A/N - There are a few scattered references to contemporary events through this story, but don't take them as gospel - Sambuc and Chappare were arrested in 1831, for example, but I don't know if they'd been apprehended by the time this story takes place in late May.
Thank you again to the reviewers, and thanks as always to TheHighestPie for the beta work she did on this (and for some of her side notes and observations, which have kept me in stitches). There's some Feuilly to be found here, but if you really want to read a good characterisation of him, Have a look at MmeBahorel's Corner of the Sky and some of her one-shots here on FFN. Period and character perfect!
Chapter 4 - A Room Filled With Light
What! is it in our eighteenth century that vampires exist? Is it after the reigns of Locke, Shaftesbury, Trenchard, and Collins? Is it under those of d'Alembert, Diderot, St. Lambert, and Duclos that we believe in vampires, and that the reverend father Dom Calmet, Benedictine priest of the congregation of St. Vannes, and St. Hidulphe, abbé of Senon—an abbey of a hundred thousand livres a year, in the neighborhood of two other abbeys of the same revenue—has printed and reprinted the history of vampires, with the approbation of the Sorbonne?
- Voltaire, Dictionaire Philosophique, 1764
Enjolras had become steadily more restless through the morning. When the sun was at its height and shone in bars of light through the slats of the shutters, he awoke with a gasp and started upright.
"Lamia!" he cried out.
Joly, who had been watching, put his hands on Enjolras' shoulders and made what he hoped were reassuring sounds. It was hard to exercise a consoling manner when Enjolras, his hair catching stray glints of light and flying out in an aureole of tangled disarray, was gazing at him – or rather past him - with wild, bloodshot eyes. His pupils were still unnaturally dilated, almost black, and his expression without recognition. He gave a few panting breaths, and then began to speak rapidly and urgently in Greek. Joly, trying to calm him, caught only a few words here and there. Something about owls, he thought. And blood.
Combeferre, who had been reading in the study, heard the commotion and entered the room, taking his station at the other side of the bed. Enjolras shied from his touch as well. Just as Joly wondered what they were to do to calm him, the pupils of Enjolras' eyes suddenly reacted to the light, the blue irises coming into evidence as the black contracted. The rapid patter of his voice trailed away until finally the disjointed rambling broke off completely, perhaps in response to Joly's reassurances, his repeated "it's all right…it's over, you are in your own bed, you are safe". He still flinched when Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder to gently push him back into the pillows, but then appeared to become fully aware.
"Combeferre? Joly? The – it was a dream?" His hand flew to his neck, and he frowned when he touched the bandage.
"You were attacked last night on your way back from the theatre," Combeferre told him. It was usually unwise to be anything other than completely direct with Enjolras. "You've sustained a slight injury to the neck, but nothing else." Combeferre tried to smile. "They didn't even rifle your pockets, it seems. You still have your watch."
Enjolras looked at him blankly. "I have no memory of this."
"Do you remember leaving the Comédie-Française?" Combeferre asked, moving the bandages to check the wound. Still no sign of infection and Enjolras, despite the agitation he had shown in sleep and disorientation on waking, did not seem to have a fever. If anything, he was cool to the touch.
"I remember – at the play. Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Bossuet…loud but not unpleasant. And then, nothing."
"Perhaps you merely fell asleep in the theatre?" Joly asked brightly, to counter the sombre mood of his friend.
"No…there were silver eyes, there and later, in the dark."
"In the alley?" Combeferre asked. Enjolras seemed confused, his usual precision entirely lacking.
"I know nothing of an alley." He said, and they caught the underlying anxiety in Enjolras' voice. "Only …darkness."
"Bahorel and Bossuet found you and brought you here," Combeferre explained.
"Were they injured too?" Enjolras asked. "Are they safe? Has anyone else…was it a politically motivated attack? What…" he held his hands to his temples and closed his eyes.
"Enjolras." Combeferre laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "Do not distress yourself. No one else was harmed – we think it was a simple robbery gone wrong." He tried to smile. "You probably put your assailants to flight before they could take anything from you.
"Then why do I not remember?" Enjolras asked, eyes wide, his look half angry.
"We don't know. Did you by any chance have anything to eat or drink before you met us at the Café before the theatre? Anything that might have tasted bitter or unusual?"
Being able to recall this seemed to make Enjolras calmer. "I had a meal at midday, or somewhat after – bread, cheese. Some water. But I had eaten the same the previous evening, and had no ill effects then. Do you think it was drugged? I don't see how that could be – I purchased the food the day before, and it was sitting in my own cupboard."
"It was just a thought. How do you feel now?" Joly asked.
"I am fine," Enjolras said automatically. Combeferre smiled coaxingly at him.
"Enjolras, we speak now as your physicians rather than your friends. Give us an honest account."
Enjolras nodded grudgingly. "I feel tired. Weak." The admission was clearly distasteful to him. "Also, rather cold."
