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Courfeyrac slept long, and without moving much. It felt so good to be clean, and lying flat, after so many hours at the whim of adrenaline, and rain, and only stones to rest on. But here he is with a friend, and there was food and clean clothes, and then water that ran hot out of taps....truly, a remarkable thing. He was thinking about it when he lay down, and then he was gone.
Now, it is morning. He wakes slowly, disconcerted. The energy from the night before, finding himself dead and yet strangely alive - it is gone. He lies still, trying to collect his thoughts. But they do not move much further than Enjolras, and Bossuet, and Gavroche.
And everyone else, who is not here. Them too.
Now, it is morning. He wakes slowly, disconcerted. The energy from the night before, finding himself dead and yet strangely alive - it is gone. He lies still, trying to collect his thoughts. But they do not move much further than Enjolras, and Bossuet, and Gavroche.
And everyone else, who is not here. Them too.
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He does not sound eager for the answer to be 'yes', but not shy of it either. They knew what they were doing when they filled them. And he would surprised if Enjolras had not used every weapon they had put by, no matter how awful.
His own attempt at a smile is in the same vein as Enjolras'.
'I am sure Mother Hucheloup knew full well what to expect when the barricade went up. Which I suppose will not offer much in the way of recompense. Perhaps the sight of our bodies will remind her that it is sacrificed in the name of higher cause.'
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Strong nitric acid in wine-bottles, flung down into the faces of the soldiers. Awful to contemplate, awful to use, awful to see.
People in extremity will use horrors. They knew what they were doing when they took those bottles from Pepin's friends who had brought them, and put them aside for the last, worst need.
At Courfeyrac's words, he inclines his head slightly, not so much in assent (which seems to him unnecessary) as in reverence for the higher cause they share. Still sacred, and always.
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He nods, and looks down. He is not sorry to hear it, but also not sorry he did not see it. He would have thrown them himself, but not laughed about it afterwards.
'I do not know whether to feel sorry about it, or not,' he says, eventually.
'No, I should not say that. I am sorry you had to do it, but there would have been no point taking them if we had no intention of using them.'
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That word again, necessity. It justifies much, and absolves nothing.
Courfeyrac knows his thoughts on that.
"Our deaths will be remembered. We made certain of it."
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He seems quite indignant - not with Enjolras in particular - that there could be any doubt.
'If we were to die and not advance the cause at all I would be rather upset, I should think. Though I suppose we'll never know.'
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But there's joy in that tale too. He never lost the hope, never lost sight of the goal, but with Courfeyrac and Bossuet here, it's easier to find that joy too. When he looks back at Courfeyrac, and smiles a little, it's entirely real.
"There are those here who come from other centuries as well. And there are books in a vast library."
"It's a slower course than we dreamed, and a more painful. The betrayal of '30 wasn't the first. But France will establish a republic, a true one, which will hold and last. And not only France. Germany, Russia, Italy, Poland -- most of Europe, by the twentieth century."
"The cause was advanced. We laid our bricks in that road."
For that, any sacrifice was worth it. All they did, all the loss. However long the road might have been.
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He repeats the words with a kind of quiet awe. He looks at the flag, and touches the edge of it once more. And then a smile spreads over his face.
'Then any deed, any death, was worth it. For they would all count - all these revolts, all these setbacks - they would all come together until the people shouted 'enough!' and made the final leap.'
His resolve has never wavered. But the uncertainty over the possible outcome of Bossuet's influence ceases to matter. Live or die, they have laid the bricks, fired with their own lives.
'Whatever happens with Bossuet, I am not concerned. There are clearly others who continue the fight. Perhaps we died so they might succeed. It is enough.'
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Courfeyrac has always known his heart; in this, they agree utterly. But even without that, his face would say it all.
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After a moment, perhaps he leans on his shoulder a little. Knowing the eventual outcome is good. In the here and now, sitting with a friend is better.
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This is all he needs, all he's wanted: a friend beside him, shoulder to shoulder, in fraternity and in the certainty of hearts in deep accord.
He clasps Courfeyrac's hand in his. Courfeyrac is a warm weight against his shoulder, an easy support for his own weight leaning in turn. Impatient and ever-burning though Enjolras's heart is, in this moment, he's content.