June 6, 1832, Rue de la Chanvrerie, Paris
It should be noted that in death, life can be found, that in utter desperation can be seen a spark of courage. Unexpected fearlessness is often provoked by fear itself.
This was the situation that the Friends of the ABC now found themselves in. As all around them their comrades fell, and their barricade of the people was torn apart, they fought like lions, with nothing to live for and everything to die for.
Smoke filled the area, and noise was everywhere. As chaos ensued, comprehensiveness was near impossible. The revolutionaries' cries tore through the air like a storm that was close to over. But their thunder continued loudly, and their lightning gave strength to those around them.
There were two, however, who remained clear of this harsh weather. One was a calm man tied to a post, forced to observe the destruction around him, and the other was a tired young man, who observed nothing in his peaceful sleep. These two were ignored by the pertinacious and violent students around them. Those who cannot fight are insignificant in the rising of a new world.
Besides which, the man tied to the post had been warned earlier by an older man that he "would not be forgotten". This strangely silent creature had waited some time for the old man to return, but the ghostly figure never reentered the dark room. And the prisoner had given death no further thought than that. If he would die, he would die. He did not believe in Fate, but he believed that the mortal affairs of men were themselves conclusively decisive. For this reason, he let out only a small cry when a stray bullet pierced his side.
~
The fighting at last over, the remaining National Guards and soldiers scaled the now-destroyed barricade with ease, and quickly searched the tavern behind it. In the first level they found nothing but death. In the bottom level, which could be called the bottom of hope as well, they found the only signs of life. A young soldier stooped down next to the man bound to the post. Glancing up at his commander, he stated quite plainly, "Sir, here is Police Inspector Javert. He appears to be dead."
The commander nodded, acknowledging Javert's death in the same way he would acknowledge the death of an enemy or unknown: a fact to go on record. "What about this one, Sir?" asked another soldier, extending an arm in an attempt to awaken the drunk sleeping in the corner. The man did not budge. The green bottle of absinthe in front of him was empty.
The commander sternly shook his head. "Leave him. He took no part in this."
At that moment there came an angry shout from nearby. In the darkness, radiant life had been found. It came in the form of light shining off a golden hair, and strength emanating from a stature of a god.
Outraged soldiers crowded around this tall man, ignoring the proud spark in his eye. They poked their guns at him, asking with vengeful voices, "Was it really you who killed the Sergeant of Artillery?"
The young man gave a brave and affirmative answer, with an honesty worthy of the divine. The soldiers looked at each other with shocked anger. Such bluntness had not been expected. Their eyes fell upon this blond leader with incredulity. They seemed not to notice as he opened his shirt, exposing his heart for them to pierce. He invited death.
As the soldiers raised their rifles, the leader of the revolution muttered softly, "Vive la republique!" and thus carried the hopes and dreams of the people beyond his own short life and into an existence much greater.
Just after this brave phrase had been issued, eight bullets pinioned this god of a man into the wall, forever implanting him near the ruined barricade. It was the sound of these bullets that awoke the drunk, and provoked a small groan of life from Inspector Javert.
~
Grantaire slowly began to stir, not necessarily wanting to arouse from his drunken stupor. The first sight he came to realize through blurred vision was that of soldiers leaving. So, he was to be left alone to face what he had missed.
As his mind slowly began to clear, he remember the loud and clear voices of his friends.they had gone off to fight their revolution, to spark
an emeute, to die for the Republic, to claim General Lamarque as their own. And all this while he had merely been an unobservant body.
As Grantaire awoke fully, he stumbled out into the street without first bothering to inspect the tavern. He sought the barricade, and there it met him. This monstrous creation of his friends had been torn to merely a pile of rubble. Grantaire sighed. He knew it would come to this.
No hope for change can last too long.
Outside on the street he found all of them, all of those he had spent a great part of his life with, all of those who had tried to implant their values in him, all of those whom he had shared drinks and stories with. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were lying side by side, Jean Prouvaire was reciting a poem of death, and Feuilly, Bahorel, and Boussuet were still ready to strike with their hands on their guns. They were prepared till the last. Even in death, they fought for a new life.
Joly lay farther from the others, separate from this fateful group. The illness that had so worried him was at last cured. And even little Gavroche had been shot down. That gamin had been part of these students' hopes for the future. Now he too slept soundly on the cold street, with stones for his pillow and blood as his blanket.
