Combeferre choked back a sob.
The day had gone completely to ruin. At the funeral procession he had been able to delude himself into thinking that all of their planning, all of their hard work, all of their dreams were about to pay off.
He was tired of being Enjolras' conscience, the soft voice of reason, the steadying hand, and reassuring smile. What Combeferre wanted more than anything, was a chance to fall completely apart at the seams…if only for a moment.
Even in the cellar, Combeferre could still hear the Guardsmen talking and moving about at the end of the street, and felt sickened.
They had killed his best friend.
Oh, he knew that sometimes he gave the mistaken impression that Enjolras was his most trusted of his comrades…but no, that title always went to the one more subdued than him…Jean Prouvaire.
Enjolras didn't seem to care that an innocent heart lay still, that ink-stained fingers were growing cold, that a pretty girl in a flat would never again here a love poem spoken by that strange boy-man voice.
Combeferre clenched his fist briefly. The wretch had cried over that blasted old man…he had kissed the stranger's forehead, while tears trickled down his cheeks. The old fool had obviously been disturbed…not some sort of hero…and yet…
They heard Prouvaire's death cries, and Enjolras' only response was to tell the spy he would die.
Enjolras had turned away from the spy and Combeferre after he had spoken his sentencing of the agent. The cold aloofness that made Enjolras, essentially what he was became too much for Combeferre to witness.
Suddenly, Combeferre was overcome with such rage it almost blinded him, and he wrenched Enjolras back to face him.
"That won't bring him back!" He shouted. "What good will it do? Do you think Jean Prouvaire cares? He's dead, you miserable wretch! Do you hear me? He's dead!" He broke off into a deranged, half-sobbing laugh. "A nice way to honor someone who loved life…who loved people…who wanted more than anything to see things resolved without bloodshed…." He shook Enjolras roughly. "Avenge him by killing a man. Do you know what he asked me when we took the spy prisoner? Do you?!"
Enjolras shook his head with impassiveness. His eyes were almost blank…calm….serene.
"He wondered if the spy was a grandpere. He was worried that somewhere out there, there might be little children missing their grandfather." Combeferre calmed slightly, and his voice took on an imploring tone. "Don't you see, Enjolras? Jean Prouvaire was gentle and good and innocent." His head throbbed and his throat ached from shouting.
Enjolras put a steadying hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "And his death will be avenged with the death of this spy." He said quietly as he left the room.
The spy looked at Combeferre with a sickly smile that chilled his heart. "I think your friend missed your point."
Combeferre glanced at the spy sadly. "He always has."
I do not own Les Miserables. Review if you so desire. Cheers!