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"Look, my son, look well, there is France, there is the Fatherland! All are like one man. One soul and one heart. All would die for one."
- Michelet
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It begins – though Courfeyrac does not know it at the time – quite innocuously, with an argument.
“’The principles of ’89,’ you say,” he repeats, no longer bothering to keep his voice down, “-- is it the desire for human happiness you disagree with? Or perhaps the wish to end the poverty and suffering of the lower classes is what you take objection to?”
“There is no need to be deliberately obtuse,” snaps the man seated opposite, shuffling the papers on the table before him, and Courfeyrac wonders – not for the first time – how he has managed to wind up in an argument with an ultraroyalist classmate within the first week of term; “what I object to is the bloodthirsty republicanism of the Revolution, the flawed philosophy that destroys the monarchy in favour of deifying the mob.”
“If I may—” Courfeyrac begins, but his classmate cuts across him regardless: “You cannot truly be arguing that the insults of ’89 and ’93 were at all beneficial to France, de Courfeyrac?”
“Simply ‘Courfeyrac’, if you please,” says Courfeyrac, frowning, and he is about to opine a counter-argument when a voice from behind does so for him; half the university plans to interrupt him today, it seems.
The voice says: “Monsieur, you abide by the laws of the Republican constitution of 1793, do you not?”
Courfeyrac turns around.
Two men have crossed the common room to join the small crowd listening to the argument; unlike the rest of the crowd, however, these two appear to have decided to join in. The first of them – the man who has just spoken – is bespectacled and brown-haired, well but plainly dressed, using a finger to mark his place in the book he has presumably just paused in reading, a look of mild interest on his face. The man standing at his side is quite strikingly beautiful, the blonde of his curls standing out against his red frock coat and grey waistcoat, his expression intense but unreadable.
The ultraroyalist is looking more disgruntled by the second. He says, “Certainly I do, but—”
This time it is the blonde man who speaks, and though his voice is not raised it seems to cast a quiet across the room: “The Republic, and all the products of the Republic, are the issue of the Revolution, the direct results of the principles of ’89 you so disdain. One cannot accept the Republic, nor any of its glories, without accepting the value of the Revolution.”
This sentence, and the silence that greets it, has the air of finality about it, and it seems the ultraroyalist classmate realises it too; he coughs, picks the papers off his table, and says to Courfeyrac (rudely ignoring the newcomers in the debate): “Perhaps we can continue this conversation after our next lecture, de Courfeyrac.”
Grinning, Courfeyrac says, “Perhaps. Good day, monsieur.”
When his classmate has left the room and the spectators have turned back to their previous business, Courfeyrac gets out of his chair to face the two men still standing by the table.
“I ought to be embarrassed that I cannot finish my own arguments,” he says, rueful and charming, “but the two of you spoke so well that I believe I shall merely be grateful instead.”
They introduce themselves as Combeferre (the first to speak) and Enjolras (the second), and shake his hand, and when Combeferre says lightly that there seem to be more outspokenly ignorant ultraroyalists in the university every year Courfeyrac laughs and suggests that perhaps they are breeding; it is a good thing there also seem to be more sensible-minded fellows who are able to carry on a debate against them.
Enjolras and Combeferre look at each other as though speaking a language Courfeyrac cannot hear. Combeferre glances at his pocketwatch, then says: “The two of us were planning to go for supper; there is a café on the Rue Saint-Michel we have visited once or twice, and found quite pleasant. Would you care to join us?”
Courfeyrac’s plans for the evening had simply been to catch a couple of acquaintances as they left their evening classes, head to the nearest wine bar, and flirt outrageously with the girls there for an hour or two; the opportunity for something rather more unusual, and furthermore for a continuation of the conversation about the Republic they had cut off quite abruptly, is certainly not something he is going to refuse. Besides, he finds himself intrigued by these strangers.
“Yes,” he says, his hand over his heart, “I would be delighted to.”
--
Once the three of them have come together, the others find them as though drawn by some strange magnetism that Courfeyrac cannot name or analyse.
Combeferre brings Joly straight from lectures to what is now their regular table in the backroom of the Café Musain, pulls up a spare seat for him and passes him a glass of wine without a word before launching into a conversation – one with which Joly joins in with enthusiasm –about the literacy rates of the working poor. The next evening Joly brings Lesgle along with him, another seat and another glass are provided, and the conversation continues apace.
It is Courfeyrac himself who provides them with Feuilly, one of his more irregular wine-bar and market-going companions, after the two of them have had a rather enlightening conversation in hushed whispers outside the door of Feuilly’s workshop. Enjolras brings them Bahorel -- who explains that they met firstly in a fight with the bourgeois clientele of a salon on the Rue Saint Dominique, secondly when Enjolras caught him prowling bruised and black-eyed just outside the law school the morning afterward -- and it takes Courfeyrac the best part of two days to stop picturing Enjolras in a street brawl, his knuckles and shirt cuffs bloodied and his eyes full of the kind of fervour usually associated only with the divine.
At some point between the day when Bahorel appears with Jean Prouvaire in tow (an unlikely couple in temperament, the rest of them comment, and Bahorel simply laughs and pats Jehan on the shoulder and tells them not as unlikely as you think) and the evening Grantaire stumbles through the doorway after Enjolras, they graduate from a regular table to possessing the Musain’s backroom entire.
Throughout it all, the three of them fall into a balance.
Courfeyrac finds that he begins to feel odd if he does not see Enjolras and Combeferre daily; this, admittedly, does not happen often. If they do not meet in the university they will meet over lunch, for dinner in the Café Musain, regardless of whether the others are there too – when the Musain closes its doors on them late in the evening, two weeks into their acquaintance, Courfeyrac simply shrugs and invites the other two back to his rooms.
“And yet one can hardly deny that, historically, the military action immediately following the revolution has been nationalistic in nature,” Combeferre says as they climb the stairs; their conversation has barely halted between their table in the backroom and the doorway of Courfeyrac’s hotel on the Rue de la Verrerie, though they had been forced to speak in hushed voices in the streets on the way there, for fear of patrolling gendarmes or others who would take offence at the subject matter.
“That is because the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy of the neighbouring states are afraid of the rising of the people and the revolutionary government,” Enjolras replies simply, “and thus make war upon it.”
Courfeyrac turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open; his quarters are not extravagant, merely a larger room serving as (so he jokingly refers to it) a parlour, and a bedroom attached through the dividing door. They are, additionally, in something of a mess. His chaise is covered with papers and books due back at the university library, yesterday’s suit is draped over his desk, and he has not even attempted to make his bed.
