Chapter XXVIII
The clock struck the hour and rang out nine times. When Marius walked out through the cathedral doors, night was falling over Paris. As of now, the rain had all but stopped and a light mist was still falling. But the dark clouds that rolled in the sky promised a new storm to spring forth at any moment.
Marius pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked around the side of the cathedral. It was summer but the rain was cold. He raised his eyes to look around him, quickly searching the streets with his eyes, looking for Grantaire. But they were all but empty. A lonely carriage rolled down the road, the sound of its rusty wheels turning and the soft sound of the horse's hooves the only noises that could be heard. A few strangers hurried past, hidden beneath long coats and large hats, their faces bowed and nuzzled into their collars, each of them moving quickly along not glancing up to look at anything or anyone around them.
There was a man standing alone at the side of the church, leaning against the stone walls, a black hood covering his head, and his back to Marius so he could not see his face. Marius felt his stomach begin to churn and he started forward, slowly walking toward this man. As he approached, the man did not move. Marius slowly walked up beside him, reluctantly as if he were unsure if this man was his friend or his enemy. The man's face slowly came into view.
He was looking at the street in front of him with careful eyes, as if studying it, but in reality he did not see the city around him, but was instead lost in a world of deep thought. He did not glance at Marius or in any way acknowledge his presence. Marius found himself follow his gaze to see what he was looking at, but it was only the empty street.
"I knew you'd come," Grantaire said quietly, still not taking his eyes away from the original place where they remained gazing into the mist.
Marius turned his eyes away from the street and looked at him. "Of course, I came," he answered in a soft voice. "Do you think I would just stay behind and let you rescue Enjolras by yourself?"
"No." Grantaire turned his head, and for the first time since they had divided and when in different directions, he met Marius's eyes. Their eyes locked together, and Marius felt a faint but deep feeling of relief flow into him, like the first glow of the morning sunrise that comes and begins to melt away the chill of the night. "I knew you would come," Grantaire repeated but this time his voice was easier, as if the frost that had coated it moments before was fading away. Then, he turned away, looking away from Marius's eyes and looking back out at the street.
Marius hesitated for a moment; then he ventured to speak again, "Um… Grantaire…" He did not answer, but he must have been listening, so Marius went on. "How are you feeling?"
"Great," Grantaire answered without hesitating, without so much as glancing at Marius.
Marius knew that was a lie as soon as he said it. He let out a deep sigh and looked away, folding his arms over his chest. "Grantaire…"
"Yes?"
"We can't keep lying to each other like this." Marius turned his head to look at Grantaire. "Grantaire, look at me." Grantaire obeyed. "Now, listen. We both lied to each other. We both did it thinking that it was for the best, but look where it has put us. How will we ever be able to save Enjolras if we cannot even trust each other? Don't you see? We cannot go on like this."
Grantaire thought for a moment, looking into Marius's eyes. Finally, he spoke. "Alright," he said flatly. He looked away from Marius and said, "What makes this so difficult is that we are both right."
Marius frowned in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"
Grantaire turned to him and met his gaze. "We are both right," he repeated. "You were right about me having to see a doctor. You were right that if I didn't go, I might have died. And you are still right that it would be better for me if I stayed there for a few more days." He paused for a moment, looking into Marius's eyes, before he went on. "But I'm right, also. I know that you are trying to do what is best for me, but I am not thinking about me. I don't care about me, anymore. All that matters now is getting Enjolras out of that prison. So I am also right. If I do what is best for my sake, then I hurt him. Everyday day that we hesitate is a day longer that Enjolras suffers. Remember from the beginning, Marius, I told you that we would have to chose between ourselves and our friend. And from the beginning, I chose him." He looked at Marius a moment longer, their eyes never wavering from each others gaze. "Don't you understand that?" he asked in a quiet voice.
Marius nodded. "Yes," he answered quietly.
Grantaire gave a quick nod and turned away.
"But… Grantaire?" Marius said after a moment.
He turned back to meet Marius's eyes. "Yes?"