"Your limbs do seem chilled" Combeferre agreed, taking his pulse. "And your heartbeat is still too rapid."
"You haven't made a report to the police?" Enjolras asked, altering the subject. They shook their heads. "Good. I suppose all the Amis should know, but I suggest it go no further."
Of course, thought Joly. No weakness – no frailty.
"Are you quite sure there is nothing you remember?" Combeferre probed gently. "If there is any indication of whom your assailant was, I'm sure that Bahorel…"
"Nothing," Enjolras said with an air not just of finality, but almost urgency. It was clear he wanted the incident disposed of as quickly and quietly as possible. "When shall I be out of bed?"
Ah, thought Joly. Here it comes. Like as not he'll insist on taking himself to the Musain tonight. "Perhaps it might be as well to stay in bed for now," Joly said aloud. Another night's sleep and I'm certain you'll be up again. Your neck seems all right, but we'll keep fresh dressings on it."
To his surprise, Enjolras merely nodded – quiescent, even lethargic.
"Could you please open the shutters?" he asked.
"Are you sure the sunlight will not be too bright?" Enjolras shook his head. Joly opened them and the light streamed onto Enjolras' head. Joly had a stray thought, a reminder of the stained glass figure of the Archangel Michael in the church of his childhood, and how its colours had glowed as sunlight illuminated it.
Enjolras usually paid little heed to weather and the elements - wind, rain or sunlight being all of a uniform indifference to him – but now he turned his face into the light that fell across him, closing his eyes again, faintly smiling.
"I'm let Joly go now," Combeferre said, "he's been here most of the night and morning. I have my books, so I'll keep you company. Can I fetch you anything?"
"You might bring me the notes I was working on…yesterday, was it? Some figures on penal sentences I was collating. They should be…somewhere in my study. Perhaps atop the pile nearest the left hand side of the desk."
"That wasn't what I had in mind – I was thinking more along the lines of food or water. Perhaps you should be resting and not straining your eyes."
"Water, yes. And I think it would be better to work," Enjolras replied softly, but with his unmistakable authority. "If I'm to be abed, I would turn it to some use. I have promised Caunes I would have my suggestions and notes to him in time for his response to Thiery - I would be grateful if you would get my papers on the subject. And pardon my manners – I must thank you both for all you have done. And Bossuet and Bahorel, if you see them before I do." He half opened his eyes, but did not turn his face away from the light coming in the window.
Joly assisted Combeferre in searching for the notes before taking his leave. "This is the last time," noted Combeferre, "that I ask Courfeyrac for help in restoring order to anything. Goodness knows where he's put them – not in the drawers, like I instructed."
Joly finally found them, laid across the top of some books on a shelf in the study. The Greek titles of the books reminded him of something. "Did you catch what Enjolras was saying when he woke up? I'm not fluent enough to get it all – were they actual sentences, or was it just nonsense?
Combeferre looked troubled. "I understood some of it. He was reciting from Metamorphoses, quoting Antoninus Liberalis on the Striges." He ran his hands over the shelves, finding the volume he was seeking among the classics. Taking it down, he located the right passage, and began to read. "'Polyphonte became a small owl whose voice is heard at night. She does not eat or drink and keeps her head turned down and the tips of her feet turned up. She is a portent of war and sedition for mankind. Oreios became an eagle owl, a bird that presages little good to anyone when it appears. Argios was changed into a vulture, the bird most detested by gods and men. These gods gave him an utter craving for human flesh and blood.'"
Courfeyrac had spent a productive afternoon, by his lights.
"Go to the Musain and see if anyone is there – and use your discretion as to whom to inform about the events of last night." That had been the extent of Combeferre's instructions to him when he'd returned from his morning at the Necker Hospital.
Courfeyrac, however, thought he could do rather better than that. He wandered over to the Café Momus, fobbing off friends he ran into with a smile and a joke, and seating himself in the sun he ordered a coffee, bread and preserves from Nicolette. She had a very pretty silk ribbon in her hair today, he noticed, although that ridiculous topknot style didn't suit her – she didn't have enough tresses on top, and needed hair rats to fill out her own. He told her the ribbon became her, and forbore mentioning the knot of hair. She tripped off happily, and he spread the contents of his purse on the table.
Well. The coins amounted to about three francs, to last until the end of the week, three days away, when he could draw on his allowance. He'd all but exhausted his funds at the theatre and dinner last night, not to mention the money put towards getting Lesgle and Joly back to the Quartier.
One franc he would give to Aimée, his more-or-less current mistress. Although she hadn't asked for money, she'd mentioned how short of funds she was, with the rent due. She'd kept him company several times the past few weeks, so it seemed only fair he should give her some assistance. Some money for her landlady and some for herself. A girl like that needed to be kept in ribbons and nosegays. He fished out a franc from the pile, putting it in his coat pocket so he wouldn't forget and spend it.
