Jean Prouvaire woke up slowly, as if from a deep sleep. He was lying on his back in the street, staring into the lightening sky. How had he got here? He tried to remember. All he could recall was a gun shot, and then silence and burning pain.
Shakily, he got to his feet. Surprisingly, he was not in any pain. It is strange, he thought, there should be pain. Haven't I been shot? A strange fog seemed to hang before his eyes, clouding the view of the street in front of him. Perhaps he was still sleeping.
He began to walk, unsteadily, forward. He had to get back to the barricade. They would need all the men they could get. He feared the fighting was over. He could hear no gunshots, nor shouting. If they were finished, what had the outcome been? With this horrible thought in mind, he tripped forward, shuddering as he stepped over a nasty red stain on the pavement. Prouvaire was unsure what direction to take, but some inner force seemed to guide him.
At last, he came upon it, the vast wall he'd fought behind just the night before. No, he realized, it is no longer a wall. Scattered in the streets were it's remains, chairs, tables, barrels, all strewn about as if thrown there. No, it can't have fallen. We can't have lost. He stood and stared at the wreckage, scarcely believing it and not wanting to believe it.
Through the thick mist he saw figures moving around among the wreckage.
"It's me!" he shouted, before he thought, "I've come back!" he leaped the piles to reach where the figures stood.
As he approached, it became clear that they were not his companions. Some carried muskets, pacing back and forth. Others carried large shapes. They lugged these into a nearby cart. Nobody seemed to notice him as he crept forward. He knew, or had a vague idea, what was being stacked onto the cart. They are taking the rubble to be sold, he lied to himself, though he knew it was a ridiculous notion. Nobody would pay for the splintered remains of a failed revolution.
The cart was full. At first, Prouvaire could not even tell they were bodies, they almost looked like squashed vegetables. What gave it away was an arm, dangling from the back of the cart. Timidly, Prouvaire stepped forward. He took the hand in his, gently, as if it was a child's. It was a rough hand, a working man's hand. Feuilly, he thought, though it could have belonged to any of the men who'd died last night.
Still grasping the hand, he looked up slowly to see the rest of the pile. The bodies were an indistinguishable heap. He could not even tell which were revolutionaries and which were the national guard. They all wore the same colour: red. Prouvaire realized he was shaking. He gripped the stiff hand tighter, trying to give it some warmth.
A sudden shout broke the silence. For a moment, Prouvaire thought he'd been seen, but it was simply the cart-man calling to his horse. He dropped the hand as the cart lurched forward. It must have hit some bump, because something round fell from the cart and landed with a horrible thump at his feet. It was a head on a frayed neck. It rolled slightly, and Prouvaire jumped back and shut his eyes tightly. His breathing came quickly, and he fought to keep from screaming. At last, he forced his eyes open and made himself bend down to see if he could recognize the face.
The face, he did not. It was drenched in blood, and the mouth was contorted into a horrific sneer of agony. It was the head as a whole that Prouvaire recognized: it was bald.
"L'aigle," he said. His fingers gently traced the shape of the head, but he drew them away quickly and hurried the other way, toward the destroyed barricade and the Corinth. There were more bodies along his way, but he could not tell one from the other. He did not let himself stop. These were too mutilated and broken to be real people.
At the door to the Corinth were two guards, but they let him pass without comment. What did he expect to find here? His friends meeting in the back room, like always? Grantaire, with his bottles drunk on the floor?
The Corinth was filled with people, dead and living. The living carried or dragged the dead. Prouvaire passed the table where they'd laid Mabeuf. It was now tipped on his side, still stained with his blood.
Prouvaire began to ascend the stairs to the second floor, climbing over scattered furniture and bodies. It was on this floor, in the next room, where he found Enjolras. He was dead, and scarcely recognizable as a human being. He was pinned to the wall with so many bullet shots that he did not seem to have a body. Only his face remained untouched, as heroic and beautiful as it was in life. At his feet, like a faithful dog, was the body of Grantaire in a pool of blood.
Prouvaire stared at them for a long time. How could Enjolras be dead? Surely he could not be dead. He was more than a man: he was superhuman. Men like him did not die. Prouvaire crossed the floor. He kneeled in front of his dead leader next to Grantaire, his knees soaking in the blood. Reaching out a quivering hand, he touched Enjolras' lips, remembering all the grand words that had come from them. He'd said it was an honor to die. Where was the honor in this? This was a butchery. Perhaps, he thought, it was an honor to die, but a shame to live. How did I live?
He stood up so he was level to the man on the wall. Leaning forward, he kissed the cold lips. He felt that, although he was dead, that the kiss had been received. Tears came to his eyes at last, and, weeping, he backed out of the room. Where could he go now? Though he could no longer see in front of him, his feet carried him to the back room where they'd met. It was completely empty. The chairs were vacant.
Prouvaire collapsed into one of them, burying his hands in his arms. He wept a long time. He could not stop. What good had it done him to survive this? How had the guards who'd shot him missed their mark?
Perhaps because he was so lost in grief, he did not notice the room grew warmer. He did not notice any change, in fact, until he heard a voice.
"Look who's come at last!"
Prouvaire startled and raised his head. The chairs were filled with people, and the table with a feast. He stared from face to face, in wonder, though he did not have much time too look. Feuilly had fairly thrown himself on top of him to embrace him. When at last, Feuilly released him, Prouvaire saw L'aigle (whose head was not blown off) and all the rest of his friends he'd thought dead. It was Courfeyrac who'd spoken, and at the head of the table was Enjolras, looking more majestic than he ever had in life. He had been talking to Combeferre, but gave an affirming nod to him when he'd appeared.
"But...you're all dead," he gasped, "I saw you."
"We are dead," said Courfeyrac with a long laugh, "But so are you, silly boy."
Prouvaire had no time to respond before a bottle was thrust into his hands.
"The wine is superb," said Grantaire, "And it never seems to run out."
He took a small sip and found that Grantaire had been right. He felt neither hungry nor thirsty, so he pushed away from the table to look out a window in the wall.
He was looking out onto a green pasture that seemed to spread on for eternity. It was dotted here and there was little houses. A path, winding from the Corinth door, weaved among them. Along this path were many people. Prouvaire saw Gavroche, the little boy, talking with a rather pretty girl several years older than himself. Far away from the path was a tall man in a hat. He did not walk but stared up at the sky, as if searching for something. It was that police inspector – Javert, who'd been at the barricades. He saw, too, national gaurdsmen, but t hey had no guns, and they walked hand-in-hand with people whom yesterday they'd shot at.
"You see, it is as I said." Enjolras had come up behind him, "The human race will be uplifted, delivered, consoled."
Prouvaire could say nothing. His voice was lost within new tears that were falling fast down his cheeks. All he could do was turn to face Enjolras. He wanted to smile, but felt that he was too happy to smile.
Enjolras leaned forward and pressed his lips to Prouvaire's, returning the kiss that had been given earlier. All Prouvaire could do was wrap his arms around his neck and sob. When at last, he pulled away, Prouvaire wiped his eyes with the back of his had and turned back to the window. He noticed in the field something he hadn't before: a large garden growing close to the Corinth. It was one large enough to be lost in, with flowers in any shade imaginable. He glanced over his shoulder back at Enjolras and his face broke into a wide smile, though his eyes still held tears.
"It is beautiful," was all he could say.