"Can…" Marius began. "Can we please not lie to each other anymore? I understand everything you say. I understand that you do not care about what happens to you, but I do. You are the only friend I have left, and I don't want to lose you, also." He sighed and quickly glanced away before he met Grantaire's eyes again. "I know that is not going to change anything that you do… or what you are willing to do to save Enjolras. I know that you are willing to give your life away to save his, and so am I. But if we cannot trust each other then we have no chance of saving him. We cannot lie to each other anymore. Grantaire, please. We cannot go on like this."
Grantaire barely hesitated a moment before he answered, "Yes."
The relief that flooded into Marius was even greater than before. The last bits of frost were melted away from his cold heart. A small smile appeared at the corner of his lips. "I promise I will always be honest with you," he said. "Now, you promise me."
"Alright, Marius. I promise," Grantaire answered, and for the first time, a faint shadow of a once very warm and joyous but now forgotten smile reappeared on his lips.
Marius smiled and gave a satisfied nod. He looked away, but then turned abruptly back to Grantaire and asked again, "So, how are you feeling?"
Looking out at the streets, Grantaire hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Considerably better in comparison to how I felt before, but still not my best."
Marius nodded and told him, "I brought your medicine from the doctor."
"Oh, you did? Thank you," Grantaire said, turning back to him. Marius could tell that he was in truth very glad about this.
"As soon as we go home—" When he spoke these words, a sudden thought came into his mind, and Marius stopped suddenly. "Wait, Grantaire, where did you go? It's not safe to go to either of our houses; where were you all of this time?"
Grantaire did not answer right away, and when he finally did he did not look at Marius. "Courfeyrac's house." He did a fair job hiding any emotion in his voice, but there was still a faint bitterness that could be heard under his words. After a moment, almost as if speaking to himself, Grantaire quietly added, "No one lives there anymore."
Marius nodded and looked away. Courfeyrac. The mere mention of his name was enough to send daggers of pain shooting through his heart. When he had first moved away from his Grandfather's house, Marius was all alone. He had no friends, no home, and nowhere to go. Then, Courfeyrac had found him and taken him in. So many nights, Courfeyrac had let him stay at his house, not grudgingly but happily, joyous to be able to help. Courfeyrac gave him a home when he had none. He also gave him a friend. And it was Courfeyrac who introduced him to all of his other friends. Grantaire, Enjolras, Combeferre, all of them… Courfeyrac. Now, he was dead.
"Marius…" Grantaire said. Marius looked at him. Grantaire turned his eyes and met Marius's. "We have got to save him tonight," he began, and immediately his voice dropped to before low and solemn, lacking any happiness or laughter, the way he talked about saving Enjolras. "Tonight has got to be it. Every day counts, and for all we know, this could be our last chance. Now, with Javert after us our days are numbered. We have to save him tonight, leave of Paris, and then leave France. That is the only way. Tonight has to be it. No more mistakes."
Marius nodded. "You're right."
"We'll try to go together, but if for some reason only one of us can get in then I will go."
"Very well," Marius agreed with a sigh. "But we will go together so long as we can."
Grantaire nodded. "Yes."
Marius nodded. "Good. When should we go?"
"Now," Grantaire immediately answered. "I brought the rope and two knives. I tried to find a gun or two, but I couldn't. The National Guard confiscated all of the weapons that we had in the revolution. Here take this." Grantaire gave Marius a knife, and he took it, but against his own will.
As soon as Marius saw this weapon, he wanted to shrink away. He wanted to run. He did not want to take it. If he took this weapon, it would mean that he would have to fight again. If he had to fight again, he would have to kill again. He did not want to see anymore death. The very thought that he and Grantaire night have to reenter that terrible nightmare called combat sent shivers running down his entire body, made his guts painfully twist around in his stomach, and made his heart first stop and then race. He wanted to run. To hide. Never to look upon Death's hideous face ever again. But what could he do? This was necessary if he was going have a chance at saving Enjolras. So he took the weapon.
Grantaire, who did not seem to notice any of what was going on inside of Marius's head, had stopped leaving against the wall of the cathedral and started forward onto the street. "Let's go, then."
