"These rebels are ruthless. They live to stir up trouble. As we are fighting the chaos that they bring - that idealized 'freedom', we must show them no mercy, because it would not be shown likewise. They are murderers and theives, all. Take no chances. Spare no lives. Order is more important than a few schoolboys who think they know what is best."
\
The rain was trickling down outside of the Café Musain, much to Joly's chagrin.
"Are you sure we have to go outside?" questioned he from the depths of his enormous coat.
"Yeah, that's what Enj said," Bossuet replied as he leaned against the door next to Courfeyrac, who was fidgeting impatiently beside the aforementioned hypochondriac Joly.
"And then what?" continued Joly. This was the third time he had asked the question.
Bossuet sighed. "We get the signal from Combeferre, evacuate the building, seize the furniture, then join capital R and Bahorel on the Rue de Chanvrerie, just over there."
"Sounds good."
"Does it?" Courfeyrac, who had since been silent with anticipation, spoke up. He looked somberly at Joly. "You're going to be handling dozens of chairs, tables."
Bossuet endeavoured to stop him, but to no avail.
Courfeyrac continued. "Chairs that people have sat on. Tables that people have eaten on."
Joly stared wide-eyed into the busy room, surveying the patrons.
"I'm beginning to rethink this revolution thing," he started...
"Don't you dare," Bossuet replied good-naturedly, slapping Courfeyrac's arm playfully. "Just my luck that my best friend is a hypochondriac, germophobe and goodness knows what else."
"It's a wonder you and Musichetta put up with him."
"I know, right? Go figure."
"Hey," alerted Joly, standing up straighter. He had spotted Enjolras and Combeferre, their commander and his right-hand-man, approach the Rue de Chanvrerie through the left window of the café. Enjolras' hand rested on his jacket pocket, underneath his scarf. The pocket contained a bulge which was most definitely a pistol.
"Jehan's up next," Bossuet muttered, referring to the three young men's friend, who sat at a small round table across from the window in the left wall. He was currently staring at the said window, a massive notebook at his elbow.
As he and Enjolras waited to cross the street, Combeferre lifted a hand as if to wave.
At this signal, Jehan hurriedly rose from his table, and made his way across the crowded room. He, with many 'pardon me's, eventually reached the center and lifted his voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could please have your attention," said the poet gently, but he was, unfortunately, ignored. The teenager adjusted his glasses and even tried to straighten his tie, which was already irredeemably askew.
"Please, everyone," he said a bit louder.
"Why in the name of sanity did we pick Jehan for this job?" asked Courfeyrac rhetorically. He pushed off from the doorway and made his path to the center of the room beside Jehan.
"Mesdames, monsieurs," Courfeyrac said in a loud voice, but was inevitably talked over.
"Listen, everybody!" Jehan yelled, quieting the clientele with those two simple words.
Courfeyrac nodded his thanks to his skinny friend, then continued. "All right, if I could please get everyone to exit the building? Quietly? Quickly? Calmly? Along with other 'Q' adverbs? My friends and I would greatly appreciate it."
"Courf, 'calmly' doesn't start with 'Q'..." Jehan whispered, but was promptly cut off by the voice of a large man in his late thirties.
"What if we don't?" said the man, his eyes darting to Bossuet and Joly, who stood on either side of the door, seemingly standing guard, although they were simply standing there because that is the easiest place to stand when one is ushering approximately 100 people out of a room. If Joly was malicious in appearance, it would have been because he, wrapped in his gargantuan coat, still percieved a chill in the air, and was crossing his arms, as well as stuffing his chin into his collar. Bossuet, being tall, nearly six feet in height, strong, and bald, does not require an explanation.
"Well, I guess you're all gonna have to eat your meals chairless and tableless," Courfeyrac quipped, laughing nervously.
Madame Houcheloup, the proprietor of Le Café Musain, rushed out from the kitchen as Courfeyrac made this announcement.
"Now you're stealing the furniture?" she shouted at the curly-haired youth. "You and your friends, you take up the whole back room with your meetings, your loud talking, and your drinking! Now you're taking something that I need to make an actual living, which is hard to come by after Monsieur Houcheloup died, and you're being all polite about it like it's the most normal thing in the world! Just as you're being so nice, Monsieur de Courfeyrac, would you like anything else? A baguette, maybe?"
"A baguette would be lovely," Courfeyrac said shakily, recieving in turn a dark look from the fiery middle-aged woman.
Jehan, who had just glanced at the wall clock above Bossuet and Joly's heads, tapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder.
"It's nearly time." he whispered. At that exact moment, a strong voice rang out over the Rue de Chanvrerie.