He needn’t worry, though – Enjolras and Combeferre do not appear to notice the general disarray (he will later discover that their quarters are just as untidy, though with the predominant clutter composed more of books than of clothes), simply sitting on the chairs Courfeyrac directs them toward, while Courfeyrac himself piles the books into a single stack on the floor before sprawling back onto the chaise.
“What you are saying is that nationalistic sentiment in the face of foreign counter-revolutionary forces is a defensive measure,” he says, “and while I believe you are right I suggest that we ought to think carefully about the consequences of that sentiment, as well as the reasons it occurs – but forgive me, I am a dreadful host, I have not even offered you both drinks.”
Glasses of wine are poured and distributed, and Combeferre thanks him and says: “The consequences of the sentiment – you are referring to the likelihood that the oppressed classes of the attacking states will be misguided by nationalist feeling encouraged by the ruling classes, and therefore will not follow the French example and bring about insurrection in their own lands?”
“Precisely so,” says Courfeyrac, “and I do not think I have an answer to the problem, save to accept the inevitability of such a war and simply try to wage it well. Feuilly would surely have something to say about it – perhaps he ought to be here as well as the three of us.”
Combeferre frowns slightly, and looks firstly at Courfeyrac and secondly at Enjolras, and says nothing; and after a moment Enjolras speaks up on the topic of patriotism in the lower classes and the odd moment has passed.
After that evening, Courfeyrac begins, almost without realising it, spending almost as much time at Combeferre’s and Enjolras’ rooms as he does in his own. Several times he finds himself sleeping in a spare nightshirt on Combeferre’s chaise (or, once, in Enjolras’ bed, with the wall pressing against one of his shoulders and Enjolras’ back pressing the other) because they have stayed up until the early hours in conversation. He takes – largely by accident – to leaving most of the outer components of an outfit in each of their rooms at all times, just in case; the small library they possess when their respective collections are combined, made up mostly of books and pamphlets that certainly would not be permitted in any university building, becomes a shared one, added to fortnightly and passed from room to room as necessary.
No matter how many of the others attend each meeting – and as the years pass, more and more of the lieutenants of the Amis de l’ABC (as they have begun to call themselves) spend nigh-on every evening in the Musain’s backroom – the three of them can always be found there. Courfeyrac will arrive after classes or a long lunch with the girl he is courting to find Combeferre with his head bent over a book or an essay, Enjolras penning a letter or the initial drafts of a pamphlet or speech or simply sitting at the table, silent and unmoving, for all the world as though he is looking at something none of the others can see.
--
“The Martyrs of ’94, or: an Old Evil Revisited,” Courfeyrac pronounces experimentally.
Combeferre, across the table, nods: “I would amend it to ‘an ancient evil’ – or ‘an ancient insult’, perhaps – but otherwise I would be perfectly content with that. Enjolras?”
“It may be too similar to Blanqui’s set’s latest title, or so rumour would suggest,” says Enjolras, after a moment filled only with the scratching of the nib of his pen, “but as rumour is all we have for now, I suggest we proceed as you propose.”
“Rumour alone? Was Marrast’s press raided again? I was certain he was supposed to be publishing today.”
“He was,” Enjolras says, with a slight frown that does nothing to mar his features, “I sent Grantaire to pick up the latest publications.”
This seems, to Courfeyrac, reason enough why the pamphlets have failed to reach them, but Combeferre elaborates: “He returned having spent all the centimes we gave him on several bottles of wine and a rather unsavoury selection of pamphlets describing the obscene activities of Marie Antoinette with several of her ladies-in-waiting.”
“Oh,” says Courfeyrac, and then, after a moment, “Do we still have the pamphlets?”
“I threw them out,” Enjolras replies.
“Oh,” Courfeyrac repeats, somewhat disappointed.
“In any case,” Combeferre says firmly, crossing the room to place a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and lean over to read what he has written, “Enjolras, you are nearing completion of the text itself, are you not?”
By way of an answer, Enjolras sits straight in his seat and recites without looking at the paper in front of him, his demeanour changing as though he addresses an invisible audience seated in the empty chairs of the Musain’s backroom: “The patriots of the Montagne provoked the hatred and fear of their contemporaries. We do not deny this; indeed, we embrace it. It has ever been so, that the cowards and conservatives among a society are afraid of progress. The likes of the incorruptible Montagnards recognised the supremacy of posterity above the changing passions of the present; they were aware, in everything, of the presence of the impartial judge that is history, and they acted accordingly. When we arise in ceaseless defence of these citizens, we stand in the place of posterity itself, joining ranks as its soldiers.”
“Excellent,” says Combeferre, “your pen is wasted on legal essays, you know.” Courfeyrac notices Combeferre has not moved his hand from Enjolras’ shoulder throughout the speech; Enjolras lifts his ink-stained fingertips to brush Combeferre’s hand briefly in acknowledgement, before once more picking up his pen and dipping the nib in the inkwell on the desk.
Courfeyrac leans forward across the table, cupping his chin in one hand and gesturing with the other: “And what next? A denouncement of the arguments of the enemy – their incoherent reproaches, their disparagement of enthusiasm for social change – certainly; praise of the Convention for its management of the crisis gripping France in ’93, with examples – military failure, financial ruin, royalism rife in the Vendée; the insult of their insistent snubbing of the industry and toil of the working classes for the progression of the nation by means of revolution –?”
“Precisely,” says Combeferre, “every word – you would be wasted on your academic essays as well, Courfeyrac, if you ever wrote any,” and when he smiles Courfeyrac grins and reaches across the corner of the table to cover Combeferre’s hand (still resting on Enjolras’ shoulder) with his own. He does not pull his arm back until after Combeferre has glanced away.
Once again the scratching of the nib of Enjolras’ pen can be heard over the muffled conversation and music leaking into the backroom from the front of the café. When he writes, Courfeyrac notes, Enjolras’ face is transformed in a different way to when he addresses a crowd with bloody rhetoric and calls to arms – he writes as though he is all but overcome by the strange all-consuming serenity of his purpose.
It is quite beautiful. Combeferre, his eyes gentle, has not stopped watching Enjolras since he put pen to paper once more; Courfeyrac can only assume he agrees.