Two francs would probably hold him. He'd settled most of his accounts at the various cafes and restaurants last week, so his credit was reasonable, for once. He'd cancel his engagement to meet with some of his barrister friends tonight at Flicoteau's restaurant. Until he knew what was happening with Enjolras, it might be better to stay in easy reach of Combeferre and Joly anyway.
He scratched his nose thoughtful at the recollection of the latter's cool, efficient care of their mutual friend – he'd seemed all business, and it was something of a revelation to see him in his role of doctoring someone other than himself.
Courfeyrac grinned with a sudden happy thought. Enjolras' bed had been moved way from the wall, had it not? He'd become familiar with the room set up through carrying in cartridges and bullet moulds to store under his friend's bed, and he knew that it was usually pushed against the wall. Joly was behind the rearrangement, he'd wager – and this was too good an opportunity to miss. He'd have to remember to ask with just the right tone of solemnity whether the lines of magnetism were set up for healing neck wounds – and whether the cartridges might not establish a field to interfere with the process. The joke could even be improved if he had a chance to look up that book by Mesmer that was floating around his rooms somewhere before he ran into Joly again. He'd refresh his memory on the right aspects of mesmerism he could tweak his friend over.
But back to the question of funds. The contents of his pockets should be sufficient that he wouldn't need to call on any of his friends for a loan. He tried to recall who owed him money, but he never kept track of such things. Meanness with money was one of the few truly unforgivable sins in the world.
Now, as to Enjolras. Courfeyrac had been hunted out of his friend's rooms by Combeferre, but vowed to return that evening. And what would be Enjolras's first thought on waking? News. Information. His mental workings reminded Courfeyrac sometimes of a sort of sensitive instrument, like that Chinese earthquake detector Combeferre had shown him once in the Institut de France. He had been intrigued by how infinitesimally small tremours caused a swinging pendulum to knock a ball from a dragon's head into the waiting open mouth of a toad, thus indicating that the earth itself had shaken, though a man felt it not, and that the movement might be a precursor to a giant upheaval.
Or a spider – that was it. A rather gorgeous and golden one, but a spider of sensitivity, waiting for the vibrations in his web. A brawl in the tannery caused by wage discontent, a murmur about the rising cost of salt, an article on the health of an Assembly member. Enjolras collected them all, arranged them in that curious, systematic mind, and drew his conclusions and connections from them, extrapolating opportunities and defining obstacles. It never ceased to fascinate Courfeyrac that a mind so engaged with the lofty and symbolic could at the same time be so in tune with the practical currents of popular thought. He had his eye fixed on the distant, Arcadian temples of Republicanism and a high horizon, but his finger always had a firm metaphorical grip on the trigger of the rifle he had obtained from a discontented jeweller angry at the rise in his cost of living, and his feet were grounded in wages, labour conditions, statistics, streams of funding, and of knowing which National Guardsmen might turn if – when – it came again to the barricades, as they had the year before.
Enjolras usually collected the newspapers himself, using the exercise as an opportunity to visit his various haunts, sounding the pulse of his allies and testing his lines of communication. As that was out of the question today, Courfeyrac would undertake to perform the task for him. It would be more appreciated than anything else he could present his friend in his sickbed, and he allowed himself to hope that by the time he called again he'd find Enjolras seated in his comfortable arm chair with its worn upholstery, fighting off the ministrations of Combeferre and Joly.
Unfortunately, the Café Momus only had a copy of the National, which he hid under his frock coat, glad he was wearing a dark blue waistcoat that wouldn't show the ink smears. The proprietor was beginning to make pointed comments about the tendencies of students to either commandeer his publications for hours on end so other patrons couldn't read them, or absconding with them altogether. He thought for a moment, plotting out which cafés subscribed to which publications that would be of interest Enjolras, ready for him to comandeer them, and where to pick up any pamphlets that might be of use. The expedition provided a perfectly legitimate excuse to avoid any afternoon lectures, and to fit in the odd game of billiards along the way.
Just outside the door, he gave the change from his breakfast to a ragged girl selling bunches of spring wildflowers that looked almost as tattered as she herself. Her eyes widened at the coins. In spite of her protesting attempts to give him the largest bouquet she had, he accepted the smallest. He'd find someone to give them to along the way – there was never a shortage of waitresses to appreciate little attentions. Though as wilted as they were, he'd have to make sure he didn't truly fancy the girl.
He could call into the Musain on his trawl through the cafés.
Feuilly left the atelier where he was employed, work box tucked under his arm, planning on spending his evening at the Musain. The waitress told him pleasantly on his arrival that he was the first tonight, knowing him to be one of those who frequented the back room. Taking a seat there, he laid out some old newspapers she gave him and he spread out the ivory sticks of the rather elaborate brisé fan he was working on, an extra commission that M. Depaul, owner of the business, had offered him. He usually painted on silk or paper leaves, but this design called for painting three vignettes directly onto the sticks, which were pierced and carved. Aligning the pictures across the sticks was an exacting task he enjoyed, and as the piece was to be unique he could allow himself free reign with the fanciful landscapes. He chose classical ruins, painting from a design he had worked from the illustrations in one of Enjolras' books.
