Part VI: Dusk


"Yet surely there are men who have made their art out of no tragic war, lovers of life, impulsive men that look for happiness and sing when they have found it."

(William Butler Yeats , Ego Dominus Tuus).


"To freedom!"

Grantaire shouts, takes a hearty swig of drink and falls back against an old and battered piano; its keys jingle and jangle noisily, echoing across their portion of the silent street. Madame Hucheloup would not be best pleased to know that he had ransacked her oldest and most expensive collection, and Combeferre sternly tells him as much.

"Oh lighten up! Who says we can't have a bit of fun tonight? Who knows, it could be our last chance!"

Grantaire winks at him over the top of the bottle of brandy.

The students are gathered around the barricade by the light of a few flickering torches, casting long shadows upon the walls of the surrounding houses which stand silent and sure in the gathering darkness. The smoke from their pipes and cigars floats above their heads, the lights of the first twinkling stars just visible through the haze.

"What a lovely night for a singsong-"

"We are not singing, 'Taire."

"Spoilsport."

Jehan murmurs quietly from his spot upon the seat of an old wooden rocking chair, swinging his legs back and forth as though to make up for the loss of the chair's. "In the shade, from the dawn's tears is made a perfume sweet and strange, amber and honey sweet."

"That's beautiful, Jehan, did you write that yourself?"

The poet turns to Grantaire, ignoring the sniggering of his friends around him and the gentle tutting of Combeferre. "Just a rhyme I've had in my head for a while, 'Taire. I read it once…I can't remember where."

From the doorway of the cafe, Enjolras watches as his friends chatter, and joke, and laugh; as they softly hum the choruses of old songs and occasionally raise their drinks in toast. Letting his mind stray, he thinks of the girl upstairs in the Musain, weak yet oh, so strong, and determined to boot. What a waste, to spend one's life chasing a dream. (He casts the thought from his mind as quickly as it arrives).

Squinting through the darkness, Enjolras' eyes come to a rest on Marius, who also sits a little way from the group, lost in thought. He looks so dejected that Enjolras almost feels remorse for his anger during the incident with the gunpowder. It is short-lived however, as Marius reaches into his trouser pocket and proceeds to sit and flick Cosette's letter over and over in his hands. With a stab of annoyance, whether for himself or for Éponine, Enjolras begins to regret handing it over to him.

Grantaire's voice rings out over the deserted street, warm and merry with alcohol, and Enjolras wrinkles his nose in disgust as the cynic slurs a speech to an audience who are by now half-asleep.

"My friends! Tomorrow we restore France to all her rightful g-glory! I challenge them all, not by the sword or the g-gun, but by the bottle; I shall – hic! - drink them all to the death, for then death is sweet and I welcome it. Hic! Th-that's why I s-say now, to friendship! Here's to you!"

"I thought it was 'to freedom'?" Enjolras asks coldly.

"That as well."

"You've had too much, Grantaire. Go home, I've had enough of this foolishness. This is a battle, not a drinking competition."

"In my new free world, there shall be drinking competitions from dawn until dusk, and hic! - at night as well."

Grantaire takes a long swig of alcohol, and Enjolras turns away.

"That is not the freedom we fight for."

His heart heavy, Grantaire watches his leader's retreating form and sighs. "There are different kinds of freedom."

He raises the bottle to his lips once more.


Part VII: Sword of Light


Marius seeks out the urchin as the last light is fading and the night's first stars are shimmering faintly in the sky. The child is perched inside an empty chest where Madame Hucheloup once kept her best and oldest collection of wines. The young man can't help but smile as he spots the boy, but his heart pangs with something like fear. A barricade is no place for a child, and whilst Gav has certainly proved useful, Marius wonders for how long Enjolras will humour the boy before sending him on his way.

"Gavroche."

Marius approaches, and the urchin beams a wide toothy grin.

"You know this city, don't you?"

"Better'n any other."

"I need you to do something for me. A favour."

"Anything for you, Marius. Without you, I'd have bitten the dust."

"You know the Rue de l'Homme Arme?"

Gavroche nods, and Marius hands him a sealed letter.

"Keep your head low, stay in the shadows and come straight back, you understand?"

With a grin and a skip, Gavroche runs off into the growing dark, and his light footsteps are soon beyond earshot.

With a sigh, Marius returns to the barricade and his laughing friends, Cosette's own rain-stained letter held tightly in his fist.


The old man's warning goes over his head, and he returns to the barricade at a run, dodging through alleyways and leaping across puddles with Monsieur Fauchelevant's coin in his hand and a song in his heart.

A battlefield is no place for a child.

The Chief would agree, but Enjolras is not the boss of him and Gavroche will be damned if he misses out on all the fun.


"The knight left his horse behind with his comrades, and followed her tracks on foot through the forest, a burning torch held before him, calling her name; calling her name over and over. The forest was unearthly at night; once he caught a glimpse of bright dark eyes and stepped back with an oath, and then saw the pale rump of a deer slide away into the shadows."

(Philippa Gregory, The Lady of the Rivers).


To Be Continued.