Une Histoire de deux Vivres (a tale of two lives)
AU fic, in which LM and ATOTC are somehow at the same time, 1793. I think I have done a good enough job that, if you aren't familiar with A Tale of Two Cities, you can understand and enjoy it, but if this is not the case please tell me. Anything in bolded parenthesis is me, explaining things to you.
It was raining that night, pouring cold sheets of wetness to the dard Paris streets. A lone figure, not very tall, in a dark coat was walking slowly towards a house. He paused for a long time, perhaps five or ten minutes, in front of it before reaching a sopping wet arm up to knock.
The door was opened a crack, the thrust open as a flustered young woman, maybe twenty or so, pulled him inside. She quickly shut the door after him. (to non ATOTC-fans, here is the info. The man, Sydney Carton, has just gone to see Lucie, the love of his life who is married to another, to tell her of his plan. His plan is going into La Force and swapping places with her husband, who is condemned to death, so that she might be happy again.)
He stayed no longer than twenty minutes at the very most, then he hurried out. As he turned, his face, which had mostly dried form being inside, appeared to have water running down it as if he was crying.
But then, he stepped back into the rain, and one could not tell tears from raindrops. But perhaps that was the point.
Slowly, the man turned his face to the sky, and, as he did so, the moon peeked it's luminescent pale face through a gap in the rainclouds. It highlighted the face of a man, twenty or so, but he looked older somehow, as if his life had been wasted. He desperately needed a shave, and his bloodshot, pale blue eyes had bags under them. He could have been good looking, but clearly didn't take care of himself.
As the rain mixed with the real or imagined tears, the man muttered a name, barely distinguishable. "Lucie."
Sydney Carton was not the only one out that night, in the rain. There was anoter, a girl. Unnoticed by most, she was hardly more than a shadow, but with a bit more ability to be hurt.
She was also crying. Hunched in a corner, her tears flowed so freely that not even the downpour could mask them. Her face was dirty, and had the beginnings of a bruise on one cheek. Her tattered dress had rivulets of filthy water coming off it, and the red cap, ever present in those trying times, did little to hide the lank locks of hair. Even as she did, she suddenly yanked off the cap and sobbed horrible, heart-wrenching sobs into it.
The man, apparently hearing, walked slowly over to her. Gently, he turned her shoulder towards him, crouching down himself. The girl, however, just flinched and sobbed harder, turning away.
So, the man sat with the girl, until the rain let up, about an hour later. The moon came out and, it being almost full, gave quite a bit of light. The girl, seeing this, turned towards the man as if to thank him for staying with her, but instead just curled up in a ball, still crying.
Seeing this, the man hesitantly took her into a deep hug, and they sat there until both stopped crying.
"What is your name?"
At the question, the girl looked up at him and then averted her eyes. She mumbled, "Éponine. I'm called Éponine. You? What is such a bourgeois as your self doing here, comforting some girl off the streets?" She spat bourgeois out with venom, but the effect was halfhearted.
At this he held her tighter, and she could have sworn he was shaking. Thickly, he said, "I'm no bourgeois. The coat is- borrowed. I'm just a good for nothing alcoholic, and unable to live up to anyone's standards. But that's alright, where I am going will be far better than here. It will be a far, far better thing to do…"
"Oh. I may kill myself, so it doesn't matter to me."
The man looked stricken. "Why would you do such a thing?"
The girl looked up at him sadly. "The one I love loves another, but beyond that, he is to be- he is to be-" she sobbed out the last word, almost choking, "guillotined. I don't understand why, he would have helped storm the Bastille, his friends did storm the Bastille, but still. His grandfather flad Paris. His friends, I don't know what happened to them. But does it matter? No- all that seems to matter is the Republic. I love the Republic, I do. But all it does is kill. La Guillotine is the grand new Razor of the Republic, and it shaves close, much too close." She laughed madly. "You need a shave! But now- all that remains are the heads, the heads and nothing more. I suppose I shall die too- of a broken heart. And if that fails, well, there is always a knife. Not so quick as the Grand Razor, perhaps, but that is the way of things, is it not? And you still haven't told me your name!" All this was said quickly, but the whole time, the girl had been crying again, tears streaming down her face as she laughed humorlessly.
"Sydney Carton. My name is Sydney Carton," said the man, looking at the girl with- not quite pity, but something.
"Ah! That is a name. But not a French name. I am French, but you talk strangely. English? I do not like the English, but does it matter? No; all that matters is the Guillotine. 60 heads a day, and some of them probably English. But they are all dead, all gone, and still Robespierre remains. And the People, let us not forget them. They are a bloodthirsty people, I should know, my father steals money from the dead ones, him and his friends. They are all called Jacques, you know? I should not be telling you this, Mister Englishman, but my father can't jurt me if I am dead. 60 heads a day! And I must die before him, you see."
Sydney nodded sadly. "of course, citoyenne," he murmured, "I am English, and I go to die for and Englishman."
Sydney stood up. The rain had left completely, and mist was rising from the Seine. The moon made the wet pavement glitter, as if silver instead of tar. He started walking again, towards La Force.