He had arranged to meet Enjolras at eight, but the clock in the front bar suggested he had over an hour to wait. It did not matter – the light here was better than in his own rooms, he could have a meal of herrings and potato, and there was always the chance that one of his colleagues in the ABC would arrive as well. Enjolras, he knew, would be punctual – he was absolutely a man of his word, even down to small details.
He smiled not to recall a time when he had not thought so well of the man. Contrary to what was sometimes resentfully suggested outside the circle of intimates, not all of Enjolras' lieutenants had immediately fallen under the spell of their acknowledged chief.
Feuilly was one who had resisted his charms. How precisely Enjolras had found him he did not know, although he assumed Bahorel had something to do with it. It was Bahorel who had been with him the night Feuilly had emerged from the atelier where he painted his fans. It had been raining, and he prepared to brush past the two men when Enjolras had put out a hand to stay him.
"M. Feuilly?" he asked, but it was less a question than statement. The red hair, even under the cap, was rather prominent, and he was easily described and identified.
"Yes?" He asked. Enjolras gestured with a black gloved hand, the collar of his great coat up and his hat brim low over his eyes, protecting his face from the rain. Feuilly wrapped his arms around himself – it was cold, and he wished to return home.
"Perhaps we could go somewhere warmer, where we might talk?"
"I do not think so, M'sieur" he responded, shivering. "It would be best if you state your business with me now. Or come back and speak to M. Depaul when the Atelier is open." A special commission, maybe– some ridiculous piece of frippery for his mistress, perhaps an obscene tableau to be revealed with the unfolding of a fan for her to titter at.
Then Enjolras had lifted his head, and even through the dark and rain, Feuilly could see the level, candid gaze of the blue eyes that looked straight into his own, regarding him frankly.
"There are some matters that it is best not to discuss in the streets, Monsieur Feuilly," he said very deliberately, and Feuilly had an inkling what this might be about after all. He knew that students were involved in the agitations, had even seen them at some of the meetings of local societies that were coalescing. It was known that the Latin Quarter housed some of the most vocal opponents to the oppressive Bourbons.
"I have read your pamphlet Thoughts on Education and the Progress of the People by a Working Man," Enjolras explained, removing all doubt. "And I wish to put a proposal to you. Your views, I think, are in line with our own."
Feuilly was dismayed – how had he been identified? The pamphlet had been published anonymously; he had not even known the channels by which it had reached the secret press where his associates arranged for it to be printed.
"I…"
"Come!" said Bahorel, speaking for the first time. "Come with us to the Corinth – we can explain it there. And it will be a chance to eat and get out of this foul weather – we can exchange cold and water for the fire of ideas and the smoke of pipes. He laughed heartily and – for all his imposing bulk and rough way of speaking – there was something reassuring and warming in the ringing laughter.
Feuilly allowed himself to be taken to the wineshop, not pausing to think how he was going to pay for the meal, for assuredly he would not let them buy it for him.
And that was how it had begun.
Feuilly had warmed immediately to Combeferre, whose breadth of learning was fascinating, and to Prouvaire, whom, it turned out, was a man of some erudition, and who had even proposed instructing him in Latin. This was fuel to Feuilly's burning need to expand his knowledge and horizons. Here, he thought, were men he could understand, and who understood him. With one exception.
Enjolras he could not admire. The law student could not be authentic, Feuilly reasoned. His well made clothes - oh, so deliberately sober and modest, but quality of the cut and texture spoke of money. His voice, his words, his grace – there were natural qualities there, Feuilly would admit, but they were overlaid by the patina that only money could nurture, and a life of comfort. Not because he affected mannerisms, but because of his unconscious command, the authority of and assumptions of wealth. He was no doubt very acutely aware of not bearing himself ostentatiously, neither in dress nor manner. But even that was part of what Feuilly had sourly heard Depaul refer to in some of his customers as "good breeding."
It was not envy, Feuilly was confident. Jealousy was a dirty little vice. He liked the other students – even Courfeyrac, who sometimes behaved as Enjolras never did, as if he were forgetful that he was an aspiring revolutionary with dreams of equality and liberty and instead choosing to conduct himself as if he were a young buck about town, flourishing his fashionable clothes and his girls. They had been friendly, respectful of his hard earned knowledge. As, he acknowledged, Enjolras had been.
But in Enjolras he thought he felt the inauthentic. Could any man so truly be the personification of Vertu? He was too clever, too passionate – he would burn both out before many more years. Who could maintain that much fervour but youth - a man in the first flush of political awareness, who had been sheltered for most of his life from the raw poverty that now shouldered him as he walked through the streets?
