A/N: Hello, everyone! Prepare to become totally bombarded with Jean Prouvaire feels! I do not own the song, or "poem", that Prouvaire writes over the death of his friends.


Chapter 9: The Poet's Tale

"I still don't understand it." Enjolras said . "Javert goes missing while negotiations are happening with Saunier, but it could not have been Saunier who released him: when he came back into the Corinthe after an adjournment, he exclaimed that Javert had gone. The rope binding him had not been cut, and no one had seen him or any accomplice fleeing through the Rue Saint-Denis. And five hours later, he's staring down at me with that insidious, arrogant face of his, having a meeting with the three new rulers of France, one of whom happens to be his former superior."

"Not mention that he completely embarrassed you in front of said rulers." Bahorel added. "And that he will not, at any time, hang for his crime. You have to admit, the man has luck."

Grantaire chuckled, and tapped his glass against Bahorel's. "Amen to that, brother."

The sun was setting on that titular day of June 7, 1832, and Enjolras had gathered all the Amis in the Cafe Musain for a small meeting. They exchanged different news and different stories about the fall of the monarchy across Paris, and how people came in by the thousands from the provinces to aid their countrymen. It all sounded very grand to Marius, and much more exciting than having to meet Javert again.

Enjolras glared at the skeptic. "If you hadn't tossed the last of your scotched brains into a bottle years ago, Grantaire, than you might consider the gravity of the situation. With Clarencieux as his ally, what kind of authority do you imagine Javert, who surely hates every member of the ABC Society, could or would wield against us?"

"I don't know." Said a new voice. "And to be honest, Enjolras, for once I really don't care what you're saying."

All nine of the students turned their heads at once to look at a figure standing in the doorway of the Musain. It was a young man, dressed in torn, bloody clothes with a rosette pinned on his chest. His hair was wild and unkempt, and he walked with a slight limp as he entered the bar.

It was Jean Prouvaire.

Enjolras stood up in astonishment. "Jehan!"

Marius was just as amazed. With all that had happened, they had shamefully forgotten what might have become of the young romantic, captured by the National Guard at the barricade the day before. Since the revolutionaries had won, those captured and not killed must have been set free, but that didn't explain why it had taken Prouvaire all day to be released.

He blatantly ignored his friends, and staggered tiredly up to the bar. "Whiskey." He ordered in a monotonous voice. "Mon Dieu, I'd kill for a whiskey."

Bernard, the barkeeper, got him a drink, and he downed half the glass in an instant. He sighed in satisfaction, and then turned around to look at them.

He wasn't any better up close. He had a cut lip, scabbed hands, and his left eye was so swollen it was almost shut.

Marius stared in horror at the poet. "What happened to you, Jehan? Who did this to you?"

He finished his drink. "Good question." He commented. "Well, allow me to start at the beginning; my capture during the battle."


As you know, I was stationed at the left-wing of the barricade with a small group of riflemen. Well, once all of my company were killed or captured in the first assault, I saw no harm in scaling the barricade and taking out as many soldiers as my rage and grief would let me. I am not proud of what I did then: I killed them with every weapon I could imagine, from bare fists to knives to empty rifles, and at least five men are now dead because of me. I really drew attention to myself when I stabbed a captain, and cut a large scar across his cheek. They were madder than hornets after that, if you remember, and before I could draw back they grabbed me down and sent me, kicked, beaten and shoved, into the dank alley where the prisoners of war were held.

I was reunited with three of my men there. They were workers, not students, but I'm sure you remember their names, especially you Feuilly: Luc Brasseur, Guy Lesurques, and Nicolas Courriol. We were chained like criminals to an iron ball, and our hands were bound severely. But we were able to talk to one another, and that was our only comfort for that long night.

I thought I knew them well, I admit it, but when they spoke to me then I could have sworn I was speaking to different people. Their fear was rampant, and they were constantly worried that at any moment the barricade would fall or the Guards would find enough time to spare to execute us. I offered them what little comfort I could, though I remember very little of what I said in our shared anxiety.

I do remember saying that if they were killed-which, if we lost, was certain-that they should die crying "Vive la Republique!" and "Vive l'avenir!", as a solace that they had died for something noble; a cause much bigger than themselves.

To which Lesurques responded "That will only glorify us in the eyes of our comrades; what about in the eyes of God? When we reach Heaven, what shall happen to us then? We will be viewed as martyrs, victims, or radicals? They say peace is everlasting in His kingdom, but will we have achieved peace inside us?"