XXX
The Bastille wasn't big. It was immense. A sea of people- men, women, old people, even children from the streets-all in bright red caps, mobbed the prison. From the sky, it looked like a river of blood, gushing through the Paris streets, demolishing anything in its way. It seemed not to be controlled, but there was a leader of sorts. A swarthy man in a dirty overcoat, despite the mid-July heat, was shooting curses at no one in particular. He smelled horrible, looked horrible, but commanded the utmost respect from everyone.
"The Bastille! The Republic! The prisoners!" He yelled this over and over, his voice carrying over the red-capped sea.
Anyone who resisted the current was killed. As the Bastille was swarmed, the man hurried in, and up the stairs to a tower. With him gone, the people were like red ants, scurrying everywhere, knowing only to bite.
Another man stepped up to lead. Underneath his cap was a mass of blond curls and piercing blue eyes. He wore a vibrantly red jacket.
"Citoyens!" he yelled, "free the prisoners! Onward! For the Republic!"
The crowd roared in approval, shaking its fists and yelling, "the prisoners!" (at this time, there were seven prisoners in the Bastille, who were seen as martyrs by the rest of the People of the Republic) Unquestioningly, they followed the blond up the steps. Unknowingly, they were also following Defarge. (for those who do not know, Defarge is the villain in ATOTC, as well as Madame Defarge. They sought out only to kill as many people as possible, all bourgeois. And he is looking for the evidence that will condemn Charles Darnay to death.)
As the angry mob moved up the staircase, they made a lot of noise, audible from anywhere in the prison. Shouts of "the prisoners!", and "the Republic!" could be distinguished from the roar. Halfway up, they heard voices in one room. Forcing down the door, they burst in upon a strange sight. The previous leader (remember, that was Defarge) was completely ransacking the room, but carefully, as if he was looking for something.
Suddenly, he found it. Whirling around, he looked carefully at the crowd, led by the blond.
"We are the Republic. What are you doing, citoyen? For surely you know that if you are not for the Republic you are against it, and if you are not helping us, you are hurting us by not doing so?" This was echoed by the crowd, along with shouts.
Defarge narrowed his eyes at the blond, who stared defiantly back at him. "What of it, citoyen? I am finding…evidence. None of your business."
"All is the Republic's business, citoyen."
The man smiled widely, revealing yellow teeth stained from tobacco. "All will be revealed tomorrow." He strode roughly past, shouting, "the prisoners! Come!"
As the crowd shoved and swelled, Defarge found himself next to the other, the blond leader.
"Citoyen," he growled, "what was that? I am the leader, you have no right to question my goings-about. And in any case, we shall be glad of it tomorrow."
"I have no leader, citoyen, so it cannot be you. I am of the Republic, and that is all I need. I have renounced my family, everything I had, so that I may be a part of the grand new Republic of France. You cannot ask anything more!"
Defarge smiled again, this time with a wicked gleam in his eye. "There is one thing. The ultimate price would be death. Dying for your country. 'dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, non? It is sweet and right to die for one's country. What is your name, citoyen?"
The blond tucked a curl under his cap. He stiffened slightly, and said levelly, "Enjolras. Yours?"
But the man didn't answer. Instead, he just looked at Enjolras distastefully, with a trace of a smirk in his eyes. "Bourgeois," he spat, "we don't need anything like you."
And with that, he pulled a dirty knife from his boot and forced the blond, who looked horrified, back. The crowd noticed, for the crowd noticed everything. Several people tried to intervene. However, Defarge just yelled to them, "no! He's bourgeois scum! He deserves death, nothing more!"
It is amazing the way a crowd can be swayed. At this, they turned, calling for the blood of the person they had unquestioningly followed less than ten minutes prior. "Kill the bourgeois! Kill him!" they yelled. Only a few didn't.
As Defarge bound Enjolras, savoring the moment, a man with curly black hair burst through the crowd.
"No!" he yelled desperately, "no, you can't—"
The person next to him said indifferently, "Why? He is bourgeois! Did you hear his name? Enjolras! He's third cousins with the King whom we took care of!"
But the man would have fought the whole crowd, right then and there, had another not pulled him back and hissed, "no, R! Can't you see? They already have Marius, now they have Enjolras, if you act like this they'll want you too-"
"I don't care! Let me go, Bahorel! Let-me-go!"
All the while, Defarge and several men who called themselves Jacques (okay, the Jacques need explaining. To avoid calling each other by name, and to keep themselves unknown, Defarge's 'henchmen' (for lack of a better word) were all called Jacques. I decided that Thénardier's gang should be in that number, if you recall from earlier.) were forcing Enjolras down, out the Bastille and down to La Force.
XXXX
I promise I won't kill Enjolras again! I promise! Did I do a good enough job explaining? IF not, please tell me! Next chapter coming soon- probably over the weekend. And I have decided to sign off with a quote, because I have just too many to put every one of them in our profile.
"There is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you."
― Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
does that quote need explaining? If so, tell me because i coud go on for ages and ages explaining it. Thank you! And happy reviews make my plot bunny, Robespierre (it's a long story), happy! Just saying...