And did he really care about the social situation, or was he consumed with dreams of '89 and the dramatic events of the revolution, like a schoolboy enthralled with tales of Charlemagne or the Crusades? For when he spoke at all, he spoke as fluently of the Bastille and the course of the Convention as he did of workers' wages and the oppression of the press. These considerations had their place, but Feuilly – struggling daily against the indifference of a world where the rising cost of necessities outstripped his static wage, and where international crimes were validated by the nations on a grand scale – was rather weary of the breed of young Republicans who were more interested in talking about Robespierre in the airiest and broadest of rhetoric than in discussing events that were happening even then in Poland and Greece.
Watching Enjolras in his customary corner of the Musain, quiet as the arguments and passionate discourse unfolded around him, Feuilly felt vaguely resentful. "Does he imagine himself as Saint-Just in the Assembly?" he wondered. "Cultivating that mysterious silence? That classical pose? Building his cult of admirers?" He stayed with the ABC largely because of the others. Enjolras spoke to him often, and he responded politely but briefly. It seemed Enjolras was completely unaware of the emotions he inspired in Feuilly, as oblivious to them as to the admiration of the others. It fuelled his…resentment was too strong a word. His wariness. His distrust.
And then had come the day of the speech - a landmark in their association. There had been others there, the satellites who sometimes came into the orbit of the ABC's leaders, and the room had been filled. Many students, some workers. Supposedly spontaneously – although Feuilly had had his doubts - Enjolras, inspired, had climbed atop a chair to deliver one of his addresses. That rich voice had brought many to their feet. More passionate and persuasive revolutionary oratory, drawing on the imagery of '89. Feuilly had been in his corner, scratching out a satirical cartoon of Villèle blacking the king's boots that he was preparing for a pamphlet, pondering how to render the ugliness of their features to mirror the ugliness of their ideas and still make them recognisable. Although Enjolras' voice rang over all, interrupted only by cheers and affirmations from his enthralled audience, he had not been listening until he heard his name.
"Citizens, where are we to look to the future but in our working men? Is there any better resource or any higher hope in the world? And what could be grander than he who lifts himself through self-education and civic duty? And as the individual does so, so shall the nation. Take my friend, Feuilly – he earns perhaps a mere two or three francs a day, but he is the exemplar of a truly learned man. And he fights for his knowledge, he is tempered by his experiences, he is a sword of the people…"
Feuilly froze in anger. What right had Enjolras to take this liberty? To hold him up as some sort of example as he might speak of a character in his beloved Candide, or one of the old Conventionnels! What was he to Enjolras – an abstract idea, a symbol for rabble rousing rhetoric?
He rose to his feet and elbowed his way to the door. Combeferre, standing just outside, detained him with a hand on his arm as he passed. The student did not need to ask what the matter was.
"You are offended – Feuilly, I apologise."
"It is not you who should apologise, Combeferre, for it is not you who have given the insult."
"He does not mean to do so. Truly – when he is speaking, he sees a grand vista laid out before him, and all experiences, all his learning, individuals and even his friends are elements to be fashioned into ideas…"
"He does not see people at all. He sees glorious images and symbols in their place – his people are no more real than those fanciful figures I draw when I am earning my …mere two or three francs." He did not mean to spit out the last words, but it was difficult.
"He respects you, Feuilly – it's just that sometimes…"
"My friend, I know you act as an interpreter for him. I admire you for it. But I did not join this society to worship a golden calf." He tossed his head angrily towards where Enjolras held his audience enraptured, thought briefly of saying more, but then left.
He was sorry for the exchange. Combeferre had not deserved to be the target. Perhaps he would seek him out separately from the group, explain in other terms why he could not serve under Enjolras. If he could even frame what those terms were. His parting shot had been unworthy of him.
A few days later, soon after sitting to dine in a workingman's café, he had been abruptly woken from his thoughts by a pair of long, pale, elegant hands that settled on the table in front him. A voice, beautifully modulated but having a force that, at its fullest, he knew could render it harsh, asked, "might I sit down with you?"
"Of course, Citizen," he responded formally. No use in asking how he had been tracked here. Enjolras cultivated many contacts. He watched Enjolras draw out the chair with that damnable grace, as unconcerned, as always, with the stares he was attracting. Could he really be so unaware, or was it a lifetime of pretending he didn't notice the slight wake of silence when he passed, or the murmur of voices, the rills of laugher from the girls?
"Combeferre has told me I offended you the other day in the Musain." Enjolras said without preliminaries, and again Feuilly found himself under the regard of those blue eyes. It could be disconcerting in the extreme to be the subject of their focus. "I offer you my unreserved apologies – I should not have mentioned your personal circumstances."
"No, you should not have." Feuilly agreed. Whatever his charm of manner, Feuilly would not be won.
