Of all the ABC, only Jehan deigned to be silent this day. Words, lovely words, were flowing from his pen like a lady's tears, and he could not bear the thought of losing them to the spoken word. So he remained silent as his companions bantered. Bossuet and Joly were the most vocal, turning their combined outrage against a flustered Combeferre, who had foolishly insinuated that a lady ought to be slender and tall as a newly planted sapling.
"Give them to me small and plump, that is what I say. Women are flighty creatures ; without weight on their bones, they would be swept away by every gust of wind!" Bossuet said, flinging his arms out to either side as though the wind had blown them there.
Combeferre stared at them over his book. "But 'slender' is the word of choice both by Homer and Virgil alike to describe the goddesses that grace their epics. Surely--"
"Surely Homer and Virgil lived in a dismal time full of dismal women if their idea of beauty was a half-starved giantess." Bossuet interrupted. Joly laughed his agreement.
Jehan's attention was snatched by Grantaire, who spoke very loudly and gestured hugely with his hands, the wine in his hand clearly the creator of whatever he was about to say. Feuilly and Courfeyrac, sitting at his table, were bemused rather than annoyed, although Feuilly carefully put the fan he was completing under the table and out of harm's way.
"My friends, I ask you: is it better a man should be drunk with wine or drunk with women? On the one hand, one may say that wine provides a less circumstantial drunkeness, an unconditional intoxication that is guaranteed to lift the heart and buoy the spirit! On the other hand, one may also say that being drunk with women is far the better of the two, for it is in constant supply! The bottle may grow dry, but women are always about!" He winked at Louison, who was crossing the room. She made a hasty exit.
"True as that may be, Capital R, both are fleeting and last no longer than the wine or woman is present," said Courfeyrac. "One might say that a deeper intoxication may be needed. Take for instance, our Apollo. Enjolras is intoxicated always, but neither by wine nor by women. It is an eternal intoxication of principle."
"And an eternity of drudgery and toil it is bound to be if he lives it without either wine or women." Grantaire took another long swallow of his wine. "Yes, our bold and absent leader--have you noted he is absent, gentlemen?--confined to the hell of sobriety forever. Tragedy."
Jehan sat up at this. The ABC had been in the Café Musain for most of the morning. Enjolras himself had been there at dawn, before the others, a political pamphlet from a city to the north in his hands. He had told them of its contents and explained that this group and its members were their kin in the battle for freedom. The news of like-minded men, students like themselves, had riled them up to the point that patrons from the front of the Café had begun to complain of the noise. Enjolras had eaten breakfast with them, and then had disappeared. In the havoc that was the student's conversation, Jehan had somehow missed his departure.
Combeferre also looked around him. "And where has his absence taken him?"
Feuilly brought his fan up from under the table and began to tamper with it once again. "Creating more sons of the Republic, I should think."
"No, no, for that he would have had to spread us all about. That is his way; send us all out to preach his gospel." Grantaire grumbled. He had reached the point of intoxication where joy gives way to melancholy. "He is with Marius, perhaps. His new favorite disciple." He said it with the same look an old dog has when a new pup has taken the love of his master.
"Marius follows principle." Feuilly observed.
Grantaire exploded. "And not the application of it! Were Enjolras to be cast aside, Marius would not care. Marius would cling to the cause and care nothing for its champion. He is the follower of thought and not of substance, and I, for one, call him heretic. For what deserves our loyalty if not Enjolras? The Republic? The Republic that may never be! I would let the Republic fade to nothing if it were to mean that Enjolras could remain a god among men."
The room had gone silent, all other discussion quieted. Words against the Republic were a violation of some perpetual code among the friends. Grantaire drank again, swallowing three long draughts from the bottle in his hand, draining it until it was empty. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off. A gamin, rather fat for his station, came charging in. "Monsieur Courfeyrac?"
Courfeyrac stood. "I am Monsieur Courfeyrac."
"A Monsieur M. sent me to tell you about the riot!"
Bossuet jumped to his feet. "Monsieur M. can only be Marius! A riot, gamin? Where?"
"Near the market. The one a few blocks from here. Monsieur M. told me to tell you that there's trouble for him and his friend."
Fieully said, "It is Enjolras." Grantaire paled, slamming his wine bottle down upon the table and slinging his jacket on over his shoulders.
