I always wondered what would happen if they did win….I wondered if he ever pondered it. Would he become another Robespierre, or would he truly bring about the Republic to which he devoted his life to? Sometimes, when he would turn that cold glare on me, as he often did, I would think he would become another fanatical dictator, sending anyone who didn't agree with his ideals to the guillotine. Other times, I'd see a flash of something else behind that cold marble face, and then I'd be convinced that he would achieve his goals, that he would bring about a new Republic where people could be happy. And then I remembered that I was a cynic and the world and all her cruelties do not allow such things to come about.
There are many times, thousands of times when I wished and wish I could have just walked away from him. Walked away from those silly dreams of revolution that fueled him and the eight others that followed him, although I don't know if I'd count Pontmercy in that mostly due to the fact that he was mooning over some handkerchief most of the time. Just walk away and never see him or any of the others again.
Courfeyrac, with his fiery passion for life and his constant talk of his current lover (be it male or female at the time).
Jehan, with his shy way about him, his love for flowers and poetry making him dear to all; even me.
Bahorel, the young Jewish wrestler, who loved nothing more than a good fight.
Joly, the hypochondriac who, despite his paranoia, was often very cheerful and a joy to be around.
Bossuet, or Lesgles, or L'Aigle; whichever you'd like to call him, with a constant smile on his face despite his constant bad luck.
Combeferre, the most calm and rational of all of us, Saint Etienne, as we called him, teasingly.
Feuilly, the young orphan who made fans for a living, his brown hat cocked jauntily to the side, though his eyes often looked older than he did.
Pontmercy, the dreamer. Always dreaming about someone name Ursula and pining away for her, as if his heart were broken without her.
And last, but certainly not least in any shape or form, Enjolras. The leader and the shining sun of the Les Amis. Brilliant, handsome, and utterly captivating, yet cold and harsh as marble and stone, those beautiful blue eyes able to cut through bone and flesh with one look. Trust me, I would know.
There were so many times when I just wanted to walk away from the lot of them because I knew, I just knew that this was going to go nowhere. It was not going to succeed – there was no way it ever would. But then, as soon as I made up my mind to leave, I would remember Courfeyrac reminding me to bring something tomorrow, or Jehan asking if I would please very politely read a piece he wrote, or Bossuet and Joly reminding me that we were going to go out for drinks before a meeting the next day, or even a cold statement from Enjolras that went something along the lines of not wanting to see me drunk tomorrow, which my brain took of course to mean that he still wanted to see me anyway.
So was I part of the Les Amis?
Now, that is a very hard question to answer. I never believed in what they did, and I never did anything to help them in their cause. I argued constantly with their leader, and often made him very angry at me, which I, of course, deserved. I was cynical and often drunk, mocking them and their cause.
And yet, was I part of them?
Perhaps there was a voice that was needed within the ranks to raise doubt, to say: "Slow down a bit and look at what you're doing", because, though Combeferre was the rational one, he still believed in the cause and supported it nearly unconditionally.
Then, perhaps, maybe I was that voice?
Then, perhaps, maybe….I was one of them? I was their friend, their companion, they could not imagine each day without me as I could not imagine it without them? Can such a thing be possible?
Perhaps….