Prologue
He was gone by first light. Anne-Laure could pretend this was just another day. Anne-Laure could pretend that he had classes early again. She could pretend she had briefly woken up minutes earlier, listening to the tremors and ups-and-downs of his voice as he grumbled about a bourgeoisie-praising professor of his as he prepared for his day. She could pretend she would see him later in the Musain, furiously scribbling out his next speech. She could pretend she would spend her day making new dresses for both the bourgeoisie and the working women of Paris. Anne-Laure could pretend to be happy. Anne-Laure could pretend she would see Enjolras again later.
Enjolras left her, just like how Jean Valjean (then Monsieur le Mayor) left her. Except the older man left in the cloak of the night and on the run from a vengeful Inspector, leaving behind 60,000 francs to Anne-Laure's name and a few thousand more for Fantine's burial.
Enjolras, on the other hand, left and rode on the cape of daylight. He left Anne-Laure behind, taking her love and her faith with him.
This morning Anne-Laure felt numb. It was the same sort of feeling she had back then when she realized Monsieur le Mayor was truly gone and was never going to return. At first, there had been hope. She had hoped that the lies and prayers she and the nuns told would save him from the galleys. She had hoped that the monsieur would find Fantine's beloved child and bring her home. Hope drained out of her, like a drought making a river shrink away, when the papers declared Monsieur le Mayor as the ex-convict Jean Valjean. Anne-Laure could never hate him for his past, but she couldn't be blamed for losing hope that he would ever return to her.
She had hoped, she had pretended, she had been disappointed. Anne-Laure was on her way to making the same mistake twice, this time with Enjolras.
But Anne-Laure was not just Anne-Laure anymore. Anne-Laure would soon become a mother, and Enjolras would be a father even if he didn't know it yet. She had to make sure her child's father would be there to see him or her grow (Anne-Laure felt another pang in her heart for Fantine).
So Anne-Laure pretended one more time. She slipped out of bed as if she wasn't numb with pain and grief. She stalked over to the closet where her sewing table was kept. She rolled the table out from the closet, the wheels beneath it squeaking in protest. It needed to be oiled; Anne-Laure couldn't remember the last time when she bothered to care. Some of the Les Amis had banded together to build the simple contraption for her when she and Enjolras moved into this apartment. They built it back when they were just close friends from the university and not revolutionaries.
Anne-Laure closed her eyes. Not now, not now.
Her latest work still lied under the needle, finished and perfected. It was the last article of an outfit befitting of a thin, teenage paperboy from the streets of Paris. A loose-fitting and grimy shirt, pants that ended too short, an oversized and flimsy cardigan, and a newsboy cap made up the entire ensemble. It was an outfit that would make the rich ladies who wished they were in court faint and the devious criminals smirk with delight. If Anne-Laure put it on after placing binding around her chest, she would definitely look the part (it wasn't her idea - it was thought up by that gamine from the streets called Eponine). She wouldn't be suspected - boys of all ages seemed to flock to the barricades. The Les Amis were always eager to welcome anyone.
She had far less than one more day now; perhaps she only had a handful of hours.
Anne-Laure wondered if she even believed in the future Paris only Enjolras could see. She could understand why he would die for this dream, why all of them would die for this dream. But could she do the same? Could she risk the life of her child for the chance to save the life of her love? What was Anne-Laure against the bullets of Paris? How did she expect to save this man when she wasn't even sure what she would be up against?
'Keep the Faith.' It's been a favorite line of his from the very beginning, but now it only sounded like a curse to her. Those words teased her with the mysteries of How and Why. She cursed Enjolras, cursed him for loving her and leaving her. Anne-Laure cursed herself, cursed herself for loving him and letting him go.
Keep the faith? There was no way, but she had to pretend there was one.