Courfeyrac tossed the gamin a few coins, and as though by signal, the backroom of the Café Musain erupted into activity. The small details were left alone--Joly did not close the windows, Combeferre did not douse the candles-- in favor of grabbing pistols and coats. They took the private exit out onto the street, and went dashing along in a sweeping wave of hurry. Along the way, Grantaire was trying to break out of his inebriation. The insinuation that his idol was in peril had started him in the right direction, but he bit his tongue on purpose, in the hopes that the pain would further the transition.
When he arrived at Enjolras's side, it would be as a gallant servant, not a drunken fool. He would arrive and be the strong one, beating back rioters until he stood before Apollo himself, and then, finally!, then Enjolras would see that Grantaire was more than a wine cask. Grantaire was more certain with each step. Marius would be the weaker disciple then. Enjolras would see.
Grataire would prove himself.
Marius could not be certain who had begun the riot. All he had known was that when he came from his classes, Enjolras was at the gate waiting for him, a pamphlet in his hand. The two of them walked side by side, choosing streets at random in the general direction of the Café. Enjolras had been radiant with excitement and political fervor at the new writing from another Republican group. Marius felt foolish. For some reason, he had romanticized his own position with the ABC, making the storyline such that they were the only ones fighting for a higher cause, and that when the government toppled, they would be the ones with the credit. He had somehow not realized that Enjolras was in correspondance with others like them.
They had landed themselves in the market around time for a meal, and had stopped at a street vendor's cart to eat. Marius was not sure how, but Enjolras had overheard conversation on another man's part that was slightly favorable to the Republic. Immediately, introductions had been made, and through an entirely unforeseeable course of events, namely, several more introductions and a chair being brought, Enjolras had wound up standing upon said chair, indoctrinating a crowd of quite a few listeners. Marius had been keeping watch when he saw the police coming around the corner, led by one of the street vendors, all three of them looking very upset. Why he had been on watch was still uncertain; no one had requested he do so. Somehow, the thought of Enjolras being arrested or discovered by the government was an unthinkable event. For even now, to Marius, the resistance was headed by Enjolras, no matter how many other societies existed with the same purpose, and likely thinking the same thing about their respective chiefs.
He'd pushed his way through the small crowd to Enjolras's side and murmured in his ear about his find. Enjolras had started to leave, to meld back into the crowd, when a groan of disappointment came from the listeners. It was clear that Enjolras had snared them with his passion. Marius tugged on his sleeve, but Enjolras had preached the Republic in worse circumstances than this, and if it meant bringing a few more Parisians to the ABC's side of the fight, he would risk arrest. He continued to speak, but did not remount the chair. The police had arrived and pushed their way through the cluster of people. The vendor came before them, squealing delightedly.
"That's 'im, righ' enough!" He said. One of the policemen pointed at the fair-complexioned student.
"What is your business with these people?"
"It is not my business. It is the business of all people." Enjolras was beginning to bristle, a wolf waiting for the fight to begin.
"And what might that be?" The policeman had his hand on the small club that hung from his waist .
"The freedom of man."
The crowd was beginning to disperse. If trouble could be avoided, they would avoid it. Cowards, Marius thought, and readied himself to fight. If it had been only him, he would have escaped and taught somewhere else. But Enjolras did not and would not retreat.
"One of those bloomin' students, I guess." The second policeman looked disgusted. Enjolras opened his mouth to say more, when without warning, the first struck out visciously with his club, catching the tall youth squarely in the ribs. He got two more blows in, another on the chest and one on the head before Marius put his fist across the man's mouth. Enjolras was making a strange noise, and Marius was bending to pull him to his feet and run when the crowd suddenly surged. They had been pulling back and away from the prospective fight, but now there was damage done to both sides, both those who had been listening to republicanism and those who still supported the old system. The crowd surged together in a huge melee of violence, the mob acting like a single entity, destroying everything in its path. Chairs and tables tipped, vendors carts were toppled, and in the middle of it all, as a gamin came dashing past, Marius caught him by the arm and sent him with a message and a silver piece to the Café Musain for help.
And then it was over. The policemen fired a shot or two into the air and the crowd disappated, as quickly as it had appeared. It had taken a moment to find Enjolras after the streets cleared, but he had gotten to his feet and apparently gotten a few good swings in of his own; there was blood on his knuckles and a man with a broken nose at his feet. Marius caught him as he started to sag toward the ground and brought him to a chair, the same one he had been speaking from only twenty minutes earlier.
"Tell me, is this the first riot you have caused?" Marius said, lightly. Enjolras shook his head, but smiled. He was panting. "Can you breathe?"
