1: Enjolras
A Mother's Love
He'd always been one to go his own way. While his peers were chasing girls and going to the opera, he was holed up at home in library, reading and re-reading Rosseau and writing articles for secret newspapers. While his friends drank and sang, he planned his revolution. Or so they told me.
They told me that he'd been the last man standing, and he faced death with such courage that none of the common soldiers wanted to shoot him. If only those soldiers had not acted, if they'd disobeyed their commanding officer. If only the people of Paris had risen. But it's no use thinking that way. Wishful thinking won't ever bring my son back.
His father said good riddance when he heard the news. Julien and Olivier never got on, even over the smallest matters, like choice of newspaper, the tying of a cravat. Finally, my Julien got so fed up that he walked out. And his father disowned him, disowned our only child. But for all his hard exterior, I've heard him crying at night, crying for our beautiful, angelic child, who didn't survive his own revolution. Didn't survive his own revolution, because the love of his life, Patria, turned out to be a fickle beast with not a care for any of her devoted followers, not a care for any of their families. And now he's gone, without knowing that I still love him, no matter what his father said. He's gone. Gone, gone, gone. And I don't know what to do.