"Combeferre tells me that I was wrong to use you in that way as a symbol of what we hope for in the education of the people – that it demeaned you, creating a difference between you and the others in our circle, suggesting that your primary value to the ABC was as allegory rather than as a man."
Feuilly was surprised by the admission, and even more so when Enjolras dropped his eyes to his hands.
"I admit, Feuilly, that I do sometimes fall into this way of seeing our friends. I draw my inspiration from them – when I see Combeferre, I see the march of scientific progress, pushing back the darkness of ignorance. In Courfeyrac I see the warmth of humanity – its embracing generosity of spirit. Prouvaire is its tender side, still seeing something of the apocalyptic and melancholic grandeur of the revolution. Oh, in all of those close to us I see another dimension to existence, something beyond the immediate. I grope to express this – sometimes my ideas are hard to put into words, and I reach for symbols that come to hand, to clothe what cannot be easily expressed."
Then he looked at Feuilly with all the burning intensity of which he was capable. And the fan maker knew that this was absolute sincerity – it was not a posture, not a gesture. It was absolute, pure conviction.
He had never encountered it untainted and in its most essential form, and perhaps that was why he had not recognised it immediately.
"And I admire you, Feuilly. Not because you are a working man who has reached for the future, and not because you are a convenient emblem for our aspirations. Not only for these, though they are part of what matters. But for whom you are."
"But you always speak of other human beings in the abstract," Feuilly explained, trying to reach this distant figure. "We are human, too – and people are not merely pasteboard masks in which to clothe abstract principles, and life is not a series of gestures."
Enjolras nodded, and touched his shoulder.
"I know, Feuilly. And I expect you to remind me of this from time to time."
With his other hand he brushed a lock of hair from out of his eyes, and with that gesture – small, impatient, graceless, Feuilly realised that Enjolras was not merely a machine of revolution after all.
From that point, their friendship had progressed. Enjolras was never so crude as to offer him money – he suspected Combeferre had long since pointed out that this was an insulting gesture for one of Feuilly's temperament – but he had offered him access to his books. For all he seemed like the manifestation of some warrior divinity, he was surprisingly scholarly, even if his reading, though deep, was narrower than that of some of his friends. Greek and Latin, some philosophical thought (he was startled to come across a volume by Swedenborg on Enjolras' shelves, although he could detect only a faint trace of the man's ideas in those of his friend) , a vast and sometimes colourful array of histories and memoires of the Revolution, and the latest treatises on tactics and warfare.
They often spoke until late into the evenings in Enjolras' corner of the café – and most often it was he, Feuilly, who did the speaking, Enjolras regarding him with attention while he declaimed on the subjects that drew his passion, be they education or the liberation of oppressed peoples around the world. Feuilly knew the former concerned Enjolras, but he never knew if he listened to the latter from politeness. He could rarely be drawn on the subject of subjugated nations, save to agree that they were in need of liberation from the shackles of tyranny. Which wasn't very specific, so Feuilly thought. But he had come to accept that, too, in his friend. "You embrace all peoples as your family, don't you?" Enjolras had asked once at the conclusion of a particularly spirited discourse from Feuilly on Poland's May Constitution of 1790. Feuilly agreed, although that had not really been the thrust of his argument, and he waited to see if Enjolras would comment further. He did not, but instead seemed to lapse into reverie, still regarding Feuilly thoughtfully. And that was how it often went.
Feuilly had met the previous evening with friends in the Association libre pour l'Education du Peuple, and had sounded them out on legal matters. There was word of impending arrests for seditious publications, and it seemed some of the targets would be students. Feuilly knew that Enjolras did not think very highly of the rhetoric or tactics of some of his peers who had come under investigation since the spate of leaflets late last year. The ABC was perhaps not the epitome of discipline (and with members such a Bossuet and Joly, with their readiness for a drink and a laugh – not to mention satellites such as Grantaire – he suspected it never would be), but some of the students under investigation like Jules Sambuc and Pierre-Louis Chappare were crude blunderers by comparison who could bring suspicion and scrutiny down on them all.
He also had news from the shoproom floors, the rumour and counter-rumour of protest and newly formed and shadowy societies that might prove allies, or otherwise. Enjolras would see the connections, and he was impatient to discuss the new information. He hoped, too, that Prouvaire – who was surprisingly sound on such matters – might call in.
It was not Enjolras, though, but Courfeyrac who arrived at eight. Courfeyrac smiled and clapped his back in greeting as he sat down. "You'll get paint in your herrings. Usually it's in your hair." Feuilly nodded, and put his paints down, pushing his near empty plate away.
"It would improve the taste," said Feuilly mildly. "Where have you been prowling about today?"
"I've visited half the cafés in town," his friend responded conversationally. "Had a good game of billiards at the Voltaire."
"And collecting newspapers and pamphlets, I see." Said Feuilly, pointing to the stack of documents his friend had thrown on the table in front of him. "Are you starting a travelling library?"