"Yes, yes." Enjolras made a gesture to waive concern. "Do not doctor me, Marius. Joly will do quite enough of that when we arrive back at the Café Musain. And likely the others as well." He winced and put a finger to his temple. It came away red.
Marius frowned. "I fear I may have to doctor you. May I see?" Enjolras turned his head toward Marius so he could see the wound. It was dripping blood profusely so the actual injury could not be determined. And at that moment, the ABC made their entrance.
At their head was Combeferre, striding purposefully with his short legs toward them, his face dropping when he saw Enjolras settled at such a strange angle. Behind him, in one group, came the rest, each one with expressions of various degrees of anger and anxiety. As they came closer, Grantaire broke from the rest and passed even Combeferre.
"The riot is over, I take it?" Marius shook his head. Grantaire seemed almost angry. "And once again, you have taken the brunt of the attack. Have you never learned to duck, Monsieur Enjolras?" He said, but the joke was without spirit. He knelt down as the rest of the group approached.
"What happened here?" Bahorel was furious. Enjolras was the leader of the band; Bahorel was the protector. Bruises on any of his friends did not sit well, and Enjolras's temple was a pale purple stained with red.
"The police," Enjolras said. Joly frowned.
"Breath deep, Enjolras, you sound as though you've raced across all Paris. May I…?" Enjolras nodded and Joly placed a hand on his side. "Breath in." Enjolras did, gritting his teeth and Joly winced. "Cracked, for certain. Only thing to do is wrap them and stay in one place as long as possible. Come on, we will go back to your apartment. I'll need to look at that head as well."
Grantaire jumped forward. "Come then, thou unbreakable Apollo, and let yourself be lifted by the lowly." Enjolras was uncertain, but allowed Grantaire to help him to his feet, supporting some of his weight. Marius came to flank the other side. No one present missed the angry shadow that crossed Grantaire's face as Enjolras met Marius's eye.
"Thank you, Marius. I will repay you for beating back that officer."
"None of that, Monsieur Enjolras. Any man here would have done it." Those present nodded fervent agreement with the modest reply. Everyone except Grantaire.
Grantaire grit his teeth. Marius, the new disciple. Marius, whom everyone adored. Marius, who had been here a matter of months and had already gained more esteem in the eyes of Enjolras than Grantaire had earned in years of adoration and worship. Marius…who had been the savior today. Grantaire had come too late again, and now, one more opportunity to show his colors had been lost. He would remain, for today, Winecask.
He placed a false smile on his lips and said, "Well, must we keep the wounded from care? Come along, or we will talk him to death." Grantaire took as much of Enjolras's weight as the proud revolutionary would let him take, all the while using his quick wit to try and bring a smile to those eyes. But there was too much pain, and Enjolras would not smile.
"Jolllly," said Enjolras, "How long can I expect to remain stationary and invalid?"
"Hard to be sure, but a week or two should see you able to walk about well enough."
Jehan cut in. "But never fear, Enjolras. One of us shall come and see you everyday to help fend off those harpies of boredom. I will stay with you today and tonight if you like." Jehan smiled that hopelessly idealistic smile. Enjolras did not respond, which was answer enough for Jehan, who left the group to return to his own apartment and gather his necessities for the night.
It occurred to Grantaire at that moment. Why not appoint himself as Enjolras's watchdog? Surely, the police would come looking for him after the riot and the damage done to property as a result. He would need someone there, someone strong, to be there to fend them off. His early scenario replayed itself again, with subtle variations. He would fight the police away from Enjolras's door, tell them lies and lead them away. Then Enjolras would see his worth. At last, Enjolras would see it.
"I should stay as well. Jehan is good company, but a terrible shot. Supposing the police come. Someone with a decent punch should stay." He tried to say it as though he did not care either way. He waited for the rejection. And it did not come. Instead, Enjolras nodded curtly. He winced at every movement now, and Joly was walking backwards in front of them, asking questions and probing the head wound with his fingers. As they neared the apartment, it became clear; Grantaire was staying as Enjolras's protector. Bahorel did not look pleased, and he sent Grantaire looks that said, if anything happens, I will kill you myself. Combeferre looked nervous, Courfeyrac and Bossuet looked surprised, and Joly and Feuilly were both eyeing him carefully out of the corners of their eyes. All at once, the realization of the responsibility Grantaire had just laid upon himself came.
He had taken on the safekeeping of the leader of the Republic.
I need a drink, he thought.