Hello, all! I am so sorry about my incredibly long, unplanned absence. Life just got rather hectic, and I took much longer than normal to write out the chapter, so...I apologize. May the gods of writing smite me.
On the bright side, Chapter 12 is finally here! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I think it's been well established that I don't own Les Miserables.
They left the apartment at quarter to seven. Enjolras put his dark green jacket back on, and Tamar grabbed a black one from her trunk. The October night was cool, and a chill wind blew up from the Seine, stirring the city with its icy breath.
"The Musain is only three blocks from here," Enjolras told her as they walked.
"I know," Tamar replied. When the student looked at her quizzically, she shrugged. "I've been there before."
"Have you?" His voice was a bit too calm. "When was this?"
"Um...last night." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry; I should've said something, but you were asleep."
Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please say you didn't go alone."
"No!" she exclaimed. "How stupid do you think I am? Your friends took me."
"My...oh, God," he muttered.
"What?"
He sighed. "What am I going to do with you, Tamar?"
She shrugged. "Get used to my adventurous nature, I suppose. Nothing else you can do."
X X X
The cafe seemed to be just as lively as it had been last night, and Tamar could hear the strains of a fiddle from a block away, playing an old Irish drinking song. She sang along as she walked, her lyric mezzo-soprano voice floating out into the night. Enjolras looked at her strangely, but he said nothing.
The music grew louder as they got closer, and they could hear men's voices singing along. Tamar could pick out some of them: Courfeyrac's joyful tenor, Bossuet's husky baritone, and Bahorel's bass, with his unmistakable brogue.
"They sound like they're having a good time," she remarked. Enjolras nodded, but he didn't look at all pleased.
"Of course," he muttered, seemingly to himself. "They had to pick tonight of all nights to have a celebration. Bloody typical."
Tamar hid her laughter behind her hand. Apollo he may be called, but Enjolras definitely didn't have a godlike mouth!
"What's so funny?" he asked, annoyed.
She shook her head, unable to hide a smile. "Nothing, Enjolras."
X X X
When they arrived at the door, Enjolras held it open, just as Feuilly had done last night. Tamar bowed to him, feeling an extraordinary sense of deja vu.
"Thank you, good monsieur," she said, stepping gracefully inside. If Enjolras made a reply, though, she didn't hear it, for her ears filled with the sounds of the Parisian nightlife. Laughter, loud talking, the clinking of plates and bottles, and the shouts of card players mingled with the music.
"Wait here," the blonde said. Tamar watched as he made his way over to the boisterous singers, stalking with a feline grace. He spoke to them firmly, although she couldn't make out a word. After a while, he returned with Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Bahorel.
"Mademoiselle Tamar!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "What a lovely surprise! What are you doing here?"
"I'm here for the same reason as you," she retorted pertly, "and that's not for the food and drink."
The brunette laughed. "You're here for the meeting, of course," he said.
"I am. And we'd better go. Enjolras looks like he wants to tan your hide."
X X X
Tamar followed the four men down the hall to the back room. Bossuet, Bahorel, and Courfeyrac entered first, talking and laughing. Enjolras held the door for her again, and once again, she bowed, lightly smacking his arm on her way in.
The scene that greeted her was quite similar to last night's, but this time, Grantaire was swaggering toward the door, whiskey bottle in hand.
"Well!" he exclaimed, his deep voice surprisingly clear. "The great Apollo has shown tonight! And with a lady, no less! What is your name, fair mademoiselle, you who has charmed our friend of stone?"
Tamar rolled her eyes. "You know who I am, Grantaire. You met me last night."
"Did I?" The drunkard frowned, coming right up to her. She caught one whiff of the liquor on his breath and backed away. "Ah!" he shouted suddenly. "The mysterious Tamar! I thought I recognized your face. You're as beautiful and unapproachable tonight as you were when last I saw you!"
Laughter rippled through the room, but Tamar did not miss the sudden tensing of Feuilly's jaw, and she wondered at it.
"Leave her alone, Grantaire," Enjolras said, the now familiar edge back in his voice. "We need to get started; we're running late as it is."
Grantaire stared at the leader, agog. "You're defending her?" he asked in shock. Then, he burst out laughing.
Enjolras scowled. "What, for God's sake, are you laughing at?" he snapped.
X X X
The larger man turned around and whipped back, spreading his arms theatrically. "Ho!" he shouted, his green eyes bright. "Behold, our statue, our Apollo, who will spare a breath to defend a lady's honor! Unheard of, gentlemen! An anachronism so far removed from his usual character that it is impossible to believe, yet we must believe it, for it has occurred before our very eyes!" He took a step forward, grinning dangerously. "I do believe," he continued, "that there exists something between these two. Some bond, beyond our mere human understanding! A bond that is unearthly! Sidereal! Divine!