The sky outside is dark and Louison has brought them several more rounds of coffee before Enjolras puts down his pen, pushes his hair out of his face with ink-stained fingers, and reads: “It is the aristocrats and the despots who wish to divide the people from those who would deliver them. The true allies of the workers will not be put down, nor will our voices be stifled by the oppressive hands that mould an unjust state: together we will avenge the grievances the citizens of the Republic have suffered for too long. Together we will greet the coming day of judgement and arise, triumphant, into a brighter dawn.”
Courfeyrac applaudes; Combeferre, leaning to read the paper, points halfway up the page and says, “Only combine these two paragraphs into one – it will save us space on the paper, and thus we will be able to print more and lower the price of sales.”
That done, the three of them sit back, sip coffee, and take it in turns to read over the completed text. Combeferre notes: “Jehan and Feuilly have convinced some of the artisans in Les Halles to recruit apprentices from the slums around the Rue Reaumur, and a new school for the poor has opened near Rue du Temple – literacy rates are rising. If we can get this to Marrast’s by Friday it will be in print by next week even as its potential audience widens.”
“Ten centimes apiece,” Courfeyrac says, “or in any case that’s the usual price – and then we can print enough for our own distribution as well as sales at the press.”
“Let us see how the intellectuals among the ultras respond to this,” says Combeferre with a smile.
“As they always do, I should expect,” says Courfeyrac, “with wilful ignorance and terribly misguided views on politics and philosophy and history that they will never re-evaluate. They are irredeemable! It’s the working people I am more concerned with.”
Enjolras says, “The stubbornness of our bourgeois and aristocratic enemies will be a point in our favour; it will push the people further away from their oppressors, and they will find our goals and our ideals waiting for them.”
They sign the pamphlet the friends of the oppressed people of France; Paris; December 8th / Frimaire 17th 1829.
--
Courfeyrac’s new coat is navy blue, high-collared and and bronze-buttoned, cut away at the waist with tails that fall to his knees; he has been preening over it for hours. Matched with a pale gold waistcoat covered in tiny embroidered roses, a bright white cravat, and a pair of maroon trousers, it is perfect, and Courfeyrac feels entirely justified in his self-satisfaction. He is assessing his curled hair in the mirror above his fireplace when he notices Combeferre, sitting on the chaise behind him, watching.
“What do you think?” Courfeyrac asks with a grin, turning around and bowing, “Am I not exquisite?”
“You are an incorrigible dandy,” says Combeferre, after a moment in which he looks Courfeyrac over. He is smiling very slightly.
“Ah, you say that as though it is an insult,” Courfeyrac laughs, and turns back to the mirror. He notices, as he tucks a curl behind his ear, that Combeferre has not turned his gaze down to the newspaper in his lap, and instead continues to look across the room at Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac is, in fact, entirely accustomed to having people look at him thus; that, perhaps, explains why he feels so off-balanced when he sees such glances coming from Combeferre as opposed to from one of his mistresses. He has spent several weeks assessing the way Combeferre watches him, now, all the while feeling both confusion and a tentative, delighted, anticipatory excitement.
He has been testing the waters for a while. For the most part it can simply be disguised as his usual behaviour: teasing, flattering, touches that linger a little longer than they ought to. It is only the sincerity, the seriousness of intent behind the actions that is unusual.
The night before, leaving the Musain, he had pressed his hand against Combeferre’s lower back and stroked his thumb gently beneath the hem of Combeferre’s waistcoat. Combeferre had turned, quite silently, to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes, and for all his ability with words the look on his face had spoken volumes.
In front of the fire, the heat is becoming a little stifling. Courfeyrac takes off the coat with some reluctance – and certainly does not miss how Combeferre watches his movements – and hangs it on the stand by the door, before crossing the room to drape himself on the chaise next to Combeferre.
He rests a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and says, “I take it Le National does not have anything worthwhile to say for itself.”
“It is never quite radical enough,” says Combeferre, shrugging and smoothing a hand across the front page of the paper he holds. “There are articles that read as though they are on the precipice of writing something worth our time, but they never actually step over it – that is the problem with the legal press, I suppose, even when it is in opposition.”
Crossing one leg over the other, Courfeyrac hums in agreement – and he would say more except that he cannot help but notice the flicker of Combeferre’s eyes over Courfeyrac’s face, the way Combeferre licks his lips and presses his finger and thumb together where they grip the corner of the paper.
Courfeyrac sends up a silent prayer that he is correct, in this; it has been a very long time coming.
“My friend, I apologise if I have misjudged you, but – forgive me - I do not think I have,” he says quietly, and with his hand resting on Combeferre’s shoulder so the tips of his fingers brush the skin of Combeferre’s neck, he leans in to press a kiss to Combeferre’s lips.
It is perhaps the lightest, briefest kiss Courfeyrac has initiated in years, but it does not feel chaste for that: nevertheless he sits back after barely a moment, almost holding his breath, watching Combeferre’s face intently. He has time, just about, to see Combeferre’s eyes widen and his tongue pass across his lower lip before all at once Combeferre’s hand is curled tightly around the knot of Courfeyrac’s cravat and he is pulling Courfeyrac back towards him with no small sense of urgency.
This kiss is neither light nor brief; it begins open-mouthed and desperate and does not become less so, so that after a moment Courfeyrac’s hand has moved from Combeferre’s shoulder to the small of his back, Combeferre is gripping Courfeyrac’s shoulder with one hand and stroking his neck with the other, and they are pressed so close that the buttons of their waistcoats catch and snag and press into Courfeyrac’s ribs.
It is Combeferre who leans back this time, breathing as hard as though he has just fled the gendarmes through half of Paris. Courfeyrac is giddy; he does not think he has felt so simultaneously light-headed and energised since the last time Enjolras’ speeches drew a crowd in the Tuileries.
“You have not misjudged me, not in the slightest,” Combeferre murmurs, and he has not moved his hand from Courfeyrac’s shoulder, “but I had hardly dared to hope—”
At this, Courfeyrac simply kisses him again; now he has been given leave to, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world.
“We are due at the Musain,” says Combeferre, eventually, and how he has the presence of mind to remember that prior engagement Courfeyrac hasn’t a clue, “our absence would be—noted.”
Courfeyrac absently strokes the lapel of Combeferre’s waistcoat with his thumb and index finger, an unconscious motion only until he notices Combeferre watching the movement of his hand – he says, “You’re right, and I have been meaning to discuss the republican potential of the Polytechniciens with Enjolras for days; somehow it always slips my mind.”
