When they arrived back in their flat after the tiresome return journey to Paris, Enjolras and Combeferre finally looked at one another and silently admitted that neither had wanted to go home for Christmas. Lyon was, for both of them, a place of the past. Enjolras had not minded seeing his mother, but letters discussing political news were perfectly sufficient for their relationship. Combeferre's family had proven to be as disdainful of him as ever, and only sheer force of will had gotten him away from his father's demands on his future and back to Paris and university.
After depositing their trunks and starting a fire, they took a moment to breathe again in the peacefulness of their book-filled flat.
"Do you know what I have missed over this Christmas season?" said Combeferre at last. "Playing music. There have been masses and carols in plenty, but I have made no music of my own—"
"—and we have certainly played none together," Enjolras finished his thought. "It is a pity your cello is too big to easily transport back and forth, or we might have made arrangements to meet and do so; I was even carrying my violin in case my mother should revive our old custom of the Marseillaise together, but she seemed always to feel unwell."
"That is not like her," Combeferre said. "Has she seen a doctor?"
He shook his head. "She will not unless she feels she must. —But as you said, we should play together."
Combeferre gave Enjolras a sober glance at his choice to leave the topic, and they went to get their instruments. After tuning carefully, they began the carols they had enjoyed most as children, alternately adding harmonies or embellishments to the tunes. The old words moved in their heads, taking on life and prompting thought.
"I have always wondered—" said Combeferre, when they paused to stretch their hands and get a drink of water, "I have always wondered how the church can preach Christmas without preaching equality and human worth. Have they never noted that the Christ Child is visited by manual laborers and foreigners, and born to a woman of no reputation? Can they not see that throughout, hope is brought most of all to the lowly, those whom they now oppress?"
"Either they cannot yet see, or they will not," Enjolras replied. He drained his glass of water. "And when the blind lead the blind, or rather lead those who have been taught nothing but darkness—"
Combeferre shook his head with a sigh, and they were quiet until Enjolras lifted his bow again. "We have played songs that herald one revelation of light;" he said, "now let us play to inspire ourselves towards another."
Combeferre smiled and they bent to their instruments once more, letting the Marseillaise ring out.