A/N: I started this a few months ago, then promptly forgot it (swept up in great bat-like wings). It started life as a rather more pessimistic fic based on a line by Colonel Edward Marcus Despard on the scaffold - that there were many better fates, and some worse. Combeferre's fate in surviving was to be undoubtedly the worse one. But in writing the story, the tone changed.

The story plays merry hell with French history and has a rather wistful vision of a successful Second Republic. The opening scenario, and Combeferre's role in it, may stretch the suspension of disbelief. Needless to say, it's all incredibly AU (Arago was not merely in poor health by 1856, he was also rather dead).

The Truth We Owe the Dead

Chapter 1 –Aristodemus

Paris, 1856

The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.

There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.

I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.

But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

- A E Housman

"We owe respect to the living; to the dead we owe only truth." – Voltaire

"They're fools. Absolute fools. I should have made it a condition of standing down that you be the candidate. Garnier-Pagès is advance of you in one regard only – he is more the politician."

Combeferre smiled at his friend, slipping his arm around that of the venerable politician, ostensibly in affection, but also in support. Arago's health wasn't what it had been, and the last eight years, first in the Provisional Government during the transitional period and then as President of the National Assembly, had worn him down. If Arago had any regrets about stepping back now that finally the Republic was settled on a more even keel, he did not indicate it. His sole frustration was over his successor to the role.

"And as a more effective politician, Garnier-Pagès is the more suitable candidate. He can mediate between the factions…" Arago interupted Combeferre with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

"It was you who built those bridges in '48. Had it not been for you, the Republic would have been swamped in a tide of discord between the workers, the countryside and the bourgeoise within months of its inception. I shall never forget your sessions with Blanc over the reform of the workshops…"

"Peace, peace" laughed Combeferre. "The campaigning for the nomination is over – it will be Garnier-Pagès, and for that I am not sorry. Like you, I look forward to devoting more time to other pursuits. And I sometimes think your ardent support for me stems more from my contributions, however humble, to your work on the transverse theory of light waves than it does for anything I've done in the National Assembly."

"You work with light in more ways than one– and should be honoured no less for championing universal sufferage and the abolition of slavery than for observing light waves. But you are right – I do look forward to retiring from active political life." He turned his pale eyes to the dome of the Paris Observatory, in the grounds of which they strolled. For his friend, Combeferre knew, the soaring structure would be little else but a sillouette against the bright sunlit sky. He felt more than a passing sorrow to think that those eyes, such remarkable observers of men and events, were beginning to lose their sight and that his friend lived in a darkening world. Arago, however, did not invite nor indulge pity.

"I am content to leave the nation's affairs in the hands of those who now hold power – the representatives of the people. You, I trust, will not allow science to be forgotten. Our revolution of scientific knowledge in this century cannot be wholly superseded by the political revolution. And the workers trust you – they know that you strive to ensure that they are not ground beneath the wheels of the machines that advance with science."

Combeferre nodded absently, distracted by a voice that echoed from somewhere long ago. A fragment of a phrase in a lyrical voice – we will be the masters of water, fire, and of air, and we will be that which the ancient gods formerly were to us! He frowned. Who had said that? Part of a conversation – a table lit by a handful of guttering tallow candles, all they could afford as the rest of the money had gone to the printer's press. His rooms on the top floor. Enjolras, of course. Enjolras.

It was a chilly March night and they had to be sparing with the fuel, but they had not cared – he with a blanket around his shoulders, Enjolras still with his greatcoat on, both fired with the sort of enthusiasm in the young that keeps them warm. Combeferre had been talking of new developments in transportation, had spoken of the applications of steam, of new forms of propolsion that would change shipping, of the Ligne de Lyon - Saint-Etienne railway which would be transporting passengers before the year was out. His friend had assumed that thoughtful, meditative air, which others often mistook for the look of one lost in daydreams. Until his eyes widened as he saw the vision complete before him.

"What an idea of the future you put before me!" he had exclaimed, and then was on his feet with restive impulsiveness. "Think of it, Combeferre – a nation and oceans connected by fast and sure means of transportation. The commerce and wealth it will bring the people. Inexpensive transportation of the masses – they can travel, seek work, free their bodies as they free their minds. Yes, for such freedom of movement will surely accommodate a freedom of ideas. And even the sky shall not hold us earth bound - "

He soared with ideas, one after the other, and though not naturally a pessimist Combeferre felt constrained to point out that the glorious future was not untrammelled. "There will always be those who seek to control this progress to their own ends, or see threats in it." He pointed out, not unkindly. "You know that there are already powerful interests opposing the development of the railways, fearing it will harm their monopolies in coastal and canal shipping. And then, simply those who fear it will disrupt the way of life that they have always known. Some of these concerns deserve to be taken into account."

