Two nights later, Courfeyrac heard a knock at the door. Startled, he rose from his vague slumber, fumbling with a candle while the knocking continued. He guessed it was about midnight. He looked to the other mattress and saw that it was empty. If it was Marius, why wouldn't he just come in? At last Courfeyrac made his way to the door, murmuring a quick prayer on his way that it was not someone from the police.

He cracked the door open and saw Enjolras, fist raised as if to knock again. Enjolras stared at him, glassy-eyed, as though he had forgotten where he was. He seemed drunk. Courfeyrac was astonished. At last Enjolras said his name and clapped a hand to his shoulder, either to show affection or to steady himself. The force of the gesture nearly made Courfeyrac drop his candle, and he swore. Drunkenness, or affection, or perhaps even both; either possibility was so entirely unlike Enjolras, Courfeyrac could not think how to react. Once his initial shock began to subside, dread started to creep in. He could not imagine a circumstance that might make Enjolras turn up at his door after midnight, drunk, unless perhaps the Habsburgs had conquered France.

'Enjolras,' he said weakly. 'Please come in. I was sleeping. What is the matter? Why have you come?'

'I've come to tell you that you're right. You've caught me. You've figured me out.'

Courfeyrac did not understand a word of this speech, but he thought it prudent to remain silent.

'I can prove it,' Enjolras pressed. 'Here.' He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small object, which he handed to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac examined it in the light. It was a little tin snuffbox with dirty chipped enamel. On the surface was a trio of crudely drawn pikes, a liberty cap, and the words Fraternity or Death. It was the sort of cheap trinket which was manufactured by the hundreds during the Revolution, and which were thrown out by the hundreds after Louis XVIII took the throne. Courfeyrac had amassed quite a collection of this sort of contraband when he was a boy.

'It's true,' Enjolras said, pausing absurdly as if for dramatic effect. When Courfeyrac failed to fill in the silence, he concluded, 'I am Philippe Desmarais.'

This was so far from anything he expected to hear, he suspected he was still dreaming. He immediately ran through his memories of Desmarais. They had been friends for a few weeks, climbing trees, drinking in secret, smoking tobacco and bothering farm girls. And when he had left – but how had he forgotten this detail? When he left, he had given Desmarais a little snuffbox as a parting gift. He hadn't put much thought into the gesture; it had just seemed like the right thing to do. He looked down at the object in his hand, and was forced to admit to himself that it was the very snuffbox he had given Desmarais. This object brought the reality of the situation crashing down upon him. He might still have believed himself dreaming, if not for this cold tangible proof. Courfeyrac felt as if his heart had fallen into his bowels. 'Oh God,' he whimpered.

'So, how long have you known?' Enjolras asked, breaking into a grin. 'Did you recognize me right away? No, I'm sure you did not, or you would have made some sign sooner. I knew you, of course, but I wasn't about to say anything if you weren't. But when you started dropping hints – Oh, it's such a relief to have it out. I thought a thousand times that I would break down and tell you, but I was never sure. It's that damned Narcissus that gave me away.'

Courfeyrac, his mind filled with a thousand questions, grasped at one which stood out to him. 'You knew me? You're saying all this time you remembered me, and you never said?'

'Of course,' said Enjolras, laughing. 'You haven't been using an assumed name – unless you count dropping your de. Don't you remember how we met? I mean, here, in Paris?'

'Not really. Through a friend, I suppose.'

'Yes, I suppose so, too. But the truth is, I sought you out. I heard your name, and I thought, how many Courfeyracs can there be in the world? And when I saw you, I knew you right away. Because of the red hair.'

'Oh,' said Courfeyrac, too stunned to say much else. Then he gasped. 'You're damned lucky Marius isn't here.'

Enjolras peered around his shoulder at the second mattress, as if to confirm. 'Oh,' he said, 'I forgot he was staying with you. Where could he be, at this time of night?'

'I don't know,' Courfeyrac said dryly. 'Perhaps he's stumbling about drunk, pounding on people's doors and making dramatic revelations. More likely he's with his mistress.'

Enjolras gasped. 'Pontmercy has a mistress?'

Courfeyrac cursed his quick tongue. 'Yes. Or perhaps not. I don't know, truly. I suspect he does. Where else could he be going at night? But that's beside the point. Please, don't tell anyone.'

'Oh, don't worry. I'm quite good at keeping secrets.' He pushed past Courfeyrac and sat down on Marius's mattress, stretching out and putting an arm over his eyes.

'You're not staying here,' said Courfeyrac. 'He will be back, and I don't think you want him to see you this way.'

'No, I suppose not. But it's such a relief to tell someone the truth.'

'Why?'

'Why? Haven't you ever kept a secret? No, I don't suppose you have. You're not the type. You can't imagine how it weighs on you. I envy you that.'

'I mean, why on earth are you here, using a different name, and – and all of this?'

Enjolras uncovered his eyes and sat up slowly. 'Fraternity or death,' he said, suddenly becoming grave.

Courfeyrac turned the snuffbox over in his hand. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the man. 'That is to say, you believe in the cause. And you found a way to make people listen to you.' Enjolras – Desmarais – looked so sad Courfeyrac nearly forgot his confusion, forgot everything but his desire to make things right. 'I won't tell anyone, of course. I'll keep your secret as if it were my own.' He sat beside Enjolras on the edge of the mattress. 'I know it isn't easy to start again. But it doesn't matter who you were, now. You're Enjolras, and Enjolras is a good man.'

Enjolras tipped his head to the side and, just briefly, laid it on Courfeyrac's shoulder. 'That's very kind of you,' he murmured. Then he stood, more composed than before, and stepped toward the door. Before exiting, he turned back and said, 'You're wrong, though. I'm not Enjolras. I'm Philippe, and I always will be.' He left Courfeyrac to ponder his words through all the rest of his sleepless night. Hours passed, and he realized that Desmarais had turned the conversation before he could ask about Narcissus.