But Grantaire remembered another, one whom he had not spoken to much but had taken interest in nonetheless. Courfeyrac's friend - Marius Pontmercy. Where was he? Had some angel carried him away from this deathtrap? Grantaire doubted such beings as angels could exist in hells such as this one. In truth, Grantaire doubted that such beings as angels existed. But while all had thought him asleep, Grantaire had watched through his hazy vision as Marius entered the barricade with a terrible look upon his face, and with unyielding severity joined the destruction.
Grantaire merely stood in silence for a moment, staring at the ground, as if waiting for some great change to occur, or for some spirit to awake him from this unthinkable dream. In that one moment, the air stilled with him, the birds stopped their songs, and it was as if the Earth
herself had stopped moving. Grantaire knew nothing but the loss of his friends, and stood under the enormous sky as if under a shadow of darkness.
After this reverie was broken by a sharp jolt in Grantaire's mind, he came to a realization. Marius was not the only one missing from this battlefield. His heart beating anxiously, Grantaire ran back into the tavern where he had first heard the gunfire.
At the doorway it was as if some invisible obstacle blocked his way. Grantaire could not move, would not move, for what he saw before him. He stopped and knelt on the edge of the wooden floor, his face in his hands, and his soul in torment. It has been said that Grantaire stood for nothing in nothing. But there was one guide to his misshapen ways, one truth that he held dear, one belief that he venerated above all else. And now it lay in front of him, helpless, destroyed.
Grantaire crawled slowly on his hands and knees to Enjolras' corpse. Upon first arrival, he dared not touch this exquisite statue, for he feared that some small sensation may awake him from his peaceful sleep. But upon closer examination Grantaire found himself compelled to place a hand upon Enjolras' forehead, feeling the blood that dwelt there. The youthful leader's eyes were open, and he looked upwards, towards the heavens. Even in death he was looking ahead to the future, at what he was sure would be a better world. And in that moment Grantaire knew that Enjolras' did not fear his own death. He had now joined the great martyrs before him, and in death awaited creation.
"So, the immortal Apollo has been slain at last. But his lyre will always be heard. Requiescat in pacem," Grantaire whispered, removing his hand from Enjolras' forehead.
His words were hopeful, but his heart was broken. It is terrible to die without knowing one is loved, but it is unthinkable to fall without knowing one is admired. Grantaire found that he could not cry, for this death brought many more emotions than sadness. However, he could feel great pain at the loss of his hero. Orestes had been separated from Pylades at last, and the Fates had finally had their turn with the former. Mount Olympus would mourn the passing of such a beauty.
Grantaire silently cursed himself for his habit. Had he not passed out from drink, he was sure that he would have stood beside Enjolras, and been accepted by him at last. Instead, Enjolras passed with the only memory of Grantaire being one of disgust. Grantaire was stuck in his mortal existence with the worship of someone whose time on Earth had ended.
In this vigilant trance, Grantaire had slowly become aware of one other life in the room. Passing along a final and absolute parting to Enjolras, he left his god behind, and turned to this other mortal who had called to him. Grantaire's eyes fell upon a wounded man strapped to a post, fallen awkwardly to the floor and still bleeding profusely from his side. He immediately ran to this prisoner. If Enjolras could not be saved, perhaps Grantaire could redeem himself in the dead man's heart by helping this wounded being.
As he had done for Enjolras, Grantaire knelt down beside this man and surveyed his current situation. It came to his mind that if the man was bound, he was most likely a prisoner condemned to death. But Grantaire was intrigued by the fact that all those who had fought had died, and that the one who had watched it with a stern but involved eye had survived, albeit with wounds. This furthered his own belief that only observers such as himself saw society for what it truly was: a wasteful mess of humanity that could not endure its own differences.
This man was obviously still alive, noticeable by slight, restrained movements and low moans, but would not be for long if Grantaire did not find help. Not bothering to search for any form of identification because of the blood that covered this crippled body, Grantaire carefully untied the man and pulled him forward. He was nearly twice Grantaire's size in weight and height, and Grantaire only clumsily was able to support him. "Can you walk?" he asked, wondering if the prisoner was in any condition to speak.
The man gave no answer, and no motion which would help Grantaire carry him. It was almost as if he welcomed death. But Grantaire refused to see another fighter fall today. So he hoisted the tall captive up to his shoulder, and slightly dragged him along.
Grantaire knew that he would be arrested on the charge of revolutionary activities, although he had had no part in them, if we were seen leaving the barricade. So he stepped as secretively as was possible out of
the Corinth and headed for the labyrinth known to all men who knew Paris well: the sewer under the Saint-Denis.
