Les Trois Glorieuses

The Café Musain had transformed into a teeming mélange of angry antimonarchists. Before, it had merely served as the home of idle sedition and treachery. But now, it held arms and dangerous men that were hungry for the king's blood. To accentuate the disorder and chaos of the café, one must describe the mood of 1830 Paris. After Napoleon's exile, the French people had witnessed the placement of another Bourbon monarch upon the throne. After their glorious 18th century revolution; they abhorred the idea of another fat king heading the government. By the summer, the discontent of the anti-monarchists had reached a precipice and they had subsequently begun to plot their counterattack. It did not help matters that the sweltering July heat offered no sign of respite. And the men's attitudes reflected such as their tempers rose like the mercury in the thermometer.

Among these ill-tempered men sat Combeferre and Enjolras. Both of whom were actively engaging in a particularly treasonous conversation when shouts from outside distracted them.

"A bas les aristocrates! A bas le roi!"

Several men, including Enjolras and Combeferre, went out to investigate the source of the subversive commentary.

They discovered a group of men carrying the tri-colored flag of the revolution, its vibrant red, white and blue stripes contrasting starkly with its bearers' drab attire. Gesticulating dramatically, the men shouted, "Liberté, égalité, fraternité," Noticing, the small collection of men before the café, one of the flag bearers said, "Join us brothers! Help us drag that Bourbon bastard to the guillotine like his forefathers!"

"Vive la France," Enjolras, Combeferre and the other café conspirators cried.

"Vive la France," the flag bearers responded in unison.

Their spokesperson smiled broadly and added, "Tonight will be the night."

And, he was right. The night was July 28, 1830 and by 7:00 PM, Paris had transformed into a bloody battleground. Barricades were erected throughout the city, constructed out of furniture, cobblestones, doors, and trees. Basically, anything that the revolutionaries could find was added to these monstrous heaps of obstruction. Atop these massive structures waved the red, white and blue flag of freedom, a symbol close to every freedom fighter's heart.

Shielded by a ten foot high mountain of pianos and carriages, Enjolras stood stoically. He looked fierce, his white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his red sash about his waist. Leather boots rode up his slim legs to the knee and his unruly blonde curls glistened with perspiration. In his clenched hands was an ebony rifle, which he was prepared to use at any moment. His mouth set in a grimace of reserve; he was eager for the fray to begin. He needed a distraction, regardless of the detrimental consequences it proposed. As if in an answer to his prayers, the sound of the advancing army piqued his interest. Climbing up the barricade, Enjolras peeked over the top and saw the pompous uniformed soldiers marching forth from the end of the rue. In the front sat a colonel atop a white Lipizzaner. His medals gleaming in the light of the street lanterns, he flashed his bayonet and ordered his men to hold their fire.

"In the name of the king," the colonel shouted. "Surrender!"

The leader of Enjolras' barricade, a young idealist named, Jean Richard, fired back with, "Never! We are the voice of the people and we demand change!"

Turning to his men, he said, "On the ready gentleman. Let's give them hell."

Readying his own weapon, Richard narrowed his eyes in concentration, aiming directly for the nameless colonel. "FIRE!" he shouted.

The lead bullet hit the decorated man directly in the chest and he fell from his horse. His head made contact with the cobblestones with a sickening crack and his men responded with cries of outrage.

"FIRE!" a handsome young lieutenant; presumably the fallen colonel's second- in- command, cried.

Members of the battalion scrambled to arrange their cannons. With shaking hands, they fired them off, simultaneously, obliterating huge sections of the rampart.

Fortunately, Enjolras' section had not been maimed and he continued to pop off rounds, hitting nearly every soldier for which he aimed.

He could hear the screams of his wounded comrades behind him, but he dared not take his eyes off of the battleground.

After an exhaustive fifteen minute skirmish, the army's resources had significantly diminished and they began to retreat.

Cheers of triumph emitted from several members of the counterrevolutionary party, but Richard and Enjolras were not among the jubilant. They both knew that the king's army would not be, so easily, deterred. They would return and with stronger reinforcements.

Leaping down from his perch, Enjolras helped move the severely wounded into the haven of a nearby tavern. The owner, a matronly woman, allowed them to use her tables for the writhing bodies. Soon, blood covered the tavern's floor and the pungent odor of death permeated throughout the humid space. Just as Enjolras was about to go out and retrieve more injured patriots, a hand closed around his ankle. Looking down, he gasped as he recognized the grimy face of Combeferre. Sinking to his ami's side, he said, "Mon Dieu Etienne, what happened to you?"

"I was hit in the shoulder," Combeferre said, his teeth gritted in pain.

Appraising the wound, Enjolras said, "The bullet only grazed you, thank god. But, I am going to need to clean it."

Nodding, Combeferre clenched his fists as Enjolras acquired a bottle of bourbon from the tenant and poured a generous amount upon the oozing gouge. Ripping off his red sash, he fashioned a tourniquet and wrapped it tightly about the sanitized flesh.

"Thank you," Combeferre muttered weakly. "…and to think, that I'm the medical student."

Enjolras chuckled softly, patting his friend upon the uninjured arm. "What can I say? I'm a renaissance man."

"No," Combeferre said, smiling. "You're a revolutionary."

The duo was silent for a moment before Enjolras inquired, "Where were you? I couldn't find you before the battle began?"

"I had to find a weapon, but I forgot that I still had this."

He showed Enjolras the revolver that he had confiscated from him.

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras took the weapon.

"If you wanted my gun; you could have just asked," he said good-naturedly.

"They're bringing in replacements!" shouted Richard from the doorway, prompting both amis to abandon their idle chatter.

"Be careful, Julian," Combeferre said, his tone suddenly serious.

"Don't worry, Etienne," Enjolras said with a grin as he followed Richard out to the half-manned barricade.

"We've lost nearly 20 men, thirty others are wounded," Richard said as if he could read Enjolras' mind.

"How many are left?"

"Twenty-five," Richard said his face grave.

Swallowing hard, Enjolras declared, "We won't go out without a fight."

Richard smiled thinly and clapped Enjolras on the back, "You're a good man, Enjolras. The world needs more like you. Men who are willing to fight for what is right."

Enjolras did not have time to respond for one of the sentries shouted, "They're readying the cannons!"

Bounding up the barricade, Enjolras reclaimed his rifle and aimed it at the heart of a trembling -soldier. The man before him could not have been much older than himself. At twenty years old, his life was about to end and Enjolras was going to be the one to take it.

In a white burst of gunpowder, the young soldier's world went black. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but his feelings of guilt were short-lived. A commotion to his right, catapulted him into action.

"Look out Enjolras!" one of the sentries shouted.

Whipping his head, Enjolras nearly stumbled backwards when he saw the face of the man advancing towards him.

He would have recognized that self-satisfied smirk anywhere.

Christian Lurondeux.