Marius stared down at the knife in his hand for a moment longer before he raised his eyes and followed Grantaire. He jogged a few paces to catch up to him and walked close beside him. He opened his mouth to speak. He had a hundred things, it seemed, that he wanted to say to Grantaire. But now that he had the chance, no words came. He was silent through the entire walk.
They both were. They went soundlessly down the street, moving with their heads bowed and their faces hidden from the sight of anyone who passed by them. They turned down the last road and were nearing the prison when they raised their eyes and saw the large crowd of people that had gathered in front of the jail. No. They were not gathered at the jail. They were gathered at the gallows.
"What the… What is all of this?" Grantaire muttered under his breath. He looked ahead at the crowd on people and quickly scanned it with his eyes. Civilians were gathered below the gallows, assembled like monuments in a graveyard, gazing up to behold this scene with stone faces and empty eyes. The hangman was at his post, ready to pull the lever. A man in the uniform of an officer in the National Guard stood before the crowd, holding before him a long scroll. All around, there stood inspectors and gendarmes, overlooking this grim company of men.
"W… what's going on?" Marius asked aloud.
Grantaire did not answer. He did not know. Instead, he threw back his hood, went forward, and slipped into the crowd to stand amongst the solemn spectators. Marius started after him, alarmed. He opened his mouth to tell him to wait, that this might not be safe, that the police were watching, that Javert could be watching… But Grantaire was already gone. So Marius had no choice but to follow him.
Grantaire immediately approached one of the men who was standing amongst the group. At his sudden approach, man turned to look at him. Grantaire came closer to stand beside him and asked in a voice, which was soft but not so quiet that someone would suspect that he did not wish to be overheard, "What is all of this? What's going on?"
The man stared at Grantaire confused for a moment, unsure what he was asking. "Do you mean the executions?"
"Executions? Yes."
The man gestured towards the gallows. "They're just… executing criminals."
"Why so late?"
The man shook his head. "The executions started at noon, but there has been so many of them that they have not yet ended."
"Why don't they stop and continue tomorrow then?"
The man slowly shook his head, wearing a grim look upon his face. "There will be more executions tomorrow. Possibly the day after that, too. But they must be finish and over by Sunday. They can not take a life on the Lord's day."
When Grantaire first saw these people in the street, he felt something like a dark shadow beginning to fall over him; the dark clouds moving across the sky closing in and hiding any light, the darkness closing in and hiding any hope. Then, when he saw the gallows, heard this man speak of executions, the shadow grew darker around him, and as this shadow ascended upon him he began to fee cold and empty.
There is that strange, unexplainable bond that is formed by love. This bond is what holds together a husband and his wife, a mother and her child, a pair of brothers or sisters, and the loyalist of friends. This bond will only form when someone puts another person's life above his or her own. Then, it is as if a piece of each person's soul goes to live inside of the other's body, so that these people can understand each other in a way that no philosopher or scientist could explain. This was how Grantaire knew that something was terribly wrong. That something had happened. That something unthinkable had happened to Enjolras.
"Grantaire…" Grantaire turned and saw Marius, who was now standing beside him and looking at him anxiously with a face that was pale and scared. Perhaps, he felt this strange knowing, as well. "What's going on?" he asked quietly.
Grantaire hesitated before he answered, his face remaining hard and hard to read. Then he said in a passive tone, "He says that they have been executing prisoners since noon, and the executions will continue throughout tomorrow."
Marius's face went a shade paler, and he quickly asked, "Why?"
Grantaire shook his head. "I don't know."
The officer who stood before the people then looked down at the scroll and addressed the crowd. Grantaire and Marius redirected their gaze toward this man and toward the gallows. Now, they saw the man who was about to be executed.
This man looked old, but still strong. He wore a red shirt and a green cap, indicating that he was sentenced to a life in prison before he was sentenced to death. He bore shackles around his wrists and ankles, and two heavy chains the metal collar around his neck, a double chain which would be punishment for a very terrible crime or a second offense. The man's face was dark and hard, lifeless and cold, like stone. Now, as he stood at the gallows, the noose hanging a few feet in front of his face, waiting to die, he gazed out through the loop of the noose and into the world, and it was as if he could not see it. As if the word was a dark oblivion and that was too dark to see through. This man's eyes were open but they could not see the anything. He gazed out at the world with cold, lifeless eyes, as if he were already dead. Yet, as Grantaire and Marius stared at this doomed man's face, they could see a shadow of sadness in his face. Perhaps, now, just before his dead, this prisoner, who had spent years upon years in jail and had forgotten about anything and everything that had once been good in his life, had recalled a happy memory of his past. Perhaps, the family that had once been his but he had lost when they took him off and locked him away to rot in prison. Now, as he died, he would die thinking of them.