“I, too, have a number of things I wish to discuss with Enjolras.”
Standing is an effort, and stepping back even more so. Courfeyrac dons his new coat with a reluctance quite at odds to his earlier attitude, and as Combeferre is standing he presses his hand against his friend’s chest, fingers splayed, and leans in to whisper in his ear: “Do not tire yourself out in conversation tonight; I would have you back here afterwards.”
Perhaps he expects Combeferre to blush, to become flustered, or to brush him off; he is mistaken on every count. Instead Combeferre reaches up to trail two fingers down the front of Courfeyrac’s neck, and smiles very slightly, and says, with utter insincerity, “I do hope you are not distracted by inappropriate thoughts throughout the entire meeting, Courfeyrac , though I imagine if you are it will not prove much of a change from your usual mental status quo.”
--
“Ought another of us to speak as well?” Courfeyrac had asked earlier, as the group of them walked down the Rue Saint-Antoine towards the Place de la Bastille, and it was Combeferre who had answered him: “Enjolras alone will more than suffice.”
Courfeyrac is in no doubt, now, that Combeferre (as usual) was correct. The two of them stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the biggest crowd in the square, one that grows larger by the minute; their friends have moved further back to push their way through the throng of people, distributing pamphlets and whispering the details of meeting-places in ears that seem eager to listen.
In front of them, Enjolras stands atop the balustrade beside the fountain, bright in red and black against the dirty grey backdrop of the decaying plaster elephant.
“Citizens, I hardly need remind you that this is the fourth year in a row of food shortages and harvest failures,” and if any eyes in the crowd had drifted away they are drawn back to Enjolras now he continues to speak, as though he has them hypnotised like a sideshow act, “nor that the price of crops has risen higher than ever before – you are starving, your children are starving, and in the Hotel de Ville the men who wrote the edicts that tore bread from your mouths eat a five-course lunch and a seven-course dinner!”
The murmur of discontent among the crowd is the kind that could, any moment, become a roar. Enjolras does not wait for the people to quiet down before he next speaks, and his voice is clear and loud enough that Courfeyrac is sure everyone will hear it nonetheless: “The tax office steals the money that would pay for your food; the government and the illegitimate king at its head steals the liberty that is yours by right; the legislature of our nation steals the provision of justice for the poor and the weak, and offers it on bended knee to the strong and the rich instead. Be outraged, citizens!”
Courfeyrac wonders idly how he is expected to keep watch for hostile gendarmes and guardsmen at the corners of the square when he is reluctant to blink for fear of missing a moment of Enjolras’ speech. He is quite in love, he thinks. At his side, Combeferre presses his hand, links their fingers tightly together.
“Be outraged – society is built on your shoulders, citizens, but the bourgeoisie and the aristocrats want to break your backs. They would stifle your voices, cry ‘monarchy!’ over your cries of ‘freedom!’ – but know that your political rights are as inalienable as your rights to property, and must be paid for in the blood of those who would deny you.”
Like this, Enjolras looks as though he ought indeed to be stained with blood, as though he ought to have the whole Bourbon government falling to its knees before him.
Courfeyrac knows, quite simply and uncomplicatedly – in the adrenalin stirring his blood and keeping him on his toes, in the way he feels as though he is watching a deity alight on the earth in the form of a mortal, in the same way he knows he is in love – that he will follow Enjolras to the ends of the earth, to triumph or to death, whichever comes first.
“Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre, and the fingers touching his own move to grab his wrist with some urgency, “Courfeyrac!”
Walking quickly out of the end of the Boulevard Beaumarchais, across the square from the crowd but heading towards it, is a group of perhaps ten gendarmes with batons in hand. Courfeyrac curses under his breath (though of course this disruption was inevitable) and turns around to tap Joly on the shoulder and mutter, “Get everyone out, disperse the crowd. Meet at the Musain later, but arrive discreetly – tell Bahorel and Feuilly we would rather avoid a brawl –”
Joly grips Courfeyrac’s upper arm briefly and then disappears between two men; his calls for everyone to leave are picked up within seconds by Jehan and Bossuet, and the others join in quickly. Courfeyrac looks back to the balustrade, where Enjolras is glancing across the square to the oncoming gendarmes.
He finishes his speech as though he has not seen them, or perhaps as though they are so beneath him that they do not deserve his attention: “France has destroyed one traitor king, citizens, and it will destroy another. Let these insults, this famine, these inequalities be the last! Let us make of 1830 a second ’89!”
When he touches the ground again Courfeyrac and Combeferre are there, flanking him on either side, to pull a workman’s cap over his bright hair and head quickly toward the alleyways adjacent to the fountain. It is only when Enjolras has stopped speaking and disappeared from view that the crowd hurries to leave – until then they were almost unmoving, as though caught up in some strange spell. Courfeyrac understands the sentiment entirely.
--
Two nights ago they had shattered the lantern hanging above the door to Enjolras’ building, along with all the others in the street; with the pavements thrown into darkness still, it takes Courfeyrac several minutes to get the key in the lock. The fact that his right arm is hanging limp at his side and his left hand is trembling hardly helps matters, and when he has the door open he shoves the key into his pocket and slings his arm around Combeferre’s waist once more.
The porter is nowhere to be seen, nor are any of the other residents of the building – the three of them struggle up the stairs, breathing hard, clutching the bannisters and each other with filthy, bloodied hands (for balance, and because to let go now would be unthinkable).
Courfeyrac gets them into Enjolras’ rooms and Combeferre limps through the doorway with Enjolras holding him upright. They lower him onto the floor beneath the window. The room is cast in an unsteady orange light as Enjolras lights firstly a match and secondly the oil lamp above his desk; their shadows stretch misshapen across the wall.
“Let us assist you,” says Courfeyrac, his voice hoarse from shouting, “only tell us what to do and we’ll obey.”
Combeferre is still breathing hard, one hand pressing a cravat that was once white and is now sodden and bright red against his thigh; he says, “Clean water – gauze, bandages, a cotton shirt would do if you cannot find anything else – scissors or a knife – Enjolras, have you any spirits?”
“There is a bottle of calvados under the desk,” says Enjolras immediately, handing Courfeyrac a jug of water and a wad of thin white fabric.
“Fetch it. Courfeyrac, your arm –”
“Just bruised, I am sure; let me help you first, even if I must do it one-handed.”
