This is the first in what will hopefully become a series of shorts about...graves, as far as I can tell.
After the July Revolution, a bunch of enthusiastic republicans tried to find Robespierre's remains, said to be buried somewhere near the Parc Monceau. They were unsuccessful, and the body remains lost to this day.
Not my characters etc etc. Reviews are full of holiday joy.
It is the first day of August, 1830, and all about the edge of the Parc Monceau, little clusters of men are occupying themselves by digging trenches in the dry but well-maintained lawn. Sweaty and covered in dust, many have stripped down to their shirtsleeves in both a concession to the heat and as an affirmation of the heady egalitarian spirit that drives their shovels into the resisting dirt. In any other circumstances, they would be instantly set upon by angry policemen, but given that they have just succeeded in overthrowing a monarch and still have their arms at hand, no one dares to challenge them as they intently ruin the aesthetics of one of Paris' loveliest parks in search of a small body with a shattered jaw, perhaps clothed in the remnants of a sky-blue coat.
There are some attempts at order, in the beginning, with talk of the groups following a rough archeological grid, but the thoroughly democratic diggers soon decide that they prefer to follow their own hearts and intuition, running enthusiastically toward a seemingly arbitrary point and setting to work as if guided by water-witching rods instead of flailing shovels. A few go much farther into the park than is necessary, tearing up shrubs and flowerbeds with abandon.
One man, however, never runs and only uproots grass. Looking slightly dazed, he wanders toward a lonely patch of lawn, far away from the other diggers. He closes his eyes for a few moments, bowing his head toward the earth as if in prayer, then plunges his blade into the soil with a soft grunt.
Several hours later, his pit reaches up to his chest, causing everything but his wobbling Phrygian cap to disappear every time he bends down for another scoop of dirt. His yellow hair is dark, lank, and wet while his normally immaculate clothing and pale skin are both an uneven brown, the sweat and clay making the numerous cuts and scrapes on his body sting uncomfortably. He digs more gently than efficiency would demand, afraid of damaging that for which he searches. He is so involved in the rhythm of his work that he jumps slightly as a shadow falls over him and a familiar voice comments,
"I thought I'd find you here. Looking for old green-glasses, are you?"
He swivels his head upwards, blinking into the harsh sunlight. His cravat, long loosened and draped over the back of his neck for protection from sunburn, slides off and falls in a heap at the bottom of the pit. "Courfeyrac."
"You know, if he were going to resurrect himself from the soil in a blaze of glory, he probably would have done it by now. You've missed 9 Thermidor by a full five days."
"I daresay we were doing rather more important work then."
"Exactly. Do you think he would have wanted to miss the fun?"
Enjolras lets go of his shovel and places his hand reverently on the wall of the hole. "We found his spirit a few days ago. We now have the duty to allow his body the same honor." He laughs hoarsely. "The man just won't leave us in peace."
Courfeyrac looks down dubiously. "Judging by you, I'd say it's the other way around."
He is barely able to duck in time, and the shovelful of dirt aimed for his head manages to knock off his hat. "Fine, then!" he yells indignantly. "Keep your mysticism! And I was going to offer you something to drink!"
Nevertheless, he returns a half-hour later with food, a flask of water, and a glass of wine, hands them down into the earth, and then wanders bemusedly through the decimated gardens until dusk. When it is almost too dark to see, he hoists the filthy, exhausted Enjolras out of the chin-deep hole with a fond sigh of exasperation.
Enjolras throws his red bonnet into the pit and Courfeyrac matches it with a handful of uprooted flowers. They crumble a few clumps of dirt over the edge before wandering home, each lost in his own thoughts.
