redistributing resources to those who need them most, but I will hear arguments for defacing public buildings and singing rude anthems.”

Prouvaire laughed and took another drink from his glass, seeming surprised to find it full once again. “Why not all at once?” he wanted to know.

“Why not indeed?” Bahorel agreed. He shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, uncrossing his legs only to recross them again the other way, and turned to look at Bossuet. “You've been awfully quiet,” he said. “It's unlike you. What's on your mind?”

“Oh, nothing terribly world-shaking,” Bossuet said with a shrug. There being only one chair in Bahorel's superior's office, and that being occupied by Bahorel himself, Bossuet stood leaning against a bookshelf. Bahorel had decreed that the best use of lawbooks was as coasters, and so the shelves themselves were festooned with bottles and glasses in various states of emptiness, at least until Bahorel's superior returned from their vacation. “I was simply thinking that perhaps the real reason people have lost their aptitude for questioning orders is because no one presents them with a model of how to do so. A hallmark of sentience is the plasticity of the brain, as we all know by now, and our leaders are without peer when it comes to nourishing the brains of their people in such a way as to create precisely the outcome they most desire, which is to say complacency and frustration. How do you create a society content to look no father than their own pocketbooks? You hold up a portrait and call it a mirror.” He nodded towards the infoscreen embedded  tastefully into the exotic wood paneling covering the office's far wall. It currently sat inert, its power supply throttled and diverted to more useful purposes, namely the recharging of a cleaning drone that Jean Prouvaire had liberated from servitude the previous week. Bahorel, for reasons known only to himself, had attached a knife to its flat top, and it now sat tethered to a hijacked power supply, waiting for new victims. “Think on it. Our entertainment is all set in an alternate universe, one cunningly crafted to resemble ours in every superficial sense but lacking the petty miseries and misfortunes of reality. And why should it not? Would you spend your scant hours of freedom reliving the very existence you tuned in to escape? Certainly not. Entertainment as fantasy is a time honored tradition, and one that I would not dream of vilifying entirely. Entertainers work hard to bring us a moment of escape, and I cannot fault them for their work. I think we can all agree that our lives would be lessened without their dedication to their crafts.”

Bahorel, whose partner-of-an-unspecified-but-definitely-intimate-nature of several years made her living appearing in the very dramas Bossuet currently described, raised his glass in enthusiastic agreement.

“But, as with any earthly delight – and possibly any heavenly one as well; theologians contradict themselves on this point regularly – this comes at a cost, namely that those of us who enjoy the escapist entertainment so eagerly offered to us run the risk of believing them to be set in our universe, rather than the one next door. And indeed, who can blame us? To an undiscerning viewer – and who among us is always discerning? – they appear to be identical. One would think that dramas would be required by law to include some statement with each program to clear up this confusion, but alas, they are not and thus have not bothered. Of course, the fantasy falls apart the moment it is subjected to closer observation. After all, I cannot say that I am constantly surrounded by impossibly attractive people, manage to live comfortably without any apparent source of income, resolve all of my conflicts within the confines of a forty minute span of time, or learn lessons on a daily basis. Why, I have been known to go for weeks without learning a single thing!”

“You must admit, however, we are uncommonly attractive,” Bahorel said. He drained his glass and reached under the desk for another bottle. Bossuet thought this one might have been pilfered from his superior's personal supply.

“Literature is worse,” Jean Prouvaire said, frowning at the infoscreen. “When was the last time anything but a romance or a badly written thriller made it past the censors? When was the last time you read a work of politically aware fiction, or even a volume of poetry?”

“Yesterday,” Bahorel said promptly. “But I assume you meant to imply that the volume in question be legal to obtain.”

“Exactly!” Prouvaire said. “The only way to nourish the soul with anything other than mass produced propaganda is to acquire that nourishment illegally. The government is starving us as truly as if they were taking our food and offering us nothing but sugar candy.”

“And is it not our duty as sentient beings to feed the hungry when we find them?” Bossuet wanted to know.

Bahorel tilted his head slightly. “Certainly it is,” he agreed. “What do you suggest?”

“Well,” Bossuet said, “we are all men of letters, are we not? You, Jean Prouvaire, sculpt words into delicate verse, and you, Bahorel, join me in the wretched study of torturing our poor language into submission in the name of legality. Surely it would not be too difficult to turn our talents to the cause of feeding the needy. And it so happens that I have a friend with the conviction and talent to spread our words to those who might want them.”

“You are suggesting we take up careers as bookwriters?” Bahorel wanted to know.

“If books are what catch your fancy,” Bossuet said. “I myself rather fancy the much maligned novella, and Jean Prouvaire, of course, breathes poetry as others among us breathe air. I meant only to suggest an intent behind any words we create, not a form.”

“And Enjolras will publish us?” Jean Prouvaire asked.

“Certainly, if we meet his standards of quality,” Bossuet said.

Bahorel tilted his head, considering this. “Enjolras,” he said. “I know that name.” He looked at Bossuet. “Tell me why I know that name.”

“Likely because he published the book of poetry you read yesterday,” Bossuet said.

Bahorel shook his head. “No, that was put out by my brother. Between us, his skill with words leave something to be desired. The things that man can do to a perfectly innocent preposition. I had to avert Jean Prouvaire's eyes from some of the more lurid passages, lest he become overwhelmed.” He sighed, taking a dramatic swig from the bottle he still held. “Still, I know that name. I will have to think on it later. In the meantime, I fully support this plan of action. Stars only know that I might as well put all this scrap to some useful purpose.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion encompassing the entire desk and its contents. “Tell your friend that I will have something for him shortly.”

“Splendid!” Bossuet said. “Prouvaire? Do you approve of this idea?”

Jean Prouvaire did not answer. When Bossuet looked over at him, he found the young man bent over a datapad, scribbling furiously with a stylus that had magically materialized in his hand.

“I think we can assume that he does,” Bahorel said, smiling fondly.

Bossuet readjusted his position against the bookshelf and pulled out a datapad of his own, borrowed from the office supply room months ago and never returned, and began determining how best to go about proposing to a man whom, in truth, he barely knew that they engage in acts of a seditious and mostly illegal nature. With a slight smile of his own, he began to write.

[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. 

[aiwaysinmyheartlou]

me: [sees enjolras meta on my dashboard] oh my god, i love him so much, i think he's my favorite after all -

me: [sees joly art] there he is.....my one and only.....my darling my sunshine my favorite

me: [suddenly thinks about the last verses of jean prouvaire] have i ever said that i would lay down my life for jehan prouvaire, my favorite ami