Enjolras returns with the brandy, and Combeferre takes a long drink from the bottle; when he wipes his mouth he leaves his chin smeared with dirt and blood. Then he lifts the fabric off his thigh and tears the gash in his trousers wider. His leg looks, to Courfeyrac, like an indistinguishably bloody mess, so he is surprised when Combeferre examines it readily (quite without hesitation, though with his face set and his lips pressed tightly together) and even more surprised when Combeferre pronounces it, “Better than I thought – most of the cuts are shallow, those that are not have missed the artery, there does not seem to be any glass embedded in the wounds – but it needs washing, to clean the cuts and so that I can see properly.”
It is Enjolras who does this service, with one hand gripping Combeferre’s shoulder tightly and the other emptying the first jug and then a second over the wounds in Combeferre’s leg. The water sluices the blood away, leaving the floor around them soaked. Combeferre covers Enjolras’ hand with his own and holds it tight as he examines the cuts once more.
“Stitches will not be needed, but we ought to bandage this,” says Combeferre, and at his request Courfeyrac cuts the leg off his trousers with the scissors Enjolras presses into his hand. Together they wrap the fabric around the wound, tying it off as tight as Combeferre instructs them, squeezing his shoulders and stroking his hair as he winces. That done, they simply look at each other.
“Do the two of you need your wounds treated?” Combeferre asks, his voice rough and exhausted.
“No,” says Enjolras immediately, and Courfeyrac can believe him: even in the midst of a street battle, surrounded by the wounded and faced by the gunfire of a street full of royal guards, Enjolras had appeared so untouchable as to be almost inhuman. Courfeyrac would be surprised if Enjolras were anything more than bruised even after two days of violence. Probably not a spot of the blood covering his clothes and his exposed skin is actually his own.
Courfeyrac says, “You ought to rest, my friend, and not worry about me – the feeling in my arm is coming back, and everything else is merely scrapes and bruises. I am tired more than anything else, and worried for the others, and in mourning for my suit."
He had finally given up on the suit outside the Hotel de Ville, in the Rue de la Poterie, when an overeager artilleryman had opened fire on the crowd swarming down the street. The man in front of him had been shot in the stomach three times and fallen backwards; Courfeyrac had caught him and knelt down, and the man had died quite silently, bleeding out right there in Courfeyrac’s lap. He had held onto Courfeyrac’s sleeve very tightly. It seems easier, for now, to say it is the suit he mourns.
“Very well,” says Combeferre, “very well. I will rest, as should the two of you. I am sure the others will have found shelter as we did.”
Enjolras brings them blankets from his bedroom and tells them he will stay awake, waiting for news. Courfeyrac cannot protest this – he has not slept in two days, and his mind and body are both beginning to feel the effects of it – so instead he simply presses himself into Combeferre’s side, burying his face in Combeferre’s shoulder when Combeferre curls an arm around his waist.
When he wakes the dark sky outside the windows is shot through with pink-tinted grey, heralding dawn, and his various injuries feel as though they have combined to turn his entire body into one large ache.
It is swelteringly hot, as it has been for the past week, and he is pushing the blanket off his chest when a hand touches his own. Combeferre is awake, too, though unmoving where he leans against the wall. Now the light is slightly better, Courfeyrac can see him properly for the first time in days – even setting aside the bandages on his thigh (which, thankfully, appears to have stopped bleeding) it makes Courfeyrac wince to look at him. Combeferre has bruises around both his eyes and across his jawline, a cut scabbing over on the bridge of his nose; his fingertips are stained black by gunpowder, his hands and arms covered in grazes and cuts, and those are only the injuries not covered by his clothes.
The knowledge that the three of them have survived comparatively unscathed – and with it, the memories of citizens with limbs shot off by cannon, the noises of bones crushed by thrown bricks – makes Courfeyrac shiver.
Combeferre holds Courfeyrac’s hand, burnt fingertips covering bruised knuckles, and nods towards the window where Enjolras leans against the ledge, looking out. He has changed his shirt, but with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows Courfeyrac can see that there is still old blood smeared across his forearms and black ash staining his hands. The cut on his lower lip has stopped bleeding; the bruises on his cheekbones simply sharpen the angles of his face; dried blood sticks together the golden curls that hang loose over his forehead. He stands still enough that he might have been carved out of marble.
When Courfeyrac looks away, he is just in time to see Combeferre’s expression as he looks at Enjolras. It is painfully open and revealing, quite at odds with Combeferre’s usual restraint, and Courfeyrac would feel almost intrusive for seeing it were he not certain that the same look had crossed his own face just a moment earlier.
Courfeyrac rests his hand at the top of Combeferre’s thigh, and Combeferre turns to meet his eyes; and they are both eloquent, educated men, but Courfeyrac thinks the look that passes between them is more telling than any sentences could have been.
“You are awake,” says Enjolras, turning around.
Courfeyrac smiles and means it; Enjolras says, “Joly came by while you slept – he and Bossuet are staying with Joly’s mistress, out of the way of the fighting. He said Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel are sheltering in the basement of the Corinthe, with Grantaire; Jehan has sprained his ankle, but they have set it, and the others are no more badly injured than the three of us are.”
“Thank God,” says Courfeyrac, and next to him Combeferre presses his hand reassuringly, “– and the fighting has progressed?”
“I do not know,” Enjolras says, frowning, “the others left the Louvre when we did, and have heard nothing since.”
It is perhaps a half hour later, when they have changed the bandages on Combeferre’s leg and cleaned the blood out of Enjolras’ skin and hair as the sun gradually illuminates the room and the street outside, that there is a knock on the door. Enjolras opens it to reveal a young man the three of them know vaguely from the more open discussion sessions in the Musain’s backroom – “I have a message for you from M. Bahorel,” he says, and hands Enjolras an envelope before tipping his hat and departing.
The envelope contains a letter, hastily scrawled in a large, messy hand. Enjolras reads it aloud: “Louvre was taken as we left, Swiss Guards fled. Tuileries taken an hour later. Received word Hotel de Ville was taken just after sunset, provisional government set up before dawn. Fighting continues in various streets, though very diluted as military has for all intents and purposes given up – on my way to Place Vendôme now, hoping they will have left a guardsman or two for me. Feuilly suggests meeting at Musain this evening if possible. Long live the revolution! Yours, etc.”
Enjolras folds the letter and places it on his desk, and the look on his face is akin to the one he assumes when addressing a crowd of his followers: almost transcendental, and – now – triumphant.
