Enjolras half turned from his perch, in the midst of the safety of the barricade. His eyes widened and he clamored down as he spotted Combeferre emerging from the wine shop. In one hand he held his cane with a handkerchief tied to the end. His other hand was on the elbow of the spy.
"What is it you think you are doing?" Enjolras asked evenly.
At the sound of Enjolras' voice, the others silently made a half circle around the three. Watching. Incredulous.
Combeferre waved his cane slightly and the breeze caught fabric, causing it to wave. "I'm doing, what I think it is right." He met Enjolras' cold gaze. "For once."
Muttering from the others, both stranger and friend.
"You would betray us?"
"I would save him."
"He is a spy." Enjolras said.
"He is a man, Enjolras. He didn't kill anyone…his musket wasn't even loaded! He was here to get information on us." Combeferre heard the mutterings of his friends, sharpen and increase in volume. He had the uneasy feeling he was burning bridges whilst still standing upon them.
With a sigh, Combeferre glanced around at his friends. "I'm going to give them their man. Alive. I can't think of any way better to avenge Jean Prouvaire than to show them that we meet cruelty with compassion."
"They'll kill you." Enjolras said blandly.
"I daresay they might. But being shot from the front by 'enemies' would be preferable to being shot in the back by 'friends' would it not?"
The cold demeanor dropped from Enjolras and for a second a very human young man stood in his place. "I cannot believe you'd say that…I cannot believe you'd think that, René."
"I don't know what to think anymore, Enjolras." Combeferre felt the spy studying him with interest, yet he continued to focus on Enjolras. "I watched you kill a man in cold blood…not in the heat of battle, but a calculated execution while he pled for mercy…"
"He killed." The stoniness had returned.
"Do you know what I feel, Enjolras?" Combeferre asked. "I feel that I'd rather have Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire alive and well than your fetid republic."
"Easy, Combeferre." It was Courfeyrac, and his voice was shaking. The center tries to keep everything from falling apart. Combeferre nodded towards him, acknowledging his concern.
"I also feel that I'd rather bandage wounds than create them." The murmurings increased, mostly from the strangers who had joined them. Combeferre wondered if they felt he was some sort of heretic of the Republic. "But mostly, I feel that your Republic isn't worth the price of admission."
Combeferre turned to the spy. "Come, grandpere, I'm having you walk in front….I wouldn't put it past them to shoot you in the back..." he glanced at Enjolras who merely glared at him coldly. "…or myself…but I'd prefer the latter."
"Fool!" Enjolras cried. "Traitor!"
Pointing to the heap of corpses piled to one side, Combeferre calmly returned, "Murderer. Butcher." For a second he looked over the worried faces of his friends. "It isn't too late yet." He said softly. "For God's sake, reconsider."
"Go…coward." Enjolras hissed his face twisty into a mask of fury and betrayal.
"Good luck, Enjolras." Combeferre tightened his grip on the cane-flag and helped the spy up the barricade.
At the crest, he heard the cries of the guardsmen as he held up his flag. He wondered vaguely if he might not be executed on the spot, along with the spy…his good deed for naught.
The spy suddenly called out a single word; a codeword evidently, for Combeferre heard an officer give the order to hold fire. Trembling, though he wasn't certain why, he half-led, half-followed the spy to the waiting ranks of the National Guard.
He wondered what his fate would be.