"I believe-" and here he jumped onto a nearby table- "that Apollo has found his Artemis! They are the sun and the moon, burning and glowing, light and dark! One completes the other, and together they rise above the heavens!"
X X X
Silence reigned in the cafe as Grantaire gave a grandiose bow. With one catlike bound, he quitted the table and made his weaving way over to Enjolras.
"Well," he cried, throwing a sinewy arm around the leader's shoulder. :Have I about summed it up?"
Enjolras stared at the drunk man for a long moment, and shook his head in exasperation. "Not in the slightest," he replied, pushing Grantaire off of him. The contempt in his voice sent a shard of sadness through Tamar.
Seeing Grantaire's hurt look, she gently put a hand on his shoulder. "I thought it was a lovely speech," she told him, offering a small smile. "A bit excessive, perhaps, but good nonetheless."
Grantaire gave her a surprised glance. The he laughed. "Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle," he said grandly. "A pity our Apollo doesn't feel the same."
"He doesn't seem to like you much," she observed. "Why is that?"
The black-haired man smiled bitterly. "Because I believe in nothing," he muttered. "He thinks that if I am to be a part of this group, I should share its views. I don't think that should be so, but…."
"Then why do you stay?" she inquired. "Why do you argue with him on these things, if his opinion of you is as low as you say?"
"Every man must play his part, and mine is a sad one," he told her, with a sardonic smile on his thin lips.
With the best will in the world, Tamar didn't know what to say to that. She glanced over at Enjolras, who nodded and stood.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, making Grantaire snort with disbelief. "Are we ready to begin?"
X X X
The Amis talked late into the night. Tamar watched the meeting intently, rarely offering up opinions. Still, the others, Enjolras and Combeferre in particular, often asked what she thought of certain ideas and situations.
"It's important to get information from someone who actually lives among those we aim to help," Combeferre explained.
"I haven't lived here long," she reminded him. "I don't know how much help I'll be." Still, she told them all she knew: of the terrible conditions in the streets, the dissatisfaction with the monarchy, the despair. When she finished, Enjolras nodded, seemingly unsurprised.
"That's all well and good," he mused, "but we need to take advantage of this unrest. We need to channel their hatred into an organized complaint. We need to speak to the people, hear their grievances for ourselves, and inform them of our cause."
"There are other rebel groups all over Paris," Bahorel pointed out. "I could go to them tomorrow, speak to their leaders, and get them to spread the word with us."
"Do that," Enjolras replied. "The more people we have, the better." He frowned, tapping his long fingers against the table in thought. "Joly, 'Ferre," he began, "could you speak with the students at the medical school? We will definitely have need of their skills later on."
"Of course," Joly said excitedly. "Many I know are sympathizers already."
"And it won't be difficult to convince the others, " Combeferre added. "Most university students in general aren't too pleased with the monarchy."
Enjolras nodded again. Tamar leaned forward in her chair, excitement coursing through her veins.
We're making history, she thought, right here in this room.
"I could talk to the other workers at the factory," Feuilly suggested. "they, too, are unhappy with their conditions, and news travels fast among them."
"Perfect." Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac and Jehan. "The pamphlets are ready," he told them. "I'm going to speak at the Sorbonne tomorrow, so could you pick them up? We need them for Tuesday's rally."
"Sure, Enj," Courfeyrac replied, grinning. "We'll pick them right up tomorrow...and we'll be careful."
"See that you are," the blonde said coldly. "We don't want a repeat of last time."
"What happened?" Tamar asked, unsure if she really wanted to know.
"Well," Courfeyrac said flippantly, "I'm sure it wasn't my fault. After all, I have the grace of a-"
"A cat, we know," Bahorel interrupted impatiently. "Courf the cat; as if we haven't heard that one a thousand times before."
Courfeyrac shot the big redhead a sulky glare. "You're just jealous, you clumsy thing," he grumbled. "And here! Your interrupting has caused me to neglect the mademoiselle's question! And your answer, my lady, is that it was all Joly's fault."
"What?! I-it was not!" the medical student cried. Angrily, he shook his hair out of his eyes and stood. "You pushed me!"
"It was a friendly shove, nothing more!" Courfeyrac protested. "It wasn't my fault that you stumbled and dropped the pamphlets in the river!"
Joly hid his face in his hands as Tamar began to laugh. "Did that really happen?" she asked incredulously.
Jehan winced. "Unfortunately, yes. When those two got back empty-handed, the very walls in here shook from the tempestuous force of Enjolras's anger."
Tamar stared at Enjolras, who neither confirmed nor denied this statement. "Is that so? My word, monsieur, you must learn to control your temper."