“It seems we have lived through a second French Revolution, my friends,” says Courfeyrac, his tiredness suddenly vanished, each ache in his body feeling at once as though it were a medal for valour.
“Louis Capet was not killed in ’89,” Combeferre murmurs, at his side; “let us see what the politicians bring us in place of Charles, before we celebrate the beginning of a new regime.”
--
It is late December, a week after the popular demonstrations asking for an assembly to represent the faubourgs had turned violent, and a deathly cold spell has gripped the city. Courfeyrac has had a fire burning in both his rooms for the past three days, has barely left the building save to pick up food from the café across the street (it is too cold to dress fashionably, and the last time he went out the pomade in his hair froze his curls solid), and he is still not warm.
Combeferre had arrived late in the morning, complaining that his hotel was out of firewood and thus freezing cold, and Courfeyrac had pulled him to bed at once to make extensive use of his very convenient body heat. They are still there when Enjolras comes in through the front door (the three of them have had keys to each other’s quarters for years now) early in the evening.
“We are in here,” Courfeyrac calls, sitting up in bed so that the blankets drape themselves artfully over his bare hips, “close the door, you’ll let the chill in – and try to shake the snow off your hat into the basin, rather than on the floor.”
When Enjolras enters the room, holding a snow-covered hat and coat in one hand, Courfeyrac stares: Enjolras’ already pale skin now appears almost blue, and his clenched fists look stiff and nearly frozen.
“Good Lord,” says Combeferre, sitting up too (unlike Courfeyrac, he has elected to put a shirt on), “you look half-frozen, where on earth have you been?”
“To the Rue Varennes,” says Enjolras, and the deliberation in his voice suggests that his teeth would be chattering if he deigned to allow them to. “A Polytechnicien acquaintance of mine informed me he could not hold onto his saltpetre reserves for another day without arousing suspicion, so I picked them up from him.”
“You’re quite mad,” Courfeyrac says, “all the saltpetre in the world will be unnecessary if the leader of our society has lost his fingers to frostbite and cannot hold a gun; come here, we must get you warm.”
Enjolras moves towards the bed, and Courfeyrac raises a hand: “Not in those clothes, you will stay cold and simply freeze the two of us as well – take them off!”
He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre looking at him. It is certainly not as though Enjolras has never seen the two of them in bed together before, not as though the three of them have never shared a bed before (though usually wearing rather more than they are now). Courfeyrac is relatively sure he knows what the look on Combeferre’s face means; it is Combeferre asking him are you sure you know what you’re doing?
Enjolras strips down to his shirt alone, quite dispassionately except for the way he is shivering slightly, and when he has done so he climbs past Combeferre to pull the blanket around him. At once Courfeyrac presses close to his side, regardless of his nudity, gasping at the chill of Enjolras’ skin and shirtsleeves; he wraps an arm around Enjolras’ waist, rubs his side, and across the bed Combeferre does the same.
“I am not sure this is entirely necessary,” Enjolras says, though he shows no signs of planning to leave, “or indeed entirely helpful.”
“It is helpful if it keeps you in good health, and contracting a cold from overexposure to inclement weather most certainly would not,” says Combeferre, and his hand pauses for a moment before he strokes Enjolras’ damp hair out of his face.
Courfeyrac’s hand brushes Enjolras’, and it is still freezing; he wraps his hands around Enjolras’ fingers, pulls his hand out from under the sheets to cup it between his own and breathe warmth onto it.
Enjolras leans back against the headboard of the bed, squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand briefly, and says, “I suggest that we transport the materials we’ve gathered to a safehouse and begin manufacture of gunpowder as soon as the weather clears up enough; there may be very little time to spare for such a lengthy process in a year’s time.”
Pausing from trying to warm up Enjolras’ hand, Courfeyrac says, “We have a great deal stockpiled from last year, as well as the guns we possess already – we will manufacture more, certainly, but I am not sure it is as essential as, for example, obtaining more musket balls.”
“I have my Polytechnicien working on that; I shall inform you of any messages from him.”
“There is an arms depot near the Hotel St. Aignan, is there not?” Combeferre says, rubbing his hand in slow circles on Enjolras’ back.
“And another on the other side of the river, close to the Place St. Sulpice,” Enjolras agrees, his eyes half-closed, “both in areas where revolt has broken out in recent history.”
“A fact worth remembering, though not worth placing too much faith in – they have had the depots protected by the gendarmes, before,” Courfeyrac murmurs. Enjolras’ fingers are not much warmer in his own than they were several minutes ago; very slowly, and quite prepared to pull away at once, Courfeyrac presses his lips to the back of Enjolras’ hand.
Enjolras simply touches his knuckles gently to Courfeyrac’s mouth, and says, “I doubt their gendarmes could stand up to a hundred-strong mob, if our barricades cut off access to reinforcements.”
Courfeyrac is well aware of Combeferre’s eyes on him as he presses his mouth against each of Enjolras’ knuckles in turn, then turns Enjolras’ hand over to kiss his fingertips, one after the other.
“The spontaneity of these revolts is both a curse and a blessing, in matter such as this,” says Combeferre; he has linked his fingers between Enjolras’ own, and is rubbing his thumb into the indents between Enjolras’ shoulderblades.
Courfeyrac’s kisses on Enjolras’ fingers have become open-mouthed ones. That, at least, could be excused as habit born from long practice; when he pulls Enjolras’ hand closer and sucks gently on the tips of two of his fingers, it is entirely deliberate.
Enjolras opens his eyes, looks at Courfeyrac, and says, “You are very dedicated to getting me warm.”
“It is something like that,” says Courfeyrac quietly, and then: “Would you like me to stop?”
Enjolras rests his fingertips against Courfeyrac’s lips and says, “I am not warm just yet.”
There is a long moment where Courfeyrac attempts to assess the situation, and is sure he is probably in the middle of a blissful dream; he meets Combeferre’s eyes, and – instead of frowning or sitting backward or raising his eyebrows – Combeferre simply ducks his head to kiss Enjolras’ shoulder where the collar of his shirt has fallen open.
Perhaps, Courfeyrac thinks, he has frozen to death and gone to Heaven.
If he thinks about it too much he will break the moment, or simply overwhelm himself, so instead he closes his eyes and returns his attention to Enjolras’ fingers, running his hand down Enjolras’ side to rest at his waist. He kisses the chill out of Enjolras’ skin, finger by finger and then over his palm, and on the other side of the bed Combeferre holds Enjolras’ hand tightly in his own, pressing kiss after kiss along Enjolras’ shoulder and the base of his neck.
