For once, there's no massive preface. I'll update Pyg...soon, I hope. The upcoming chapter is being a pain, and I've been busy beyond all belief. Until then, here's a little one-shot that came to me a while ago. It could certainly be turned into something longer but I don't plan on doing so. If you like the premise, feel free to run with it.
Credit to Hugo.
Every leader, Enjolras thought shamefully as he averted his eyes from the slim letter sitting on his desk, had to have an image, a mythology. Charisma and vision alone were not enough to make men rally to you. No, they had to see you as super-human for them to be willing to lay their life down at your feet.
"Apollo," they murmured in awed tones. Apollo the demigod, the absolute, the fearless, the angel of justice.
Apollo the lie.
He knew his own "story" so well that it almost felt like the truth. He, the sole heir of the Enjolras line, had been born into a sheltered life of privilege. He had grown up somewhat uncomfortable with his opulent existence but had not understood the source of his discontentment until the day he had first seen abject poverty while in town. Secretly, he had immersed himself in the writings of first the philosophes and then the great revolutionaries, anointing himself the next prophet of liberty, equality, fraternity, or death. When he could no longer stand his family's shamefully wealthy, conservative position, he had publicly split with his father and exiled himself to preach revolution in Paris.
He had never told anyone this history outright but had instead allowed his followers to invent it on their own, promoting or discouraging certain elements of it only when necessary. He had never lied; he had just never told the truth.
Indeed, much of the story was true, or at least based on truth, which made the untruths easier to maintain. Practically speaking, the reality of the parts that were not true was far more useful than the myth. After all, where did the others think he got the resources necessary to print their pamphlets, to rent out the back room of the Musian, to distribute bread in the slums? They never seemed to question the source of his seemingly limitless funds, except perhaps Feuilly. Feuilly, with the too-watchful eyes, who knew better than any that money does not simply materialize in the pockets of the deserving or the well-meaning.
He did not lie for his own sake, but rather for the sake of the children starving in the filthiest quarters of the city. What did they care, when they rushed toward him with pleading eyes, that their bread was paid for with essentially stolen money?
He would have sold his soul to the devil a thousand times over if it allowed him to save them all – a martyr Faustus. Instead, he had to settle for perhaps saving a few at the price of his integrity.
Enjolras had three options. The first: to tell everyone the truth; to destroy the mythology and therefore the movement (unacceptable – he could not sacrifice the revolution). The second: to turn the myth into reality; to see his funds dry up (unacceptable – he could abandon neither abaissé nor ABC). The third: to continue on his present course. That was acceptable. He was willing to sacrifice himself.
And so he tried to live with the lie, striving in vain to cleanse himself of the faint stench of hypocrisy. Even within his otherwise Spartan apartment were reminders of his shame. There was an outfit conforming to all the latest fashions deep in his tiny wardrobe and enough money in his desk to rent out more luxurious lodgings for perhaps a month, precautions in case his family ever decided to visit. Then, in front of him was the letter.
With a violent gesture, he snatched the letter, tore it open, and ripped out its contents. He glared at the note distastefully, then sighed resignedly and smoothed the sheet of finest paper covered with elegant script on the rough desk.
My dearest son,
How many times must I tell you never to hesitate to ask me for money? I remember how expensive it is to be a fashionable young Parisian gentleman – the plays! the fashions! the mistresses! the restaurants! the adventures! – and I wish only for you to be happy.
The lovely Mimi you described to me in your last letter sounds simply delightful. Make an old man happy and buy her some jewels, saying that they are from me. Then write to me describing the way she smiles and kisses your cheek. Ah, to be young again! (And, although I'm sure your thoughts could not be farther from her at the moment, I will tell your dear Clarisse that you send your fondest greetings. How the poor girl pines for you and marks the days until you return! I believe that she will have your wedding planned out before you even propose, but do not trouble yourself with such things. Sweet Mimi can be your rose today; dear Clarisse will be your rock as you age.)
Until we meet next, take care of yourself and your loves. Live life to its fullest, and make the Enjolras family proud.
Your doting father
Attached to the letter was a certificate stamped with the family's official seal authorizing the younger Enjolras to withdraw 3000 francs from the elder's account in the Bank of Paris.
Enjolras gently folded the certificate and placed it in his pocket. Feeling ill, he regarded the letter a final time before unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk and hiding it inside a folder containing similar letters that told the tale of a handsome, carefree, fashionable young man who existed only on paper and in his father's heart.
The night before the revolution, whenever it came, Enjolras would burn the letters. Only then would he be whole again.
Until that moment, there was a nation to save. There were 3000 francs in his pocket, with the promise of thousands more waiting on his whim; surely the lives that depended on that money were more important than his vanity.
He only hoped that the republic would accept a false idol.