It should be noted that in death, life can be found, that in utter desperation can be seen a spark of courage. Unexpected fearlessness is often provoked by fear itself.
This was the situation that the Friends of the ABC now found themselves in. As all around them their comrades fell, and their barricade of the people was torn apart, they fought like lions, with nothing to live for and everything to die for.
Smoke filled the area, and noise was everywhere. As chaos ensued, comprehensiveness was near impossible. The revolutionaries' cries tore through the air like a storm that was close to over. But their thunder continued loudly, and their lightning gave strength to those around them.
There were two, however, who remained clear of this harsh weather. One was a calm man tied to a post, forced to observe the destruction around him, and the other was a tired young man, who observed nothing in his peaceful sleep. These two were ignored by the pertinacious and violent students around them. Those who cannot fight are insignificant in the rising of a new world.
Besides which, the man tied to the post had been warned earlier by an older man that he "would not be forgotten". This strangely silent creature had waited some time for the old man to return, but the ghostly figure never reentered the dark room. And the prisoner had given death no further thought than that. If he would die, he would die. He did not believe in Fate, but he believed that the mortal affairs of men were themselves conclusively decisive. For this reason, he let out only a small cry when a stray bullet pierced his side.
~
The fighting at last over, the remaining National Guards and soldiers scaled the now-destroyed barricade with ease, and quickly searched the tavern behind it. In the first level they found nothing but death. In the bottom level, which could be called the bottom of hope as well, they found the only signs of life. A young soldier stooped down next to the man bound to the post. Glancing up at his commander, he stated quite plainly, "Sir, here is Police Inspector Javert. He appears to be dead."
The commander nodded, acknowledging Javert's death in the same way he would acknowledge the death of an enemy or unknown: a fact to go on record. "What about this one, Sir?" asked another soldier, extending an arm in an attempt to awaken the drunk sleeping in the corner. The man did not budge. The green bottle of absinthe in front of him was empty.
The commander sternly shook his head. "Leave him. He took no part in this."
At that moment there came an angry shout from nearby. In the darkness, radiant life had been found. It came in the form of light shining off a golden hair, and strength emanating from a stature of a god.
Outraged soldiers crowded around this tall man, ignoring the proud spark in his eye. They poked their guns at him, asking with vengeful voices, "Was it really you who killed the Sergeant of Artillery?"
The young man gave a brave and affirmative answer, with an honesty worthy of the divine. The soldiers looked at each other with shocked anger. Such bluntness had not been expected. Their eyes fell upon this blond leader with incredulity. They seemed not to notice as he opened his shirt, exposing his heart for them to pierce. He invited death.
As the soldiers raised their rifles, the leader of the revolution muttered softly, "Vive la republique!" and thus carried the hopes and dreams of the people beyond his own short life and into an existence much greater.
Just after this brave phrase had been issued, eight bullets pinioned this god of a man into the wall, forever implanting him near the ruined barricade. It was the sound of these bullets that awoke the drunk, and provoked a small groan of life from Inspector Javert.
~
Grantaire slowly began to stir, not necessarily wanting to arouse from his drunken stupor. The first sight he came to realize through blurred vision was that of soldiers leaving. So, he was to be left alone to face what he had missed.
As his mind slowly began to clear, he remember the loud and clear voices of his friends.they had gone off to fight their revolution, to spark
an emeute, to die for the Republic, to claim General Lamarque as their own. And all this while he had merely been an unobservant body.
As Grantaire awoke fully, he stumbled out into the street without first bothering to inspect the tavern. He sought the barricade, and there it met him. This monstrous creation of his friends had been torn to merely a pile of rubble. Grantaire sighed. He knew it would come to this.
No hope for change can last too long.
Outside on the street he found all of them, all of those he had spent a great part of his life with, all of those who had tried to implant their values in him, all of those whom he had shared drinks and stories with. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were lying side by side, Jean Prouvaire was reciting a poem of death, and Feuilly, Bahorel, and Boussuet were still ready to strike with their hands on their guns. They were prepared till the last. Even in death, they fought for a new life.
Joly lay farther from the others, separate from this fateful group. The illness that had so worried him was at last cured. And even little Gavroche had been shot down. That gamin had been part of these students' hopes for the future. Now he too slept soundly on the cold street, with stones for his pillow and blood as his blanket.
