Enjolras sat at the bar with the men. Everyone was laughing, but his mind was on more important matters. A map of Paris was spread in front of him on the counter. He made Xs and arrows across the page, with notes and figures and numbers in the margins. He was meticulous, trying to plan out his revolution on paper well before he really put it into action. Giant stars marked where he would begin speaking publicly when the spring came.
"Enjolras!" Joly cried, sloshing his beer wildly in the air.
Enjolras turned, and every man was grinning at him. Grantaire looked particularly pleased. "What?" he demanded irritably. He had work to do.
Courfeyrac laughed. "You're all mad! I'd be happy to give you a lesson, though, Enjolras!"
Combeferre chuckled brightly, and Grantaire took another swig of alcohol. Enjolras rolled his eyes and tried to turn back to his work, but an equally intoxicated Lesgles shouted, "Oh come on Enjolras! Tell us!"
"Tell you what?" Enjolras shouted, but he got no response. The group continued to shout "you're mad!" and "Enjolras? No!" and "When Grantaire stops drinking, I'll say differently!"
Enjolras turned again to his work. His pen, for a moment, lingered on the map over the little alley where he'd run into Eponine all that time ago. He remembered primal instinct taking him that day – a strange desire to protect her, even though he barely knew her at all. It wasn't until much later that he realized the reason was her uncanny similarities to Amédée.
Amédée. Enjolras felt a stab of pain as he realized that he'd forgotten her birthday. It wouldn't have done him any good to remember, but still, he felt guilty.
Just as his thoughts began to wander, Courfeyrac's arm was around him.
"Come on, 'Jolras," he jeered, "Tell us, is there a special lady in your life?"
Enjolras' thoughts jumped straight to Eponine, but he shoved the idea away immediately. Eponine was a closed book, a closed chapter of his life. "No," he replied sternly, "my only mistress is my country."
The men paused for a moment, taken aback by his sternness, but as is always the case with drunken men, the quiet did not last long. The gaiety picked up again and they went back to their alcohol induced jests. Enjolras murmured under his breath, "Patria," and returned to his work, but his thoughts again began to stray. He gave up, folded the map and shoved it into his pocket. With a nod to the rest, he walked out of the café, disgruntled.
Eponine. You're a fool for seeing anything in her, for letting her get in your way. There is a higher cause, one that deserves your utmost attention. Let her go. You know she's not coming back.
All these truths locked themselves into Enjolras' heart at once, and he felt his old stone wall rebuilding itself. Suddenly, no thought of Eponine could distract him, nor one of Amédée, because what had come to pass had all happened for a reason, to push him in the right direction – the direction of revolution. He could see it now, the people of France rising up against the tyranny of the French monarchy. The king would disappear off into the distance and the people would fight for freedom in a flurry of red, white and blue.
Vive le République! He thought, and a sudden fire rose inside of him that he thought he'd lost some time ago. Eponine was nothing now. France was truly his mistress, and he would raise her up above all that dared try and push her into the mud.
"Vive le République!" he shouted out loud, for nobody but himself to hear on those cold, snowy Parisian streets.
Passion rose in place of pain, and Enjolras was whole again.