As In Life
It was not unusual that the student was alone; oftentimes he retreated to the back of the café and remained there all night, working determinedly far into the night with the meager light of a single candle. Yet tonight, the candle had been extinguished and the young man remained, silently contemplative, at the back table, as the patrons of the café left. Drunkards, among them the constantly inebriated Grantaire, shuffled through the door and into the darkness, once silent but now filled with rowdy cries and catcalls. Obviously the ladies of the night were back – rather late, the student mused, for them to be out; it was close to morning.
Eventually, the café was silent, and deserted, except for Enjolras. He remained in his chair, unmoving, for a moment, then glanced about the building, as if checking to see if anyone was still there.
It was as hushed as the grave – his grave, the man, little more than a boy, told himself; his grave, in a matter of months – weeks – days – he did not know any longer. Only that it would soon come – very soon.
From his pocket Enjolras took out a small object. Bent over it in the moonlight, his lower lip jutted out as he examined the candle. As he straightened and set it upon the table, a ray of light caught his profile in the semi-darkness, highlighting half of his face and setting the other half in shadow. "As in life, as in death," Enjolras murmured to himself; he knew how he appeared, though he could not see for sure.
For the next few minutes – or perhaps hours – as if holding a vigil, he took out another candle – and another – the same process every time, repeating himself.
At long last, a row of candles rested on the polished wooden surface of the table. He gazed at them for a moment, then nodded, half-smiling to himself. They will do.
Producing a match, he lit the candles that stood before him, one by one. The flickering light of the flames shot across his face for an instant every time a candle burst into fire. He smiled once, a slightly bitter, torn smile that perhaps was not really a smile. Perhaps it was only the way he looked when he wept.
The candles glimmered, alight, sending an expression of joy flickering across the face of the boy for no more than an instant. This pale wraith of happiness thrilled him to the bone. As it did every night – as it had, nightly, for over a year.
He brought his hand close to the flame, and watched the golden blaze dart about his fingertips. Closer and closer – and then he tore his hand away, the moment before they touched him, as if flirting with the delicate tongues of flame that would have eaten away at his fingertips, had they come any nearer to him.
Again and again he played with the candles. Again and again he flirted with danger.
This was his life. A duel with peril.
This summer Enjolras would be battling his own fear. What he did nightly, but on a higher scale. What more could any man wish for?
From his coat pocket the golden-haired boy, silhouetted in a combination of moonlight and firelight, removed yet another candle. He lit it and watched the flames dance before him.
Enjolras knew not how long it was until his grave came to meet him. He knew not when fear would challenge him to a duel.
He struck another match. Lit another candle.
What more could any man wish for?