When Enjolras speaks his voice is very slightly breathless, and that affects Courfeyrac more than it ought to: “You will overheat me at this rate – you are paying me attention that I believe might be better spent elsewhere.”
Courfeyrac rests his chin on Enjolras’ shoulder, rubbing circles on his hipbone: “Elsewhere is quite the opposite of where we would like to be,” he says, “— perhaps you have not noticed, but if I may understate terribly: we are both rather fond of you.”
Combeferre, having been silent for a while, raises his hand to stroke Enjolras’ face, and when Enjolras turns to look at him, he says slowly: “If not for you, I would not have spent last night writing letters to half the craftsmen in Les Halles requesting their support, I would not be stockpiling weaponry in my apartment nor writing pamphlets in my head every time I close my eyes; probably I would be in the wards at Necker, exhausted and apathetic, turning the poor away from the gates and the medicine they cannot afford. I am better, like this, better with the purpose you kindled in me. I would die for you, I am sure, without fear or hesitation.”
“As would I,” Courfeyrac says immediately, “in an instant.”
“Do not die for me,” says Enjolras, lifting his hands to brush his thumbs across each of their jawlines, “Die for what I believe in – what we all believe in. Die for the future, for the liberation of France; die for our cause. I intend to. But do not die for me.”
At this, Combeferre shifts onto his knees, cups Enjolras’ chin gently in his hand, and kisses Enjolras on the mouth.
“But, my friend,” he murmurs against Enjolras’ lips when he pulls away, “they are one and the same.”
Enjolras runs his tongue across his lips and closes his eyes, and though his smile is very small it is like the sun coming out. This time it is Enjolras who leans forward to press his mouth against Combeferre’s, and Combeferre rests his hand against Enjolras’ chest as he kisses back.
“Ah!” Courfeyrac cries as the two of them break apart, “Two kisses and neither of them for me! I shall have one from each of you, then, in the interests of egalité.”
Under the blankets, he rests a hand at the top of Enjolras’ thigh, then turns to grasp Combeferre’s shirt collar in his fist and pull him close, meeting Combeferre’s open mouth with his own. Combeferre slips his spare hand around the back of Courfeyrac’s head, pulling gently at the curls there so Courfeyrac hums happily; when they break apart the two of them look to Enjolras at once, almost apprehensively, but the small smile on his face has not faded – instead, it is combined with an intensity of expression that nearly makes Courfeyrac shiver.
“Please do tell me if you do not want this,” he says, and rather than reply Enjolras simply lifts his chin, his lips very slightly parted. Courfeyrac doubts he will meet anyone more beautiful in the whole of his life; certainly he does not ever want to. He kisses Enjolras as though he is making a promise.
Combeferre has moved to push Enjolras’ hair out of the way and kiss his throat, his fingers spread out where they press against Enjolras’ shoulder. After Courfeyrac has broken the kiss and smiled, wide and delighted, he takes his cue from Combeferre to do the same, biting gently at the point where Enjolras’ jawbone meets his neck. When he strokes Enjolras’ thigh absently under the blankets he allows himself, for the first time, to think of moving his hand a few inches upward.
“It is a curious sensation,” Enjolras says, as Combeferre presses an open-mouthed kiss to the end of his collarbone, “though one I will not deny enjoying – but still we misuse our time when there is work to be done.”
“We do not,” says Courfeyrac vehemently, running his hand down Enjolras’ shirtfront, “Do you wish to debate this with me? I think you will find my arguments quite persuasive, though the mediators must allow me some consideration – the opposition is being somewhat distracting, you see.”
“Distracting you was not my intention,” Enjolras says.
“I find I am entirely focused, myself,” says Combeferre mildly, running his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, pressing his lips to the back of Enjolras’ neck.
Courfeyrac will not be quietened. As he undoes the fastenings of Enjolras’ shirt, he says: “In the first place, we are looking after your wellbeing – we are keeping you warm and we are making you feel good, and what use is an insurrection whose leader is unwell and unhappy? You must be at your best, and as your lieutenants it is our duty to ensure that you are so.”
He pushes the collar of Enjolras’ shirt undone, strokes across his chest as he continues; “And in addition, what we demonstrate here is love – all our actions now are born out of love, that most admirable human trait, that which we all strive towards; liberty, equality, and fraternity are each the children of love.”
“To love you is to love our cause,” Combeferre adds, still stroking Enjolras’ hair, “for you embody it. Is every man not deserving of love, as he is deserving of freedom and equality?”
“I believe we discussed this once before, did we not –” Courfeyrac says, running his hand up Enjolras’ thigh to rub his thumb in the indent formed by Enjolras’ hipbone; “the future belongs to love, and we are building the future. It is a revolution we are creating, too, here in this bed.”
This last he whispers in Enjolras’ ear, brushing his lips against the skin as he feels Enjolras’ hips shift under his hand. There is a moment of quiet filled only with soft breathing and the rustling of fabric. Enjolras says, “Let us revolt, then.”
“Ah,” says Courfeyrac with a grin, “so I have won you over,” and he kisses Enjolras harder than he has before, sitting up until he is almost in Enjolras’ lap, to run his tongue over Enjolras’ lower lip and pull at it gently with his teeth when Enjolras kisses back.
When he runs his hand along Enjolras’ hipbone to press between his legs, Combeferre’s hand moves with him. The knowledge that it is the two of them who make Enjolras gasp aloud, lifting his hips towards their fingers, is more affecting than Courfeyrac would care to admit.
He turns his head to kiss Combeferre, brushing his thumbs across Enjolras’ chest as he does so, and Combeferre bites his lip so that he shivers delightedly. Then he turns back to Enjolras, who is open-mouthed and leaning forward towards the two of them, and puts his lips to the pale skin he has exposed by pulling open Enjolras’ shirt even as Combeferre kisses Enjolras’ mouth. Years pass in their kissing, probably. Courfeyrac sits back with a mind to watching Combeferre and Enjolras, running his hand along Enjolras’ thigh before returning to take him in hand once more.
He thinks that the sight of Enjolras thus – breathless, his hand curled around Combeferre’s waist, pushing his hips upward into Courfeyrac’s hand – is one he will remember should he live to be a hundred.