The officer read in a loud voice: "Brunelle Agen, prisoner number 98419. On this day, you have been sentenced to execution and to death. In the year 1783, forty-nine years ago, you were arrested and imprisoned for the murder of Daniel M. Cheuvront, a crime for which you were found guilty of." The man raised his head and then addressed those who were looking on and watching this condemned man with solemn faces. "Three days ago today this prisoner, already condemned for life, took part in a revolt within the prison walls—"
At the word "revolt" Grantaire and Marius, thinking with one mind, glanced at each other and their eyes met. Their faces were as hard and cold as stone, their eyes as dark and deep as the night sky. They both knew exactly what the other was thinking.
"—in which over fifty prisoners attempted to escape the prison. In this attempt, several prison officials, and honest men, were brutally beaten, maimed, and in one instance murdered. After being surrounded by the noble army of France, the prisoners were given the opportunity to surrender. But they refused. So now, the punishment for those prisoners who were not killed during the uprising is, as in accordance with the law of France, the law of the king, and the Divine Law of God… is death."
The young man paused and for a long moment to swallow down any emotion that he might have been feeling before he continued. "After a fair trial, Brunelle Agen, prisoner number 98419 was found guilty of these crimes and condemned to death. So on this day, you, Brunelle Agen, in the name of the Almighty God, have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead." Then, speaking directly to this Brunelle Agen, the young man said in a much softer voice, "You have one minute to reflect, or to think, or to pray."
That was all. The condoned man, this Brunelle Agen, acted as if he had not heard a single word of what had been spoken. Perhaps, he had not. The minute passed. In this time, everything remained the same. The prisoner, the hangman, the officer, the police, the watchers, none of them stirred or changed, as if nothing had happened. The minute passed and the hang man fixed the noose around the prisoner's neck. He pulled the lever. The ground below the prisoner vanished, he fell, the noose tightened around his neck, he sputtered for a few moments, then he went still, and his lifeless body hung from the gallows. He was dead.
A moment passed, and then some of the spectators nodded in grave approval of what was called justice. Some even cried out their agreement. More people looked away, or closed their eyes, or let out quiet whimpers of sadness. But the most of them just stood and watched with empty, soldierly faces, beholding with a solemn respect for the judgment of the Creator.
The officer, the young man who had read the conviction of the dead man, silently turned to look at a gendarme was sitting behind a desk. Upon this desk was a long list of names. The names of the convicted criminals. The officer nodded. The gendarme briefly returned the nod, dipped his pen in ink, and drew a line through one of the names on the list, crossing it out. The name read: "98419, Agen."
Grantaire had watched this. He understood that this gendarme would have the list of the names of the men who were going to be executed, and those who had already been executed. Now, he felt the shadow of dread darkening around him. He knew that something had happened. He needed it see the list.
Without turning to glance at Marius, he said quietly, "I will be back." He started forward, moving through the crowd of spectators without glancing at any of the faces around him, but keeping his eyes fixed on the gendarme with the list of names. Without stopping for a moment, he went straight up to the desk and addressed the man, "Monsieur, I need to see the list of the men who have been condemned."
The gendarme raised his eyes from his papers and looked up at Grantaire. His face as hard and cheerless. Seeing Grantaire, a young man, in the eyes of the gendarme still a boy, who looked poorly kept, rather unhealthy, and who was obviously a drunkard, and who had just commanded an officer as if he were in authority over him, the man frowned at him distastefully. "Why do you need to see the lists?"
"Please, monsieur, this is important."
The gendarme's face did not change. "Perhaps, if you can tell me why, and if you have a respectable and well conceived reason for this."
