Alrighty. I just re-read the original version of this chapter, and holy cow, I think it might be one of the most inaccurate pieces I've ever created, so sorry for that. I've run through and made a couple of edits so it flows better, but I suspect an issue with colons, so if they don't pop up during the texts, please mentally insert them (they should come after 'Enjolras' and 'Me' at the start of the message). Otherwise, enjoy!
Chapter 3
Sure enough, the next day, Grantaire remembers (barely) to stop off at the cashpoint on his cycle to work and withdraws €20. He knows perfectly well that it wouldn't have cost Enjolras that much (Hell, he knows the exact taxi fares between his flat and every bar in the city past a certain time) but something tells him it would be a little rude to hand over a crumpled note and thirteen centimes when he caused Enjolras and his friends that much bother. (Why? It's not like he's ever cared about being a burden before. No, that's not true. He's just never cared enough before.)
He arrives early on purpose, so he can have the chance to look over the work from yesterday that is still set up. Grantaire knows art, and he can pick out the inspirations behind each little stylistic quirk of each of the students in a heartbeat. He notes a lot of Rousseau and Monet, but he can tell that, to date, there has been one fatal flaw in the way these youngsters (they're only five or six years younger than him) have been taught. Thank God for the interactive whiteboards that have replaced the old-fashioned blackboard wall in the classroom; it allows Grantaire to spend ten minutes bringing up a few internet files and throwing together a hasty PowerPoint presentation before his students start to trickle in. Jehan and the blonde enter together. They stop once they spot their teacher, Jehan offering a tight, concerned smile and blondie dropping her head as they each scurry to their respective workstations. Grantaire makes a mental note to avoid them for the next couple of lessons (is that childish?) About sixty percent of the class has arrived before Grantaire notices the blond curls and high brow of Enjolras (not that he was looking for him. Don't be ridiculous,) who doesn't even catch his eye as he strides over to his desk (mixed messages?). In fact, Enjolras so studiously ignores his gaze that Grantaire wonders if he misinterpreted the subtext behind the previous night's message. Shrugging it off, he closes the door behind the final few entrants and places himself before the class to begin.
"Quick question. Was Professor Aguillard a bit of a fan of French painters?" There is a low murmur of assent, accompanied by a couple of derisive snorts. "It's obvious. You're good students, and the work you left me shows that you have really taken on board the techniques you've learned about. But there wasn't one single piece which evidenced the sort of knowledge of foreign painters you need to come out of this with a good degree." A few of the students look surprised by this, while others look as though they agree. "But the blame can't be laid entirely on the professor. You are at university, for Christ's sake, take some bloody initiative. Your teacher can only ever show you a very narrow selection of what fine art encompasses. It's up to you to fill in the gaps. (Hypocrite.) Which is why this lesson is not going to be very long. I've got a presentation to show you, just to give you an idea of what there is out there, and then you are going to go off, and you're going to research foreign artists. Then, you're going to create four pieces of artwork, each one representing the style of one artist from one country and one decade. I don't care what it is, but each one has to be as unlike the others as you can make it. I'm going to trust you enough to have my phone number, and if you want help, you text me, and I will be here. Aside from that, this is the last lesson I'm giving until you've all shown me that you can learn independently." Nobody says anything, so Grantaire hits the board to wake up the screen, and spends the next ten minutes flicking through slides, each one with a brief description of one style or artist, from Millais and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood to Picasso, vorticism and pointillism, touching on some of the more obscure painters that had inspired Grantaire as a younger (and much less disingenuous) man: Kotarbiński, Carus and Levêque.
At the end, Grantaire writes out his mobile number on the scratchpad.
"Okay, jot that down, then you can go." Fifteen shell-shocked individuals scrabble for paper and pens, before grabbing their bags and scurrying out the door in silence, heads bent, leaving Grantaire alone to save his presentation onto a USB (might be able to use that again) and swing his tattered backpack over his shoulder. He's just about to leave the room when his phone pings. (Did he not clarify the meaning of independence enough in that lesson?)
Enjolras: you still owe me money
Grantaire's fingers trip over themselves as he sends his reply.
Me: not my fault u lft in such a hury. mony is in my wlet
Enjolras: well have to meet up then, wont we
Enjolras: im guessing youre free in 10
(Hold on a second, is he being flirted with?)
Enjolras: or are you too hungover
Actually, Grantaire doesn't think he can remember his head feeling this clear (and it's definitely to do with all the water he's drunk, not the adrenaline coursing through him.)
Me: u no chez prune on rue baurepaire (They do an excellent line in lunchtime tipples.)