Enjolras moved his hand before him as if impatiently sweeping chess pieces off a board. It was a characteristic gesture that made Combeferre smile wider. "Considerations, yes, but no man can stand in the way of the march of a people's progress…of humanity. These things must come to pass!"

And then he had broken off, but Combeferre knew – from the unfocused eyes, from the occasional movement of his lips, that Enjolras' imagination had been engaged. What did he see? What spires, towers, what strange creations, what vast and illimitable future played out before those blue eyes? One day, he knew, the ideas he saw germinating in Enjolras' words would be more fully articulated in one of his speeches. For now, Combeferre spoke of his own visions, his solid projections of technological progress and things that were already in the progress of becoming. And Enjolras seemed to listen – but how much he absorbed those ideas, of Combeferre's talk of different reciprocating engines and compressionless technology, Combeferre could not guess.

It often happened like this. A phrase uttered in the National Assembly, or even the tone of the speaker, and that particular blue-eyed ghost would stand between him and his fellow legislators. Or a light rill of laughter from a group of students in the Latin Quarter, and he would strain to see which one in the group laughed, whether he had Courfeyrac's wide, wicked, generous mouth. In the earlier years, he had even forgotten sometimes that they were gone, the memory lost in a beat of impulse. A poem he came across – "I must clip that for Jehan…" with realization following hard on the thought that he could not know if Prouvaire cared for poetry now, wherever he was. But the startling clarity of the scene in the apartment, of the soft glow of his dead friend's hair in the candlelight, of the expressions that had played on his face, even the engineering journal on the table in front of him - this clearness, fading now for many years, had returned.

Combeferre shook himself a little. He knew why that particular shade had flickered into sudden life. Les Amis de l'ABC had been much in his thoughts these last few weeks. Enough to call them to his waking mind as well as his dreams.

"I'm sorry, my friend – I realize I'm on political matters again. I know you're well acquainted with these affairs." Arago said kindly, aware of Combeferre's sudden abstraction. "Anyone would think I was reluctant to leave such subjects alone. But I embrace the possibilities before me – well, I must admit, I'll probably continue to dabble a bit in national affairs. I'm interested in all those urban redevelopment plans coming through the Assembly committee. De Lamartine and Blanc are going to have to temper some of the more grandiose expectations of the bourgeoisie if they can't effectively rehouse the poor – a nice wide avenue is no compensation for the loss of what is a home, however much the wind whistles through the chinks and the mortar crumbles. But there, I'm off again."

"Are you still planning on visiting your family in Roussillon?" Combeferre asked politely. The old man nodded.

"And then I will concentrate on my new position at the Academy of Sciences. I shall have to step down from that role as well before many years are out – my eyesight does not allow me to perform my duties as I would wish, and it grows worse." He waved off Combeferre's protests. "No, I'll let someone younger step in as Secretary. I have something to contribute, yes, but then I shall go before I make myself ridiculous. Perhaps I shall have better luck in securing you as my successor in that role." Combeferre smiled – Arago always fought for the interests of his protégés.

"I think perhaps you should consult Le Verrier on that. Though I should enjoy working with him again."

"You mentioned devoting time to other pursuits. Are you finally thinking of starting a family?"

"At my age, that would make me far more ridiculous than anything you could do as Secretary of the Academy of Sciences. No, I want some time writing, and that may require some research."

"Aha! Excellent! What this time? Not another volume in the Second Republic series – it's too soon for that. And there's not enough time to compose it before next year's anniversary anyway. I can't see anything else you can cover in the Revolution series. Will it be a scientific study, then? That condensed work on human anatomy we've discussed." Arago never suffered from a lack of ideas.

"I'm not planning on a scientific text. It will be a history. About a group of men…of friends, from my youth. They perished in the June Rebellion." Combeferre expelled a breath. There, he had said it. The idea that had been vaguely forming now had been codified and given expression to someone else.

"The 1832 rising?" Arago frowned, trying to recall. The Société des Amis du Peuple , that ferocious fighting in St-Merry cloister? Charles Jeanne? You campaigned for his release, didn't you? I did not know you well then, but we discussed it once."

"Yes. We spoke of it during the prison reform debates. He was a brave man, who died in the filth of a gaol. I did not even know while I was writing my petitions and trying to interest someone in his fate that he was already dead. But it is not his story I seek to tell, although I must of necessity make some reference to his loyalty and courage in my work. I am writing of another barricade and others – students and workmen. It is a personal memoir."