Grantaire, answering immediately, told the man, "My brother was arrested, and I am afraid that they might have executed him."
The man was unimpressed. "Your brother? You would have been notified."
Grantaire shook his head. "Ever since he was arrested I heard nothing from anyone, monsieur. I think he is dead."
The man looked doubtfully at Grantaire and leaned in over the desk to get a little closer to him. "For what crime was your brother arrested?" he asked in a low, skeptical tone.
"Rebellion," Grantaire answered. There was no need to lie.
When Grantaire said this, a look of understanding came over the gendarme's face. He raised his eyebrows. "And you think that your brother might have been involved with this uprising that occurred within the jail?"
Again, Grantaire answered honestly. "I don't know."
The gendarme hesitated for a moment, gently drumming his fingers against the wooden top of the desk, his eyes fixed on Grantaire, penetrating him with a deep gaze, the way a man would look upon some one who he is not sure that he can trust. "Let me ask you one question," the man said after a long moment. "If you answer honestly, then I will let you look at the lists."
"Yes? What is the question?"
Never taking that sharp gaze off of Grantaire, he asked the question. "This rebellion for which your brother was arrested…" The man's face darkened and his eyes were like knives as he looked upon Grantaire. "Where you involved in this uprising, as well? Were you also part of it?"
Grantaire's face did not change, but remained passive and guiltless. He looked so sincere and honest that not even a man in the police force could doubt that anything he said was true. Grantaire looked into the officer's eyes and answered. "No."
Grantaire was a good liar. The gendarme believed him. He gazed at Grantaire a moment longer, but his face was slightly softened. Then he asked, "What is the matter with you, boy? Are you sick? You don't look well." He hesitated and then added in a slightly different tone, "Are you hurt?"
Are you hurt? That was another way of asking, "Were you wounded in a battle? Were you part of the uprising?" Grantaire did not answer. Instead he said, "I thought we agreed on one question only."
The gendarme did not reply, but Grantaire could see that this man was observing him very thoughtfully, considering him and attempting to discover him. But he was not concerned. He was too worried about Enjolras to think about his own fait. "Monsieur, please," Grantaire went on in a quiet voice, as if he did not notice the way this man was staring at him. "I just want to know if my brother is alive."
The man hesitated for a moment longer. Then he sighed. "Very well." He lifted the paper off the desk and held it out to Grantaire to see. "Look quickly."
"Thank you, monsieur!" Grantaire cried as he quickly took the paper, his eyes already searching it. He did not glance at this man again, but his eyes were fixed intently on the paper before him. There were four columns. Each man was marked down by first his number and then his surname. Over half of the names on this paper were already crossed out. Grantaire started with the names that were not yet deleted.
He quickly read every name, reading and rereading then again and again. He did not see Enjolras's name. At first, he felt relief come into him. But then he had to turn his eyes to read the names that had already been crossed out, the names of the prisoners who were already dead, and an even deeper feeling of dread filled him, momentarily making him feel physically ill. For a reason that he, himself, did not understand, he began reading from the bottom of the list, starting with 98419, Agen and then went his way up the columns, as if there was something at the top of this list that he was afraid to look at, that he wanted to delay as long as he could, that he wanted never to see, yet had no choice.
Every name he read that as not Enjolras's he felt a faint relief but an even greater fear reach his heart. That bond that is formed by friendship, that strange instinct told him that every name he read, he was getting closer to that name. That name that he did not want to see. He did not want to keep reading, but he had no choice. It was as if something else that he could not control was compelling him to continue to read the names against his own will.
He neared the top of the list and he read and read the names. There were only three names left to read. Surely if Enjolras's name was on this list, e would have read it by now. There were only three names left to get through. But now, Grantaire was more scared then ever before to keep reading. He could not bring himself to go on.
Only three more names! he told himself. Just read them!
He forced his eyes to the top of the page and he read the last three names.
"7134, Marlo."
"21245, Jarreau."
There was one name left. The last name on the list. Presumably, the first man to be executed. Or perhaps, these men at the top of the list were killed during the uprising. Grantaire forced himself to read the name.
"86592, Enjolras."