Courfeyrac and Bahorel snickered, and Combeferre smiled. "She has a point, mon ami, " the bespectacled student pointed out. Enjolras rolled his eyes in disgust.
"Jehan is exaggerating just a bit," Feuilly conceded. "I certainly wouldn't say the walls shook. Vibrated, perhaps...or cracked."
Courfeyrac laughed uproariously. "Cracked, that's right!"
"That's enough!" Enjolras snapped. "You all can ridicule me elsewhere, at a different time. If you don't think you can manage that," he added, fixing the hysterical Courfeyrac with a glare, "then I would suggest going somewhere else until you are in a more restrained state."
The brunette glanced around. "Are you talking to me?"
"Yes."
"Moi?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"COURFEYRAC!" Enjolras shouted, his low voice cracking like a whip. Tamar and Jehan jumped. "ENOUGH!"
The center dipped his head in acquiescence, but his full lips curved into a mischievous smirk. "Of course. I'll shut up now, Apollo."
"You-" Enjolras cut himself off, and began swearing rapidly and profusely in Occitan. Feuilly's eyes widened, Joly and Marius looked confused, Bahorel began to laugh, and Bossuet covered Jehan's ears. Tamar blushed. The blonde's vocabulary was more colorful than she'd thought.
"Does this happen often?" she asked Combeferre.
He shrugged. "Occasionally," he replied. "Though I daresay Courfeyrac deserved the tongue-lashing this time."
"This time?"
Meanwhile, Enjolras had seemingly recovered his composure. He brushed the long curls out of his eyes and stood, drawing everyone's attention to him. "All right," he said firmly. "We need to focus."
"I wouldn't say that," Grantaire drawled, running a hand lazily over his black hair. "After all, urgency is a subjective state."
Enjolras gave Grantaire a cutting look, but he didn't respond. Instead, he looked everyone in the eye, as though assessing them. "That should be all for tomorrow," he remarked, "unless anyone can think of another key spot to speak at."
"What about the docks?" Tamar suggested. Enjolras glanced at her in surprise.
"She's right," Feuilly spoke up. "There are a great many workers at the docks, and they aren't at all passive. Remember the riots a few months ago?"
"A good point," Enjolras murmured. "The dock workers' support was key last time. Still, it's a dangerous place. I'd go myself, but I won't have time tomorrow."
"I'll go," Tamar said. "I know my way around the docks, and you know I can take care of myself."
"Absolutely not!" the blonde exclaimed. "I would not send you into such a situation-"
"You said you'd let me help you!" Tamar protested. "So why won't you let me do this?"
"It's too dangerous!" Enjolras exploded. "Damn it, Tamar, why must you insist on doing things that are incredibly detrimental to your well-being? You're too young, too inexperienced-"
"Oh, really?" she shot back, rising to her feet. "You think I don't know how shady it is down there? For God's sake, Enjolras, I was born in a brothel on a riverbank in Vienna! I know what docks are like! So don't tell me I'm too young, or inexperienced, or any of that scheisse. I have more disreputable experience than any of you!"
"I know that!" Enjolras shouted, leaping up to face her.
"Oh, you do, do you? How?" Tamar's voice was laced with venom.
"Enjolras took a step toward her, raking a hand through his curls. "Must we argue every time we speak to each other?" he asked softly. "What good does it do?"
Tamar paused for a moment, thinking. "None," she sighed at last. "But I will not hesitate to argue with you if you insist on being overprotective."
"I'm not trying to be overprotective!" Enjolras hissed, frustrated. "I just don't want to be responsible for any injuries that may befall you!"
Tamar sighed again. "I know," she replied. "Still, I am more than capable of taking care of myself."
"I think you should let her speak," Courfeyrac interjected. "She's certainly proven her mettle… and her oratory skill."
Tamar stared at the green-eyed man, unsure if his comment was an insult or a compliment. He merely shrugged, winking.
Enjolras frowned, clearly deep in thought. "You realize," he began after a time, "that the workers may not listen to you. Most of them are of the opinion that women have no place in politics."
"He's right," Bossuet added. "They won't listen to a girl."
"Well, then I'll just have to pretend to be one of them, yes?" Tamar asked in a man's voice, with a thick Marseilles accent. "And I suppose I'll have to do something about this hair of mine."
The men all stared at her in shock. Courfeyrac's mouth hung open, and Tamar tapped his chin with a cheeky grin.
"What do you think?" she asked in her normal voice. Bossuet let out a low whistle, and Grantaire clapped mockingly, but anyone could see that he was impressed.
Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "That'll do," he muttered. "You're sure about this?"
"Positive."