I spent all night trying to answer that question, my friends, and I couldn't think of anything that would please us both in regards to that subject. And of course, in the early hours of the morning-today-the Guards, in a brief, respite, assigned some men to bring us out into their barracks and make ready to kill us. Of course they took Lesurques first. I asked Brasseur "why him?". He said that Lesurques' father had been drafted into the army and then killed at Waterloo, and that Guy would sworn to his mother that he would try to avenge his death by fighting in the revolution. What an empty vow that was!

Poor Brasseur was next, and then Courriol, both of whom went almost solemn to their deaths. They took my advice in the end, and the cry "Vive la Republique!" sounded mournfully twice.

They'd brought me out to the wall and were tying the bag around my head, old friends, when that god-sent messenger arrived. I overheard what he told the commander, and I fairly whooped with joy. I was going to live! I half-expected to be set free on the spot, but what does that pompous, moustached buffoon of a commander do? He brings me with him, like a master and his dog, to the Palais de Justice, since my execution is now such a controversial decision.

The commander left me with some of his lackeys in a room in the Palais for a while, none of whom I'd seen fighting and none of whom were quite sober. They'd been told by that shifty inspector, Beauvais, that Javert was being held captive, so they asked me where he was so they could get him. I refused. I said that Javert was an attempted murderer, and if the new Republic was just he would hang tomorrow for his crime.

They didn't like that, let me tell you. They tried to convince me; if I told them, they'd let me to go back to Rue Saint-Denis, no fuss at all. More likely they would slit my throat on the way there. I was adamant in my refusal, and one of them, Saint-Ange, got angry. He pounced on me, and it took both of his friends to drag him away from me. He beat me bad, I have to say; the results are right in front of you.

The commander came back, and nearly blew a gasket when he saw the state I was in. He yelled furiously at Saint-Ange, explaining that I was an Ami de l'Abaisse and should be treated as a restorer of France. Fed to him by his new superiors, certainly, but he was definitely angry with my wounds.

The Guards left-I didn't care where-and left me there with meager food and less water. I was too exhausted, both by dehydration and Saint-Ange's work, to even attempted escape, for the door was surely locked.

At last, a man named Renard came to see me, and introduced himself as one of the new Consuls. He apologized for Monsieur Saint-Ange's treatment of me, said that I was no longer to be executed and that I was free to go. He also told me that if I wanted to rejoin my friends, I would find them at the Cafe Musain. And so I went.


They were all staring in pure bewilderment at Prouvaire, calmly recounting his story as he ate a small dinner and several glasses of wine. He noticed their blank expressions, and a trace of his old grin came back. "Oh, cheer up, my friends. The revolution is over, and we've come out against all odds on top. Let us try and take a little enjoyment out of our deeds and sufferings."

Enjolras readily agreed, and soon enough they were all telling Jehan excitedly about what they'd been doing since this morning, and what they hoped for the new Republic. Marius thought it very unusual to hear his friends speak of the republic no longer as an idea that was merely plausible, but as something that was real and could be made. And that made him smile.

After listening to them for a while, Prouvaire began to lose focus. He started humming a sad tune, and Joly asked him what it was. He smiled sadly, and said:

"It is a poem I created after Lesurques was killed. I'd thought a lot about his last words to me before I was brought to the Palais: "They say peace is everlasting in His kingdom, but will we have achieved peace inside us?" So I conjured up a few verses that might go along with that question, and as a way to remember those poor trio of souls."

"I hope you don't plan on telling it to us." Enjolras moaned.

Jehan laughed. "We've all been through hell, my good Apollo, but I'm the only one who's passed through the fires. Allow me this one small favor, please."

Shrugging, Enjolras conceded. Jehan began to recite, and his words carried them through the dark remainder of the evening.

I'm thinking of friends whom I used to know,
Who lived and suffered in this world below.
They're gone off to heaven, but I want to know
What are they doing there now?

There's some whose hearts were burdened with care.
They spent their moment so frightened and scared.
They clung to the cross with trembling and fear.
Oh, what are they doing there now?

Oh, what are they doing in heaven today?
Where sin and sorrow have all gone away?
Peace is found like a river they say.
Oh, what are they doing there now?

There's some who were poor and often despised.
They looked up towards heaven with tear-blinded eyes.
With people heedless and deaf to their cries.
Oh, what are they doing there now?

Oh, what are they doing in heaven today?
Where sin and sorrow have all gone away?
Peace is found like a river they say.
Oh, what are they doing there now?