The Crimson Enigma
Everything they told you about tragic death and success against the system was a lie.
They all ran away, even Enjolras, when Bahorel got shot. That's when they realized it wasn't a game, that they could really get killed and it wasn't just words. It was serious business of grownups and they were still little kids. The story of a big battle with heroic death was all a lie created by that poet Jean Prouvaire and he sent it out on the bourgeoisie printing press and made his little piece of fame. He didn't bother to mention the part where they left me bleeding in the alley with a bayonet hole through my leg and blood running down my face. He didn't write about how they all became what they were supposedly fighting against, living off their father's money and trying to believe they were still fighting the "system." But not me, poor son of the unskilled worker, broke and bankrupt Combeferre, was left alone that summer day and nearly died because they were too afraid. And to think I once believed Enjolras' little game; I thought he wasn't just spiting his family when he gave those long speeches in the ghettos. Who among us thought that that pretty boy only wanted to make his father angry and to play rebel for a thrill. Or did he really believe it? Did he? Then where is he now? Where are any of them?
Now it's ten years later and I'm back in Paris. The corner where Bahorel's head lay for the last time is no longer crimson and brown but back to the grey bleakness. No one knows or cares a man died there because the little prince wanted to amuse himself with the police. Did that boy ever get sentenced, or even prosecuted? Of course not, now he even works for the swine. I saw the office today but I didn't go in. What I want is revenge, not a surprise visit and reunion. He will probably not even remember me, the boy using up his dead parents money to go to college and then losing it all while being distracted by "revolution." What revolution? What changed? What ever changes? Why did I have to believe it? Why did I have to philosophize about the great future? I was the fool then but I'll be damned if anyone can trick me into taking that role again. He'll have to pay, they'll all have to pay. Except for the others who were like me. I wonder what happened to Feuilly, who was off work half the time and nearly lost his job while helping distribute pamphlets and fuel the "rebellion." He was eaten up by those clean white teeth just like I was and was smashed into the ground with the heal of a personally tailored leather boot.
I found him, out in the Barrieres. Dogs can't even survive there; each scrap of food is swarmed upon instantly by the children and the flies. The mud came up past my ankles and I lost count of the vacant eyes staring from street corners. They reminded me of the eyes I had seen in prison: hopeless, rotting, alone. And Feuilly's enthusiastic green eyes, had they shriveled away into grey misery? I stood outside the crumbling building at the address I had been given and hesitated. Did I really want to see someone who could be bitterer than me? But curiosity overtook my uncertainty and I was soon going up those "steps" through the screaming children and into the darkness where no artificial light of humanity would ever venture.
Everything they told you about tragic death and success against the system was a lie.
They all ran away, even Enjolras, when Bahorel got shot. That's when they realized it wasn't a game, that they could really get killed and it wasn't just words. It was serious business of grownups and they were still little kids. The story of a big battle with heroic death was all a lie created by that poet Jean Prouvaire and he sent it out on the bourgeoisie printing press and made his little piece of fame. He didn't bother to mention the part where they left me bleeding in the alley with a bayonet hole through my leg and blood running down my face. He didn't write about how they all became what they were supposedly fighting against, living off their father's money and trying to believe they were still fighting the "system." But not me, poor son of the unskilled worker, broke and bankrupt Combeferre, was left alone that summer day and nearly died because they were too afraid. And to think I once believed Enjolras' little game; I thought he wasn't just spiting his family when he gave those long speeches in the ghettos. Who among us thought that that pretty boy only wanted to make his father angry and to play rebel for a thrill. Or did he really believe it? Did he? Then where is he now? Where are any of them?
Now it's ten years later and I'm back in Paris. The corner where Bahorel's head lay for the last time is no longer crimson and brown but back to the grey bleakness. No one knows or cares a man died there because the little prince wanted to amuse himself with the police. Did that boy ever get sentenced, or even prosecuted? Of course not, now he even works for the swine. I saw the office today but I didn't go in. What I want is revenge, not a surprise visit and reunion. He will probably not even remember me, the boy using up his dead parents money to go to college and then losing it all while being distracted by "revolution." What revolution? What changed? What ever changes? Why did I have to believe it? Why did I have to philosophize about the great future? I was the fool then but I'll be damned if anyone can trick me into taking that role again. He'll have to pay, they'll all have to pay. Except for the others who were like me. I wonder what happened to Feuilly, who was off work half the time and nearly lost his job while helping distribute pamphlets and fuel the "rebellion." He was eaten up by those clean white teeth just like I was and was smashed into the ground with the heal of a personally tailored leather boot.
I found him, out in the Barrieres. Dogs can't even survive there; each scrap of food is swarmed upon instantly by the children and the flies. The mud came up past my ankles and I lost count of the vacant eyes staring from street corners. They reminded me of the eyes I had seen in prison: hopeless, rotting, alone. And Feuilly's enthusiastic green eyes, had they shriveled away into grey misery? I stood outside the crumbling building at the address I had been given and hesitated. Did I really want to see someone who could be bitterer than me? But curiosity overtook my uncertainty and I was soon going up those "steps" through the screaming children and into the darkness where no artificial light of humanity would ever venture.