But Grantaire remembered another, one whom he had not spoken to much but had taken interest in nonetheless. Courfeyrac's friend - Marius Pontmercy. Where was he? Had some angel carried him away from this deathtrap? Grantaire doubted such beings as angels could exist in hells such as this one. In truth, Grantaire doubted that such beings as angels existed. But while all had thought him asleep, Grantaire had watched through his hazy vision as Marius entered the barricade with a terrible look upon his face, and with unyielding severity joined the destruction.
Grantaire merely stood in silence for a moment, staring at the ground, as if waiting for some great change to occur, or for some spirit to awake him from this unthinkable dream. In that one moment, the air stilled with him, the birds stopped their songs, and it was as if the Earth
herself had stopped moving. Grantaire knew nothing but the loss of his friends, and stood under the enormous sky as if under a shadow of darkness.
After this reverie was broken by a sharp jolt in Grantaire's mind, he came to a realization. Marius was not the only one missing from this battlefield. His heart beating anxiously, Grantaire ran back into the tavern where he had first heard the gunfire.
At the doorway it was as if some invisible obstacle blocked his way. Grantaire could not move, would not move, for what he saw before him. He stopped and knelt on the edge of the wooden floor, his face in his hands, and his soul in torment. It has been said that Grantaire stood for nothing in nothing. But there was one guide to his misshapen ways, one truth that he held dear, one belief that he venerated above all else. And now it lay in front of him, helpless, destroyed.
Grantaire crawled slowly on his hands and knees to Enjolras' corpse. Upon first arrival, he dared not touch this exquisite statue, for he feared that some small sensation may awake him from his peaceful sleep. But upon closer examination Grantaire found himself compelled to place a hand upon Enjolras' forehead, feeling the blood that dwelt there. The youthful leader's eyes were open, and he looked upwards, towards the heavens. Even in death he was looking ahead to the future, at what he was sure would be a better world. And in that moment Grantaire knew that Enjolras' did not fear his own death. He had now joined the great martyrs before him, and in death awaited creation.
"So, the immortal Apollo has been slain at last. But his lyre will always be heard. Requiescat in pacem," Grantaire whispered, removing his hand from Enjolras' forehead.
His words were hopeful, but his heart was broken. It is terrible to die without knowing one is loved, but it is unthinkable to fall without knowing one is admired. Grantaire found that he could not cry, for this death brought many more emotions than sadness. However, he could feel great pain at the loss of his hero. Orestes had been separated from Pylades at last, and the Fates had finally had their turn with the former. Mount Olympus would mourn the passing of such a beauty.
Grantaire silently cursed himself for his habit. Had he not passed out from drink, he was sure that he would have stood beside Enjolras, and been accepted by him at last. Instead, Enjolras passed with the only memory of Grantaire being one of disgust. Grantaire was stuck in his mortal existence with the worship of someone whose time on Earth had ended.
In this vigilant trance, Grantaire had slowly become aware of one other life in the room. Passing along a final and absolute parting to Enjolras, he left his god behind, and turned to this other mortal who had called to him. Grantaire's eyes fell upon a wounded man strapped to a post, fallen awkwardly to the floor and still bleeding profusely from his side. He immediately ran to this prisoner. If Enjolras could not be saved, perhaps Grantaire could redeem himself in the dead man's heart by helping this wounded being.
As he had done for Enjolras, Grantaire knelt down beside this man and surveyed his current situation. It came to his mind that if the man was bound, he was most likely a prisoner condemned to death. But Grantaire was intrigued by the fact that all those who had fought had died, and that the one who had watched it with a stern but involved eye had survived, albeit with wounds. This furthered his own belief that only observers such as himself saw society for what it truly was: a wasteful mess of humanity that could not endure its own differences.
This man was obviously still alive, noticeable by slight, restrained movements and low moans, but would not be for long if Grantaire did not find help. Not bothering to search for any form of identification because of the blood that covered this crippled body, Grantaire carefully untied the man and pulled him forward. He was nearly twice Grantaire's size in weight and height, and Grantaire only clumsily was able to support him. "Can you walk?" he asked, wondering if the prisoner was in any condition to speak.
The man gave no answer, and no motion which would help Grantaire carry him. It was almost as if he welcomed death. But Grantaire refused to see another fighter fall today. So he hoisted the tall captive up to his shoulder, and slightly dragged him along.
Grantaire knew that he would be arrested on the charge of revolutionary activities, although he had had no part in them, if we were seen leaving the barricade. So he stepped as secretively as was possible out of
the Corinth and headed for the labyrinth known to all men who knew Paris well: the sewer under the Saint-Denis.