Joachim Bahorel (b. 1799, d. 1861)
Bahorel was never meant to grow old – he was meant to be young until he wasn't, to fight until he didn't, a large grin on his face and blood on his nose, defiant until the end. But maybe being defiant meant defying these ideas of him: oh, Bahorel never settled down, and he fought with vigour and bruised fists every day of his life. He dropped out of sight for a few months, and even years at a time. But he would always come back with countless marks over his body and waistcoats that never faded.
Basile Lesgles, dit Bossuet (b. 1803, d. 1883)
Lesgles grew mellow with age, his smile quieter but never strained, his wit never any less sharp. He woke up happy and loved and went to bed happy and loved – no matter what happened in between, he could always count on this, and it never turned on him. He borrowed and always found a way to give back; he walked and always found a way to come back. For a few years he wondered, at the back of his mind, when it would end, but it never did. His quiet life, he reflected, was quite good.
Dr Raphaël Joly (b. 1805, d. 1891)
Joly's movement were always quick and nervous, but they never caught up with his laughter. After Marius, he was the first be married, and although he never had any children, his life was full enough that he never missed it. He was safe, too, at the end of the day, and never anything less than perfectly healthy: and with the knowledge of that, he helped others, with warm hands and lively eyes, beloved by all of those who came to him in times of need. What at first were quirky and cheery visits became trusted and heart-warming consultations for which everyone was grateful.
Jean-Marie « Jehan » Prouvaire (b. 1810, d. 1879)
Prouvaire had never wished to attain fame, to be published and talked about. Oh, he wrote, and was read, but what mattered to him more than anything were the experiences. He was the youngest and might have been the one that lived the most, in the purest sense of the word – hesitant at first, he eventually grew more bold. He travelled, saw things, lived things. The things he lived! Fully, intensely, and he knew that it wouldn't always be easy. It wasn't, but in truth he preferred it that way. The universe was too vast for him to explore in its entirety, but he accepted it. He never settled, and wrote about both the known and the unknown, the certain and the uncertain, with ink that never dried.
Étienne Feuilly (b. around 1807, d. 1864)
Feuilly travelled too, fulfilling dreams he discovered he had always had as he went along. He could afford to dream, fully and unrestrainedly, as hope had finally warmed his days as it had always warmed his heart. From his childhood he had worked to live, and life had in turn rewarded him by making him see everything that he could be. So he traveled, and painted, and wrote, and taught, to his children and others'. When his heart clenched, it was from caring, not cold; when his head hurt, it was from ideas, not frowns; when his hand cramped, he was satisfied, not weary. And until his last day, he always had a home to come back to.
François-Xavier de Courfeyrac (b. 1807, d. 1897)
Courfeyrac had never thought much of the future. His ideals and opinions never died, but he preferred to savour each day and each night doing what he loved, surrounded by those he loved. His days were plenty, and he had many loves. He warmed hearts everywhere he went with stories to tell, embraces to give and wine to share. His round figure was always welcomed. He cooked for his neighbours, gave without a thought a shoulder to cry on. His hand was always there on support, and his voice, loud and clear and bright even in his old age, rose in song as often as he felt like. He cherished everyone, and everyone cherished him.
Paul-Émile Grantaire (b. 1804, d. 1869)
Grantaire asked for much, expecting nothing. His life met in the middle, and gave him the greatest thing he had ever dared to hope for. He ran and he swam, he jumped and dreamt, he escaped and lost himself; but he painted, and he loved and was loved in return. He was scared, scared of their eyes, and he remained scared for a long time. His life was never light, but it was not shadows. It was his – not the bottle's nor the pain's, not the sun's or the stars' – just his, and his love broke through the dawn until came a warm autumn day.
Dr Nicolas Combeferre (b. 1806, d. 1901)
Combeferre was meant to live for a long time. He was meant to grow old, and grow old he did. He lived the longest, and saw the first year of a new century. He never lost wonder; new things to be discovered every day, new books to be read, new people to meet. He taught, and wrote, and his words outlived him in the minds of a thousand youth. As he lay to sleep one last time, he looked up at the night sky and smiled at the stars – this new century would be his grandchildren's, and he knew they would all live through them.
Charles-Alexandre Enjolras (b. 1806, d. 1897)
Enjolras burned. He always had and always would, turning his sharp features and blazing eyes from one cause to another. One morning he woke up, noticed his movements were slower, yet he walked on. One night he went to bed, hair streaked with grey, a ringing in his ears, he only talked louder. He didn't sleep much, and ate only in company, but company he did have, and his comrades stood by his side, holding him up when he stumbled, sharing smiles and embraces after every victory. His writings were plenty, his speeches even more numerous. He was listened to, and respected, his name was taught in history classes. When asked, he smiled slowly, and the whole room listened as his voice rang out for the years to come: now we know, my friends, that the twentieth century will be happy.
as always, comments are appreciated! Thank you for reading! :)