For once, the reason for the boisterous meeting at the back room of the Café Musain was not political, neither did the song that caused the worn out Louison to wince contain the words Patrie or Liberté. Instead:
"Si-i-i-i-lent ni-i-i-i-ght… Ho-o-o-o-ly ni-i-i-i-i-ght!"
"Grantaire, Grantaire, please! My ears!"
"Don't depress art, Bossuet," Grantaire exclaimed. "Oppress, I mean. Or suppress…"
"We know what you mean, Grantaire," Courfeyrac laughed. His top hat, perching on his painfully curled head at a rakish angle, was shiny enough to reflect the candle-bearing skulls placed at random corners of the room.
"Anyway, it is my ears that you depress, oppress and suppress," Prouvaire added, throwing up his hands in complaint. "I've never heard anything more out of tune."
"Moreover, Grantaire," another voice said, quiet and musical, causing the former to flinch and lose at least half of his drunkenness all at once, "we would rather this night was a little more silent than you make it."
Enjolras was standing at the doorway, with Combeferre at his side. Instead of the usual monochrome, his waistcoat was what Feuilly would describe as a deep sea blue with a matching cravat.
Grantaire looked put down. "I'll sing something else," he muttered. "You only have to ask. Do you want La Marseillaise? I've got it off by heart, every word, you know. Or maybe - "
"Today is the only day you could sing it and get arrested only for your drunkeness," Combeferre said, following Enjolras in. "Speaking of which, you ought to rein yourself in a little. It's only 8 o'clock and you've already - "
"Run through half of the supplies," Courfeyrac laughed. "We've had to send Joly for more."
"And here I am!" Joly called out, stumbling backwards through the door. Bahorel appeared next, supporting one end of a wooden box filled with wine bottles. "Bossuet, you ought to have helped us. There's an equivalent of thirty guns in weight here."
"My friend," Bossuet laughed, "you know that I am the unluckiest man in France. I would have broken every single bottle and cut myself with the shards."
"That may not have been so unlucky," said Enjolras, now sitting down in an armchair close to the fireplace. "There's enough wine there for the entire Faubourg Saint-Antoine."
"Particularly if you give them the disgraceful amount of money this must have cost," Feuilly exclaimed, emerging from behind Prouvaire. "There are people that could make a feast with the price of one bottle! This is just like - "
"Feuilly, I've passed by a little beggar girl on my way here," Courfeyrac struck in, seeing Enjolras's eyes light up with dangerous, party-spoiling enthusiasm. "I don't know if she was Polish or not, but I did in fact give her the price of one bottle."
"So she will make herself a feast if she wants," Joly summed up. "Messieurs, we are now all here. Therefore, chairs, everyone, and let the festivities begin!"
"You know," Courfeyrac called out to Enjolras over the scraping of furniture being moved closer to the fireplace, "that really is a dashing cravat. So dashing, in fact, that I'm surprised to see it on you."
"My tailor picked it out," Enjolras said nonchalantly.
"He has excellent taste," Prouvaire said. "It fits your eyes perfectly."
"Beg to differ," Grantaire mumbled, struggling against Combeferre who was firmly blocking the path to a chair nearest to Enjolras. "The fellow's blind. His eyes are lighter and brighter. That colour's only good to paint dead bodies. Any grisette would know better."
Prouvaire's delicate cheeks reddened. "What do you know about dead bodies? I assure you - "
"Speaking of that," Courfeyrac hurried to interrupt, slipping into the defended chair, "I met the prettiest little thing the other day. Exquisite, I tell you."
"And did you add her to your collection?" Bahorel smirked.
"I'm in the process of cataloguing," Courfeyrac replied, winking suggestively amidst general laughter. "But before I tell you more, I propose a toast. Louison, glasses, please! Yes, Enjolras, even you."
"Only if you toast the Republic."
"You could interpret it that way if you want," Courfeyrac laughed. "The toast is this - to the charming ladies in our lives!"
"In our leader's case," Bossuet said, "there is only one cruel dame that lays a claim to his heart - the unsurpassable Patria."