"No, that would require keeping track of who borrows and who returns." He laughed. "It's a dirty business, this news vending - my fingers are black as an imp in a coal mine." He held them up. They were indeed dark. "And I'm in need of refreshment. Marietta?" he asked the waitress who had followed him in. She left to fetch the red wine that he favoured. "Have you spoken with Bahorel or Bossuet today? They were looking for you."
"No – I've been working. You students are prone to forget that some of us do that." he replied without rancour, "and you're the first in tonight."
"Well, I doubt we'll be meeting. You haven't heard about Enjolras, I take it?"
"No," Feuilly asked, concerned. "What of him?"
"Attacked, last night – still out cold when I last saw him." Courfeyrac began the tale without preliminaries.
"Monstrous!" Feuilly said, angrily, when he had finished, hotly angry at the unknown hands roughly placed on one of his friends.
"You haven't seen Grantaire since we were last at the Corinth, I suppose?" Courfeyrac asked. Feuilly shook his head. "Good. Then I can avoid telling him for now. I am frankly too fatigued to listen to his theories on how statues can bruise. And his concern would be still more grating." He took a swig of his wine. "That's better – I've been nursing a sore head all day. This red shall act as a corrective, as I was drinking a white wine last night. I'm sure that works out on a principal of balance. Quite seriously, though, Grantaire will probably be unbearable when he finds out."
"I might walk over to Enjolras' rooms now," Feuilly said, gathering up his things. He'd have to ask Louison to lock up the pieces that were yet to dry – the dishwasher was kind about these little matters. The rest he wrapped in tissue paper and put in their box. "I'll take the newspapers for you, if they're for Enjolras."
"No, I might drop around myself with you. See if he's up and about yet. I want to see if he's rounded on Joly yet for rearranging his furniture. Just let's finish this carafe."
"That's odd." Feuilly commented as they turned in at the end of the street.
"What is?"
"Those windows that are ablaze with light…those are Enjolras's rooms." Courfeyrac saw that Feuilly was correct – Enjolras's bedroom windows poured light into the street, leaving bright squares of light on the cobblestones. No silhouettes passed before them, though, no indication of movement. For a moment Courfeyrac felt concern.
"Combeferre probably lost his spectacles. Or Joly has dropped a magnet." He said lightly. "And good luck to them finding either among all those books and papers."
They knocked at the door, and Combeferre admitted them. "He's awake," Combeferre murmured to them. "Seems alright." Courfeyrac detected hesitation. "But don't try to draw him out on what happened last night." Here he fixed Courfeyrac with a keen grey eye. "He doesn't remember, and it is causing him some agitation."
Courfeyrac thought for a passing moment about what delight there was to be had in agitating Enjolras – he often expended his energies in that direction, and was sometimes, when extremely persistent or touching upon just the right trigger, rewarded with that rather splendid anger – but he supposed that in light of what had happened he could hold off for at least the evening. He still felt some vague, lingering guilt over the previous night, and hoped he wasn't developing a conscience regarding his friends. That would be terribly dull.
"Why all the light?" Feuilly asked, surprised, at the door to Enjolras' room. There were wax candles in all the wall sconces and lamps on both the chest of drawers and the bedside table.
"Enjolras requested that I bring in more candles." Combeferre said shortly. Something was bothering him, Courfeyrac realised. "And the lamps."
Some comment about being afraid of the dark rose to Courfeyrac's lips, but catching sight of Enjolras – pale against the pillows on which he was propped – made him bite off the remark. Instead, he gave one of his brightest smiles – and they were usually accounted to be dazzling.
"Well, it seems the spirit of the revolution is incapacitated for a day or two, then, Enjolras," he said with a flourish. Enjolras regarded him coolly.
"As I am not the embodiment of the revolution, my momentary indisposal will not present an insurmountable obstacle." Then he smiled in return, to show that he was not in earnest. "It is good of you both to call. Truly - this is a trifling matter."
A trifling matter that kept you unconscious for the better part of a day, Courfeyrac thought, but did not say it. It would be more cause for concern if Enjolras was not being so stoic about all this.
"We bring you homage, oh priest of the ideal," Courfeyrac said, flourishing the pile of newspapers and pamphlets. "I can extract the Loyalist publications from the pile if you're not of a mind to stomach them yet. And Le Journal des Débats and its ilk, too, if you're feeling particularly queasy."
Enjolras smiled, reached for them and, realising that there was no surface to put them on, placed them in a pile by his bed. "Thank you – you are most considerate." He turned to Feuilly. "So now we have what the press says – is there any news of the spirit in the workshops, Feuilly?" he asked, listening to the fanmaker's answer with all due attention.