Enjolras: not that poncy bobo hangout. ill see you in cafe musain on place edmond rostand
Grantaire is almost tempted not to go after having his beloved boozer so rudely spurned, but that would mean giving up the chance to find out more about the confusing Enjolras, so (despite it being a Very Bad Idea) Grantaire shoves his phone in his jacket pocket, untangles his bike from the mass in the shed, and sets off down the busy rue Soufflot. Luckily, it's not far, and it takes him less than five minutes to find the place in question. Locking his bike to the pavement railings, he pushes inside to find Enjolras already in possession of a table, two steaming cups of black coffee in front of him.
"R," Enjolras inclines his head (why does he do that? It's so damn ero- nope. Stop that thought right there.)
"Enjolras." Grantaire slips into the seat opposite him, simultaneously sliding the €20 note across the table. Wordlessly, Enjolras gets out his wallet and starts rifling through looking for change.
"No, no, no. Think of the extra as payment for my ruining your night. Besides, you bought me coffee." The wallet goes away again, and the two sit in silence for a time, sipping on their coffee. It's actually really good, and Grantaire (just about) doesn't find himself itching to sneak a dram of whisky in there.
"May I ask you something?" It's Enjolras who first broaches conversation. Grantaire waves his hand for him to continue. "What's your real name? I mean, it can't just be R."
"Grantaire."
"Clever. Big R." (Trust this one to be the only person Grantaire thinks he's not had to explain that moniker to since his friend made it up when they were fifteen.) "You really did do me a favour, last night. I had a mountain of work to get through. Essays to write, and then I had to plan the next Amis meeting."
Grantaire groans. He knows all about 'les Amis de l'ABC', as they call themselves. One of the university's more… active societies, les Amis are notorious amongst the fac for organising disruptive rallies and protests whenever they perceive persecution. And there is always persecution to be found, if they look hard enough. Grantaire may have only been teaching for a few days, but he's heard more than enough stories from Combeferre of classes emptied and riots only barely averted on the say-so of this band of wannabe socialists.
"You're not one of them, are you?" Enjolras's face doesn't change, but his eyes take on a steely glint.
"I am one of the founding members, thank you very much. Is there a problem with that?"
"I just don't see the point. Whatever anyone does, it won't be enough. The house always wins."
"Well, what would you have us do, then? I will not stand by and watch the poor suffer at the hands of some outdated bourgeoisie, who cannot even begin to imagine what it's like to live life on the breadline. They say they bring in all these reforms to even out the class gap, but they are carefully tailored to keep the average citizen down-at-heel, playing on the fact that most people don't know enough about politics and budgeting to understand how cleverly these bills are made to benefit those at the top. It's like throwing the working classes a bone, a smokescreen so they don't see how badly they're being treated. You don't think we do anything? At least we tell people what's being done to them, so they can rise up against it."
Grantaire can see how les Amis de l'ABC have managed to gain such an influence over the young and credulous Parisians, if this is the sort of verbatim rhetoric they can offer.(Besides, their mouthpiece has an extremely sexy voice when he gets het-up. And that is pure, dispassionate fact, that.)
"I hate to break it to you, but the people are never going to 'rise up'. You are never going to start this rebellion you so crave. People like being downtrodden. Or at least, they like what they're used to. They might be living in abject poverty, but at least they're secure with their position in society; how do they know the world will be a better place once the wheel has turned around?" Enjolras looks flabbergasted.
"They like it? Are you suggesting the people enjoy having to work ten-hour days or more just to scrape together enough money to feed their families?"
"No, that isn't what I said at all. Look at what's happened before now. 1789, the French Revolution started, and two years later, a set of terms were agreed on to make France a better place. The next year, the people revolted because it wasn't working, and essentially reverted back to the old system, with a few slight alterations. In the English Civil War, Charles I was decapitated, they brought in Cromwell, who was essentially a dictator, then after his death, they brought back the monarchy with Charles II, who was even more louche than his father. People like what they know, and they know absolute rule. It's safe. Whenever people rise up, they find they don't know what to do with it and go back to how it was as soon as they can. No, they don't enjoy ten-hour shifts, but it's better than the alternative."
Enjolras doesn't say anything for a long while; he just stares at Grantaire with a thunderous expression on his face. Eventually, Grantaire sighs, his cup drained.
"Look, I'm sorry if I've insulted you. Your passion is admirable, it really is, and I wish you every success." Without another word, he stands up and leaves the café, not glancing back to see if Enjolras has reacted, to see how much he's fucked that situation up.