"Do not speak the name idly, Bossuet," Enjolras retorted. "She deserves infinitely more respect than that."
Still, he raised the glass to his lips and the others followed suit with a cheer, Grantaire's naturally the loudest.
"Now, messieurs," Courfeyrac resumed after downing his glass, "I know you are all dying to hear about my latest addition - "
"I thought you were still cataloguing," Joly exclaimed, flushed and reaching to refill his glass.
"Sure, but I've already entered most of the details, you know. However!" Courfeyrac waved his glass to regain silence. "I propose we all tell a little tale of our amours, recent or distant, successful or dismal failures, starting of course with the first among us."
He turned to Enjolras, whose eyes glinted with surprise, darkened by the sip of wine he had drunk.
"You'd be disappointed," he said, "for I have nothing to tell."
"Surely," Courfeyrac cried out, "surely! I cannot believe it. There must be a little something even in your shiningly pure past. One tiny aventure? Passion? Interest?"
"None."
"I refuse to believe that you have never even kissed anyone," Courfeyrac exclaimed, disappointed.
"Well, I did not say that."
Whispers, exclamations and laughter scurried around the circle of chairs. Only Combeferre did not appear surprised.
"So!" Courfeyrac shook his glass triumphantly. "Who was the lucky recipient?"
Enjolras's face sombered a few degrees, provoking a concerned, barely perceptible raised eyebrow from Combeferre. Enjolras gave a tiny smile in response.
"A young lady who at that time was to be my bride."
Joly choked on his drink, Bossuet patted his back and caught his own glass with his elbow, causing it to fly onto the floor and shatter.
"D-don't touch that, my friend," Joly croaked out between coughs, "glass in your bloodstream is horrible. It will rush straight to your heart and pierce it."
"Actually," Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses, "the natural healing process is aimed at getting small intrusive objects out of the body, not into the main arteries."
Meanwhile Prouvaire clasped his hands together and gazed at Enjolras with delight.
"That is so romantic," he cooed, "and so tragic. I always was convinced that you too have tasted the fruits of love. Tell me everything, mon ami, and perhaps it isn't too late to bring the damsel back."
Courfeyrac was somewhat embarrased to have brought up a delicate subject. "My father did mention that your folks wanted to marry you off to some daughter of a lifelong friend of theirs. But I thought it was just a rumour."
"It was a long time ago," Enjolras said in a decisive tone. "There is no need to bring anyone back. In fact," - and Combeferre was glad to see a smile playing on his lips - "I think it is above all the lady that benefited from the affair being called off."
OOO
"Well, Michel? I think that I have made my wishes plain."
"You have, mon père."
"Then what is the issue? I do not understand it. The girl is absolutely enamoured with you and she is a rare beauty. In fact," his father said, his eyes moistening imperceptibly, "the only woman more beautiful than Isabelle that I ever knew was your poor mother."
"Yes, mon père." They were in his father's office and right above the mantlepiece there was a portrait to illustrate the truth of his words.
"Moreover, you know very well that it was your mother's dying wish to have our two families unite."
"I know that," Enjolras said dryly. Not one to mince his words, he decided to speak to the point. "Father, you yourself would not want me to marry someone I do not love."
The argument was a strong one with Monsieur Enjolras Sr. The man looked down at his papers, not seeing any of them, then up again at his son, so similar to himself in all but the most delicate features and the resolute expression that was currently displayed on his face.
"There is no one you will grow to love so quickly as Isabelle,' he said at last. "Of course, you don't have to, and won't, marry straight away. Law school first, naturally, then the licence - "
"Why are we discussing this now, then?"
"Isn't it best to have these things sorted out in advance, before you go off to Paris? And then, three years is nothing for a young man, but for a girl that is a precisely the period in which to find a husband."
"Mon père, I don't want to get married at all," Enjolras interrupted.
"At all?" The words made his father drop his pen. "But Michel, think! You are the last descendant of both our families. Your poor sister died childless, you know that. Will you leave no earthly reminder of your mother? Will you deprive me of grandchildren?"