Or so it seemed. Courfeyrac couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a false note here somewhere. Probably just Enjolras trying to hide his weakness, Courfeyrac thought, but there was something else to it. Enjolras seemed dampened down; the words he spoke about the issues of the day seemed to come by rote, not from that strange inner fount. Most utterances from Enjolras on such matters, even comparatively simple declarations, seemed to come as if he read them off a tablet in his mind where they were graven in letters of fire or chiselled in marble. He glanced up at Combeferre, who was regarding Enjolras with a concerned expression.
Taking advantage of a break in Feuilly's bright discourse on the latest iniquities of the rising cost of living in the artisan community, Combeferre broke in.
"I'll change your dressing now, Enjolras – let us check the wound."
"Shall we go?" Feuilly asked.
"No – please keep talking," Enjolras said. "It is nothing more than a scratch."
"'Tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door…'" began Courfeyrac, then stopped abruptly. He saw Enjolras' shiver as Combeferre touched his bandages, averting his eyes to look at the lamp on top of the dresser. Courfeyrac thought how ugly the mark on his neck seemed – like an animal bite. It did not ooze, though, and the skin around, while bruised, did not have the angry colour of infection.
Unbidden, he heard a voice from childhood. "The morning after the funeral, they found the dead man's sweetheart with a wound upon her neck…she sickened and soon died too…They buried her in the churchyard. In weeks, the mysterious sickness had spread to through the village and surrounding countryside, and always the same marks…."
He frowned. He remembered the voice. It was the cook from his childhood, an elderly peasant woman. Even as a child, Courfeyrac had thoroughly enjoyed the company of women, and often found himself in the kitchen being spoiled by the household staff. This woman had been a font of local tales and local gossip, with a penchant for the macabre. Local village scandal and murders going back generations, quite inappropriate for a child's ears. How had this tale gone? A plague that had swept through her home place, mysterious deaths…wounds on the neck. And…a graveyard. Something about a body gorged with blood. He couldn't quite recall how it went.
"Courfeyrac, could you please press this down while I bind it again?"
The will-'o-the-wisp of memory vanished with the words.
Enjolras wasn't aware when his friends had left – he must have fallen asleep, he thought. Certainly a period of unawareness had passed, his last recollection that of Courfeyrac reading aloud speech excerpts from the Chamber of Deputies reprinted in the Moniteur with such amusing inflections in the voices of the speakers he imitated that Feuilly had been laughing heartily and Combeferre had been offering him advice and encouragement on his delivery, declaring his Polignac a work of genius.
It was quiet now. He had no sense of time, though it was dark outside. Combeferre would be in the study, where he intended to sleep for a night or two. He was thankful that Combeferre had left the lamps burning. He had insisted on them all being alight earlier, and either through forgetfulness or for some other reason, Combeferre had extinguished only the candles.
He felt a faint, sick dizziness, and wondered whether he was truly awake, or if this was still a dream. It was hard to think, hard to move. He felt as if he struggled underwater. He looked at the lamps, knowing they were alight, but their illumination seemed veiled to him.
And then he realised he was on his feet and at the window without quite knowing how he had arrived there. He shook his head, trying to clear it. But the film of unreality was over all. He could hardly feel the cool air on his bare legs, or the cold floorboards at the window through his unshod feet. Compelled by some call he did not understand, he opened the shutters of his window.
A figure stood across the street, a motionless pillar of darkness, with a white face turned up towards his own.
Enjolras felt the edges of his vision dissolving, until there was nothing but a pair of silver eyes that stared into his naked soul.
Enjolras stood at the window, gazing at him with completely impassive features, his hair a halo backlit in the lamplight's glow. Orssich felt the same pull he had at the theatre, this time enhanced by his knowledge of Enjolras' mind, of the imprinted memory of how the boy had felt in his arms. It would be a simple matter to scale the wall of the building, entering the room, overwhelming his helpless prey. Not even the friend dozing in the next room would hear him. But Enjolras was too weak – he needed time to recover from the first assault. And Orssich, his appetite aroused, did not trust himself to merely taste – he would consume everything in the white lust of hunger when in such proximity to a warm, human body. As his consciousness snaked into Enjolras' mind, he felt his victim shudder. It was a trembling of a trapped bird's wings. Abruptly he withdrew. He would need to find someplace to feed tonight, to sate this thirst. Enjolras turned away from the window, passing a hand across his eyes, confused. Orssich went his way.
He fed in the early hours of the morning. An eight year old child in the faubourg Saint-Jacques, a frail little girl earning a pittance scavaging for turds in the street that could be used in the tanneries on the hides, a miserable, scabbed specimen of humanity with lice in her hair. He drew her into the shadow of a building, and ruthlessly fastened on to her neck, ripping into the artery. She hardly shuddered as he drained her blood quickly and completely, and made no sound but a sigh. He despised the necessity that lead him to mingle such inferior blood with that of his other victim, and flung her aside contemptuously when he had finished.
As her heart pulses faded to stillness, miles away Enjolras woke from troubled dreams with a raw cry.