"Then you were on the barricades in 1832?" Asked Arago, surprised. Combeferre's expression was bland.

"Until the early hours of June sixth. I was sent away – no, not like those who afterwards tried to disclaim all responsibility for their part, or who never heard a gunshot yet boasted when they felt it was safe to do so that they had been there. Our leader – and he was a remarkable man – ordered me away."

"And that is why you do not speak of it?"

Combeferre shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Important events have happened since. But yes, it did not seem to be my right to speak of them, as they fell there, and I did not."

Arago tucked his cane under his arm and used his free hand to pat the arm Combeferre had tucked around his own.

"We may be thankful for whatever reason he sent you away, Combeferre. Your work for the Republic since has been invaluable. We must respect the sacrifices of those who fell on the barricades in all their long history, but it has fallen to you to play another part, and you have done it admirably."

"I can rationalise that now," Combeferre agreed. "But there was a time when I was not sure which was the worse fate – to remain, or to be condemned to live. At the time, there was no doubt in my mind. They were my brothers." He felt something in him tighten in that old, old spasm of grief. The impulse to speak of them – an impulse that had been growing steadily more imperative – took a hold of him.

"Enjolras – he was our chief – Enjolras was closer even than a brother. Others saw him as a being of light and fire, the Revolution incarnate, and he was those things. But he was also my friend, and I saw him in so many lights and shades…and now he is lost to the passing years. If the people had only known him…the country…but he was still yet in his youth. He had not quite taken his bar exam. We were all young, even the workman in our group, a young fan maker, who for us personified the toilers of the world." He shook his head furiously. "But I'm lapsing into archetypes, and that's not who they were. I could write an article or even a single volume summarising their contributions to the émeutes of 1830 and 1832 and precisely what they accomplished and what they failed to complete. I could analyse where it went wrong, and why 1830 was a betrayal and why in 1832 Enjolras' usually impeccable sense of timing and the mood of the city were so wrong, or so it seems. I could write a pathetic memoir of their lives and their glorious martyrdom. But I want to do none of these things. I want to write something different – a biography of a group of people who were almost historic."

Arago stopped his slow and uncertain steps to face Combeferre, withdrawing his arm, examining with his friend with eyes so keen that it seemed impossible he was half-blind. "Then you must tell their story. But not as another epic in the already lengthy annals of our revolutionary history. And it must be honest. That is all we owe the dead – the truth."

"Enjolras would accept nothing else," Combeferre smiled. "Although I'm sure Courfeyrac would enjoy a bit of embellishment. And Bahorel would prefer the most heroic light cast on our stand…" here he faltered a bit. Bahorel, that extraordinary natural force, went crashing to the ground, run through with a bayonet. Dead in the first assault – oh, Bahorel, I suppose I shall have to write that your impetuous spirit had to pass before the rest.

"And how much of yourself will be in this work? Is this your absolution for surviving – your penance?"

Combeferre considered the question. "No. It is time to take my place among my friends – I shall proudly proclaim my friendship, and my part in the story." He took out his pocket watch. "But I have beguiled the time here too well, François – I shall be late for my appointment at de La Rochefoucauld. Shall I accompany you to your chambers?" Arago waved him off.

"No, I shall be fine to walk back to the Observatory – you go on to this meeting. But if I may-" Combeferre was pained to notice how stiff his fingers were, extracting a notebook from his pocket – "please give me the name of the barricade where your friends perished. And their names. You shall have the archives covered, I know, but I have contacts and may soon have time on my hands as well – I'll keep an eye out for anything of use."

"Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Bahorel, L'aigle" here he quirked again into a grin "or Lesgles, and Feuilly. All save the last were students – more or less. Some less than others" (Bahorel now…what was he again? And Lesgles? Were they still enrolled in June 1832? He needed to remember these things…) "It was at the Rue de la Chanvrerie". Writing excruciatingly slowly, Arago noted the names, checked the occasional spelling.

"And where will you start – with the individual biographical backgrounds?"

"I have a few rough notes, but will need to start at the end rather than the beginning. Over the years I've found back numbers of some of their articles and publications" and a poem or two, he thought, and a sweetly soft voice murmured a line from somewhere on the other side of death. "There was at least one other survivor of the Rue de la Chanvrerie – although I did not know him well, and I have not spoken to him beyond a brief meeting some years ago. I shall start with him.

The two friends parted.

So now it was time to return to Les Amis de l'ABC, and to deliberately evoke the dead he had spent more than two decades respectfully burying. No…not burying. He had always known it would come to this – that he would need to address them one day. And something in him yearned for their company. Now, so far distant, it could not harm him to linger with them once again.

The dead were owed the truth.