Enjolras bowed his head, saying nothing.
That was the only verbal dispute he had ever lost. Even at seventeen his powers of rhetoric were sure to carry him off victorious, whatever topic was being discussed. Any topic but this one. Women, romance, marriage, these concepts Enjolras never thought about, had no words to express his opinion of them, had no opinion at all.
That made his task both impossibly hard and impossibly easy when he found himself face to face with Isabelle, alone, in a perfect position to examine her famed golden curls, pale blue eyes and pouting lips. Was she supposed to be beautiful? Enjolras rather thought she looked like an overgrown doll.
"That opera was divine, wasn't it?" she was saying in a delicate, breathy voice. "Carlotta's voice, simply heavenly. And have you seen Madame Dujardin's new baby? Such a little angel. It is so pleasant to care for babies, isn't it?"
What kind of life would they have together? What of Robespierre? What of France? Will she ever ask him what he thought of the newest appointments in the King's governement? Will she listen to him talking about Rousseau? Did she know who Rousseau was? And will she afford a single glance to the beggars thronging around her carriage? Would she know the latest price of bread? Would she care? Will she throw a sou to the little ragged girl on the corner, curl her lip in disdainful pity and lift her skirts an inch to avoid the mud?
To stop the torrent of increasingly painful images, Enjolras decided to do what needed to be done.
"Will you marry me?"
A little abrupt, judging by the shocked expression in the girl's pale eyes, but Enjolras was and would forever remain oblivious to the fact that "Such a charming poodle!" is not usually followed by a remark of that nature. It was hardly a grievous fault, however, seeing as immediately shock turned into delight.
"I…"
The eyelashes fluttered in a carefully practiced motion, the lips gathered into a pout.
"I will."
Enjolras was the most honourable of men. If the answer had been no, he would have used all his powers of persuasion to change it to a yes. Once decided, and before Combeferre to soften his determination a little, he would die or achieve that which he has agreed to do.
However, he was also one of the most innocent of men. It took a pointed flash from Isabelle's eyes to make realise that the pout signalled an expectation of a forthcoming kiss.
If one calls himself a Republican, one must read Rousseau. If one fights at barricades, one must kill the enemy. If one is proposing marriage, therefore, one must kiss the bride.
Not daring to close his eyes in case he missed the target, Enjolras inclined his head and kissed her.
He did not regret it. He never regretted anything. He only wished the circumstances had never pushed him to do it.
He never regretted anything except that one decision. Talented as he was, Enjolras would have made a terrible actor. He never said anything except that which he believed in. Otherwise he remained silent.
Silent, as he was on his first Christmas holiday back in Aix, fresh from Paris with its tall buildings, mountains of revolutionary books, enough starving little girls to people a village.
Isabelle took a bite off a brioche, then leaned to his ear.
"Michel," she whispered, caressing a blond lock, tugging it rather painfully. "Do you love me?"
Enjolras remained silent. Instead the words of another brioche-loving woman echoed in his ears.
"They don't have bread? Let them eat cakes!"
By the time that his father came to visit him in Paris at the end of the summer term, Enjolras had decided on everything.
"I cannot do it, father. Forgive me."
And it was worth it, in the end, even though the words "Never be seen in my house again!" were spoken. It was worth it, because Enjolras had learnt an important lesson. Never to do anything that he didn't believe was right.
Moreover, it was a week afterwards that he had met Combeferre.
OOO
"Well," Courfeyrac laughed, "not all girls like their husbands to take them to revolutionary meetings instead of the theatre."
"Damned woman doesn't know what's good for her," Grantaire mumbled. Enjolras overheard the remark, took it the wrong way and threw him a surprised smile that made Grantaire redden with pleasure.
"So," Bahorel said, "who's next?"
"Clockwise, it's Courfeyrac," Joly said. "Come, mon ami, we're all dying to hear about your cataloguing!"
"Now, now," Courfeyrac answered with a sly smile, "before we start on this ravishing tale we must have another round of drinks, for I shall surely require a toast for this beautiful maiden before the end of it."