"Citizens!" said the voice, "People! For years the government has oppressed us! They have said that it is for our own benefit, but what have we gained? More importantly, what have we suffered? Every day, men, honest men, have been taken from their homes simply for saying a wrong word! People just like you, imprisoned for years, and the crime that they commited was no more than stealing a loaf of bread! I say, no more, citizens! Remember General Lamarque, the one who stood for us! Remember our heritage! Remember France! Vive l'France!"
The four friends recognized the voice of their leader. At the word 'citizens', all heads turned to look out the large front window. There they saw Enjolras perched on the massive uncut stone monument that accentuated the turn. Combeferre stood by his side, just a little lower on the rough rock, and Feuilly on the sidewalk.
Several comments circulated the room simultaneously.
"He's insane."
"Who is that? Is that Régis Enjolras from the university? He always got such good marks."
"Vive l'France? Why is he using such old expressions?"
"He's an archaeist."
"More like an anarchist."
"His friends call him Apollo, what do you expect?"
As Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly stood there, a policeman emerged from a building across the street. He was speaking fervently into a radio communiator.
"Oh, no," Courfeyrac muttered.
"We've gotta do it now," Jehan said.
"But what about R and Bahorel?" Joly asked.
"We'll have to get everyone out first; they'll have time." Bossuet assured him.
Jehan nodded, and began to independently yank people from their seats. "Out, out, out," he commanded the indignant patrons.
Cries of "Vive l'France!" made it to the amis' ears from the road.
"Did the madman actually manage to stir up a commotion?" A portly rich woman who had just been violently thrusted from her meal blustered.
"For your information, milady," Joly returned politely as he escorted her out the door, "he's not mad, he's just a bit worked up. It will pass, I'm sure."
"When will it pass?" she asked, still indignant.
"Um... well, it's been around for about six years now, so it will have to work its way out of his system relatively soon."
That seemed to console her.
More, and louder, shouts filtered into the café.
Most of the customers had exited the building at this point, so Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, and Courfeyrac began to throw furniture out of the doors and windows. They were soon assisted by a few random men who had heard the rally, and came to their aid with vigor. Madame Houcheloup, flustered beyond belief, had finally given up shouting abuse at Courfeyrac and had retreated into the back room, where she and the two waitresses closed and locked the door.
"Where are they?" Joly yelled, his words pertaining to their friends Grantaire and Bahorel, who were waiting in an alleyway with an old car, which they would drive into the relatively narrow Rue de Chanvrerie and block up traffic, allowing the four amis in the café to bring the furniture.
"They can't be too long!" Bossuet answered as he helped push a table out of the door.
Sure enough, a dinged-up vehicle swerved into the road during a lull in the traffic, successfully stopping all of the other cars, whose drivers cursed at Grantaire.
"Pardon me!" the drunkard (who was, fortunately, not drunk at this time) waved cheerfully at them, a cigarette in the fingers of his right hand. "Didn't see you there!" he smiled disarmingly as he and Bahorel hopped out of the parked automobile.
A small gang of furniture theives gathered around the car and began to stack their spoils of war. This gang included the four amis that we have seen pictured in the café.
"About time, R," Courfeyrac nudged Grantaire jovially with the broken leg of a barstool.
Feuilly ran across the street, dodging honking cars and disgruntled pedestrians. He led Combeferre and Enjolras, the latter of which was now holding his pistol in his hand unashamedly. His dark red scarf untied, his brown leather jacket unzipped, golden hair flying, he looked wild. Wild and dangerous.
Combeferre kept pace with Enjolras, his wire-rimmed spectacles (because in the case of Combeferre, one can only call them this aged term) slightly leaning to the left. He, like Enjolras, bore a solemn expression that instantly supressed any assumption that this escapade might be 'fun'.
Feuilly tumbled around the car, slamming into a fellow workman who happened, at that particular time, to be carrying single-handedly and with difficulty, a large table. Immediately Feuilly began to help, and the two of them with ease pushed the slab of wood into a space in the giant furniture wall that had coalesced around Grantaire's car.
Enjolras and Combeferre clambered over a chair, panting and sweating even though the fall air was still cool and breezy.
"Do you have the weapons?" Enjolras asked Grantaire.
Bahorel, having heard the question, answered it by drawing out a large bundle of them from the battered backseat.
"Good."
Combeferre dropped down beside his best friend, looking at something on his smartphone.
"'Pollo, we have ten units mobilizing fast," he said.
Enjolras was startled. "How do you know that? Police movement is confidential."
Combeferre showed him the screen. "'Taire hacked them."
"Huh." Enjolras studied the app.
"I know what you're thinking," Grantaire raised an eyebrow and blew out a puff of smoke.
Enjolras glared at him. "What am I thinking?"
"You're silently thanking me."
This was exactly what Enjolras was thinking.
"You," he pointed at Grantaire, "Stay out of the way."
Without another word, Enjolras jumped onto the roof of the car and fired off three successive shots.
"Let them come."