Outside, the snowstorm rattles the window-pane. Courfeyrac is dizzy, half-drunk on kisses; he sprawls back across the bed, pulling Combeferre down with him, then curls his fingers around Enjolras’ hips and replaces his hand with his mouth. The involuntary noise Enjolras makes at that is quite exquisite, and Courfeyrac glances upward to meet his eyes for a moment, resolved to draw as many such noises out of Enjolras tonight as his rather extensive ability will allow. At his side, Combeferre cards his nails gently up Courfeyrac’s thighs.
It does not take long, after that, for Enjolras’ breath to come fast and unsteady and his hips to shudder toward Courfeyrac’s mouth and his hands to tighten involuntarily in Courfeyrac’s hair.
When Courfeyrac sits up, wiping his mouth, Enjolras reaches out a hand to stroke Courfeyrac’s neck and gives him the sort of heavy-eyed, satisfied look that says I’m afraid speech escapes me for the moment, which is all the compliment Courfeyrac could have wanted.
A moment later Combeferre, sitting at his side, pulls Courfeyrac closer to bite at his shoulder and then his mouth, pulling Courfeyrac’s hand between his legs even as he curls his own fingers into a fist in Courfeyrac’s lap. They kiss until they are spent and panting and exhausted in each other’s arms, and then they collapse backward to lie sprawled on the sheets next to Enjolras.
With Combeferre on one side of him, Enjolras on the other, and himself in the centre with his arms around their waists, Courfeyrac thinks perhaps he is happier than he has ever been.
He tells them so, between kisses: “I have resolved never to leave this bed while the two of you are in it. We can hold meetings here, or have the mattress moved to the Musain’s backroom, either way, but I will not get up, nor will I get dressed, so you had better stay put with me.”
“The decade will pass us by entirely,” says Combeferre, “we must get up at some point. We have objectives to achieve.”
“Marat fought for the Republic from his bathtub,” Courfeyrac says, mock-indignant, “I can do so from my bed.”
“He does not ever stop talking, you know,” says Combeferre to Enjolras, though his voice is amused, “no matter how diligently one attempts to tire him out.”
“You would not wish me to,” Courfeyrac replies, exceedingly pleased with himself, and his satisfaction is only heightened when Enjolras presses close to kiss the smirk off his mouth.
--
The church bells, rung as warnings and calls to arms throughout each quartier and faubourg in the city, have ceased their tolling and hung quiet since sunset.
Dawn finds the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie as close to silent as it is possible to get in Paris, then; the bustle of opening doors and chattering workmen particular to an ordinary sunrise is absent, replaced instead by whispered conversation among the insurgents, the rhythmic tapping of a foot on the cobblestones, the rasp of a sword being sharpened on stone. The courtyard formed by the barricades on either side of the wine-shop smells of gunpowder and blood and damp dirt after rain.
Enjolras’ announcement – that a third of the army of Paris was soon to bear down on them, that the populace huddled in its homes with no intent to stir for their cause – had both cast a shroud over the barricade and raised it to new heights born of hopelessness and conviction.
The knowledge that death is impending seems to lend the men crouched on torn-out paving stones and up-ended cart wheels a sense almost of invulnerability, as well as a resolve summarised aloud by Joly: “If I am to die with the bullet of a guardsman in my neck, I intend at least to do so with my bayonet in his stomach.”
Courfeyrac is sitting at the base of the barricade where it meets the Rue du Cygne, with Combeferre at his side and Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet ranged around them. From there they can see Marius, crouched silent and melancholy near the other side of the barricade, and Enjolras, who is standing perfectly still outside the front entrance of the wine-shop.
Leaning back where he sits, Courfeyrac places a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and whispers in his ear, “He is not quite ours any more, my friend, is he?”
“I am not sure he ever was,” Combeferre murmurs, “but in fact – you are wrong, I think. We are all of us confined to this rat-trap until the end. Enjolras has promised himself to the future, to the efforts and triumph of those who rise after we are fallen – but he has pledged his death to us, as we have pledged ours to him. He is ours as we are his.”
“Inseparable,” Courfeyrac agrees with a nod, “and inseparable from the insurrection, also.”
Combeferre grips Courfeyrac’s shoulder with a small smile, and stands to talk to Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly; Courfeyrac, unable to sit still, picks up the unloaded flintlocks lying at his side and walks through the doorway of the wine-shop to where the last reserves of their dry ammunition is kept.
He sits on the floor and busies himself with loading flint into the cock of the gun he holds, the metal of the pistol in his hand and the unconscious ritual of the task anchoring him. Without glancing up at the doorway – Enjolras will surely hear him – he asks, “How long do we have?”
After a moment, in which Courfeyrac wraps bullets in patches and loads black powder into the muzzles of the guns, Enjolras says: “Ten minutes before they reach us, perhaps. No more than that.”
“Ah, a veritable lifetime,” says Courfeyrac, and as he pushes the ball and powder down the muzzle of the pistol he holds, gripping the ramrod perhaps tighter than necessary, he looks up at Enjolras.
Once, passing the church on a whim, Courfeyrac had allowed himself a short diversion into Saint-Chapelle, and spent a moment looking at a quatrefoil decorated with a scene of the death of Saint Cecilia. Though the painted woman’s neck was bloody and she was wreathed in boiling steam, her pose was quite tranquil (straight-backed, with three fingers extended to mark the trinity) and the expression on her face, with its eyes raised toward a Heaven growing nearer every moment, bordered on the ecstatic.
There is something of the saint, of the martyred priest, about Enjolras now. He, too, looks as though he is regarding some glittering future that Courfeyrac cannot quite see; but instead of raising his eyes to the bright June sky he casts them forward, toward the barricade.
Courfeyrac is shaking a little primer into the flash-pan of the gun in his hand when Combeferre joins them. He says, “The men are prepared; only say the word and they will take their positions,” and as he does so a low rumble in the distance begins to grow rapidly louder. Courfeyrac springs to his feet to see the puddle of rainwater in the dirt outside the doorway trembling from the vibrations in the ground.
The men sitting on the barricade stir and stand up, reaching for weapons and peering through gaps in the piled paving stones and furniture. A cloud that has been hanging above them drifts aside, illuminating the barricade and the street corner in glorious sunlight. The rumble resolves itself, as it grows nearer, into the tramp of booted feet.
“They are upon us, it seems,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre grips his hand tightly enough to hurt.
Courfeyrac smiles as he steps between Combeferre and Enjolras to press a gun each into each of their hands; “Then, my friends, let us build our revolution.”
--