The blonde nodded. "Very well. I know I can't stop you. But I want you to do something for me."
"What is it?" she asked with slight trepidation.
"I want Maruis to go with you." When the chestnut-haired man began to protest, Enjolras held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not asking you to commit yourself to our cause," he said quietly. "This is not a test. I just want you to go with Tamar and see for yourself what it is we're trying to do. You both can learn from this."
Marius pondered this for a minute, but finally he nodded. "I will go," he said, "but I make no promises."
Enjolras clapped him on the shoulder. "I did not expect you to," he assured the younger man. "But I do expect you to help Tamar."
"Of course." Marius gave Tamar a shy smile and offered his hand to her. "It will be a pleasure working with you, mademoiselle."
"Likewise," she replied. taking his outstretched hand. It felt smooth and soft in her tough, calloused palm. The two shook hands firmly.
"Well," she said. "That's settled, then."
"Is everyone clear on what they're doing for tomorrow?" Enjolras gave their assent. "Good. Remember, we're holding Tuesday's rally outside the Jardin du Luxembourg. Everyone will be there, yes?"
"Yes!" Courfeyrac called. "At least, I hope so. I may be...otherwise occupied." A chorus of laughs, groans, and the occasional eye-roll resonated through the back room.
Tamar sat back in her chair, watching the meeting wind down. Enjolras turned to speak with Combeferre and Bahorel, and Grantaire went to the bar for another drink.
"So, mademoiselle." Marius's voice startled her. "Will you be preparing a speech for tomorrow?"
"No," she responded. "I plan to improvise. And if anyone asks, my name is Gaspare Anatole."
Marius raised his eyebrows. "Shouldn't you pick a less...exotic pseudonym? After all, people will remember that, and you could get caught more easily."
"I want people to remember," she retorted. "A strange name will get more attention, yes, but that means that more people might come to listen."
"I suppose you have a point," he conceded. "In any case, Courfeyrac's aliases are much stranger."
Tamar laughed softly. "I can imagine," she muttered, glancing around the room. "What will you be doing while I speak?"
"I could...I'm not sure." Marius blushed. "I'm afraid I've never done this before."
"Neither have I," she assured him. "Well, I'll speak, and you can act as crowd control."
Marius burst out laughing, and Tamar did, too. The Bonapartist was surprisingly easy to talk to. Then, he glanced around, too, and frowned. "Feuilly is looking at you strangely," he told her. "You might want to see what he wants."
Tamar glanced up, surprised. Sure enough, the German worker was staring at her intently. She stood and walked over to him, noticing how he seemed to grimace as she sat.
"Feuilly, was ist los?" she asked him. "Did you want to speak to me about something?"
"No, I…." He ran a hand through his fine hair. "Yes, actually. I just wanted to tell you to be careful tomorrow. I don't want anything to happen to you."
Tamar looked at him suspiciously. "I'll be fine, but thank you for your concern."
The German nodded awkwardly.
Tamar frowned. "Is that all?"
"Ja."
"Are you sure? You seem...troubled about something."
"No, fraulein, nothing troubles me," Feuilly sighed. "But I should be going. Guten nacht."
"Gute Nacht," she replied, feeling uneasy.
She couldn't shake the feeling as Feuilly left, and some of the others followed suit. Something was troubling him, she was sure of it, and she sensed that she had something to do with it. But what could it be? She sighed, putting the thought aside. She had to prepare for tomorrow. It would be interesting, for sure. She hoped she didn't let the Amis down.
And that's that! Wow, considering that I took more than a month to write this, I'm surprising dissatisfied with it. But tell me what you think, regardless!
A few notes on some potential points of confusion. If Grantaire's speech seemed confusing and obscure, it was because he was, as usual, he was drunk. As for Bahorel, I've always pictured him as a big redhead with a Scottish accent; I don't know why.
I don't own the name 'Courf the Cat.' That's the screen name of a Fanfiction writer who's written some very good stories for Les Mis. I borrowed the name, but I claim no ownership whatsoever.
The riots that Feuilly mentioned were real. This story takes place several months after the revolution of 1830, when the reactionary Charles X was ousted from office. The new king, Louis-Philippe, ruled over a bourgeois monarchy; his policies favored the rich and left the poor in the dust. The Amis are rebelling against him.
Translation time!
Merci beaucoup- French for 'thank you very much'
Moi- French for 'me'
Was ist los- German for 'what is wrong'
Ja- German for 'yes'
Scheisse- German for 'shit'
Fraulein- German word for an unmarried woman
Gute Nacht- German for 'good night'
Well, I'm out. And I'm on April break, too, so hopefully Chapter 13 won't be so long in coming! Auf Wiedersehen! Au revoir! ¡Adiós!
