It was cold. Enjolras braced himself as he slid from standing to kneeling to sitting, and finally to lying on the stone floor for his first night in prison. He tensed his muscles. He didn't want to curl up into the fetal position, the position of the weak and helpless. He didn't—

But the prison was dark, he reminded himself. No one could see him.

So he curled his body and hugged his legs, hoping to preserve body heat. His back was pressed against the stone wall; eventually that would be better than being in the middle of the cell. But his thin shirt—he had been stripped of his overcoat—let all the coldness of the wall through.

It was cold, cold. Enjolras was miserable.

But I am here for my mother, he thought. Here for my country.

So he began to hum, and then sing softly.

Si César m'avait donné
La gloire et la guerre
Et qu'il me fallût quitter
L'amour de ma mère
Je dirais au grand César,
Reprends ton sceptre et ton char
J'aime mieux ma mère, ô gué !
J'aime
mieux ma mère.

His breath warmed his hands, so he sang it again.

If Caesar gave me
Glory and war
And for it I must leave
The love of my mother
I would say to grand Caesar,
Take back your scepter and chariot!
I love my mother more, alas!
I love my mother more.

"Ma mère est la République," he whispered, as he faded off to sleep. "My mother is the Republic."