A/N: Blood from the stone, my lovelies, blood from the stone. I have been literally killing myself with that chapter.

Having historic personnages debate with fictional characters of a historic personnage's making and other fictional characters of a historic personnage's making debate with fictional characters of my own apparently spells headache.

Well, it's done.

Again, I am severely meddling with historical personnages; this time the elusive bunch that is Le Globe. I am having a few inaccuracies here, I know. I set them aside for the true dumasian idea of "True, I have raped history, but it has produced some beautiful offspring". I hope it deserves the violation. I tried to make it a nice story.

Thanks to all who read and reviewed and put me on their favourite's list.

Also thanks to Leara Bribage who brushed up this chapter in the grammar department, where I'm bad, and to Judybear236 who cleaned up the rest :-)

Comments and reviews make my day.

All the best!

Spirit


Chapter 28: Kindred spirits of a diverse kind

"You see. It's like I always say, you can get more with a kind word and a 2-by-4, then you can with just a kind word."

From the outside, the house was fairly unremarkable, the ugly duckling amidst the beautiful houses that lined both sides of the Boulevard des Italiens.

While built in red bricks and still relatively new, it had only little decoration to it, unlike the carved facades and painted walls of the mansions surrounding. Yet, standing between them, fitting into the line of representative buildings, the house retained a quiet sort of dignity.

Combeferre remembered that Hélène had once likened it to the figure of Benjamin Franklin, ambassador of the young American republic before the revolution. Reports had quoted him to be a quiet man among the glitters and glimmers of the court, simple in dress and demeanor, and yet in his modesty and prudence a force to be reckoned with.

Such were the headquarters of Le Globe on the noble premises that was the Boulevard des Italiens.

The building was reminding of that of a factory, three stories high with large windows, slightly blinded but carefully cleaned; no decoration or pomp, but beauty in functionality itself.

Combeferre had taken a moment to brace himself before he entered, and avoided to meet the curious gaze of Marius. The door was in a heavy, carved wood, not locked, but creaking as he opened it, as if the headquarters were only reluctantly giving entrance to the intruders.

Passing the door, one arrived at a small antechamber, in which sat Madame Iveron, a sturdy woman of roughly thirty years who, together with her husband, served as groundkeeper and concierge of the building. In her lap, there was the eternal knitting set that she was never seen without. It was a scarf today, of brown and red wool, with intricate patterns of a certain crude beauty.

Laurent, her six-month-old youngest son, was calmly sleeping in a cradle nearby.

Madame Iveron raised her head to look at the entering students, but let them pass with a tight smile and a nod, replying to their greeting with a mumble of her own. Combeferre, having witnessed the occasion, knew that nothing short of direct violence could move her to grant passage against her will, but he had been a resident of this place for a long time already and was welcome on his own accord.

Behind another set of two doors, they entered the heart of Le Globe.


The first part of the hall reached over the whole range of three stories, far up revealing the interworking of the wooden roof and beams. The hall itself was flooded with light, now that the summer sun found its way into it, and six large printer machines stood side by side, currently still calm. Combeferre knew that they would awaken by nightfall, when the activity in the rest of the building ceased.

The rest of the building that was the second part of the hall occupied roughly one third of its total and was divided into a part two stories high and an upper floor that could be reached by means of a wide, wooden staircase.

The lower part was occupied by a number of compartments. There sat a bunch of young men, composing articles, editing drafts, setting the prints of those works that were approved already. Along the windows, in a slightly separated chamber that they could not see from the main hall, Combeferre knew that Pierre Berat and his minions would be working.

Combeferre had sat at one of those tables more than once since he had agreed to spend part of his time working for the newspaper, but this was not where they headed today.

Climbing the staircase to the upper part, Combeferre and Marius headed for the heart of Le Globe.

They were assembled in the main room, a compartment that had retained the distinct feeling of a salon or even a British club.

Sofas and armchairs were grouped in a rough circle, and a small assembly of tables about.

They were all there.

Michel Chevalier, a man of longish face, large eyes and a perpetual frown on his face, was bowing over an article together with Olinde Rodrigues. Hélène, leaning with her back against a windowsill, had apparently followed the discussion alertly, yet her posture belied that she had neither inclination to interfere nor had previously done so.

Their entrance made her look up, and all hope that Combeferre had harbored dashed at the expression in her eyes.

They could have been strangers. There was a nod and the slightest of relaxation of posture, but she did not even give him the gift of a smile.

She started to say something, but predictably, Barthélemy Enfantin was quicker. He was closer in age to Rodrigues than Chevalier, and had a deceptively paternal air about him that did not fool Combeferre.

"Combeferre. Pontmercy." His greeting was cordial but his eyes were wary. He had been smoking a pipe, but he removed it now, watching the newly arrived with suspicion. "An unparalleled pleasure."

The mood in the room was a curious one, not at all like what Combeferre had come to expect from this place. It took a moment to place the notion as he took in the details, trying to discern what was wrong.

A can of coffee stood on a table, cups around it half full, and the marble ash tray showed that, as usual, Michel Chevalier had indulged in a number of cigarettes since their work here had begun. Drafts and pens were lying about everywhere, articles in the making, and in quickly skimming the scripts Combeferre recognized the typical mixture of science, politics and the foundations of Saint Simonianism that was the heart of Le Globe's writings. No sign of another impending catastrophe yet, but Combeferre was aware that this particular devil would hide in detail.

The revelation of what was wrong came suddenly. It was the quiet.

At any other given time, Chevalier and Rodrigues would not have stopped their debate for more than a quick nod and a greeting. Enfantin would not have exhibited friendliness but exuberance.

And Alexandre, finally, would have inevitably drawn them into the chaos, asking their opinion on something, questioning them about their day, the latest antiques of "the pear" or the newest petition in the congress.

But today, nothing, but deadly silence.

"Has something happened?"

Hélène finally spoke before the silence became too oppressive, unfolding her arms, a frown plastered on her even features that Combeferre in a moment took for worry before it vanished behind a façade of stone again.

"That depends", Combeferre answered. "Things have been tense, as you know."

"We know." Enfantin still held his pipe in his hand, the sweet smell of smoke wavering towards him. Combeferre refrained from inhaling deeply. A bit of tobacco certainly would have a soothing effect on him, but he had not brought his pipe with him. "After the death of Alexandre, nothing is the same again."

"Have a seat, both of you." Chevalier was finally finding his voice and manners again though this was certainly an unusual quality in him if immersed in an article, but Combeferre took the invitation and placed himself into one of the armchairs. Marius followed, nervously taking up one of the draft articles that was lying there.

"The progress on tomorrow's edition is tolerable, I presume?" Combeferre cautiously asked into the room, carefully not addressing anyone in particular.

"Given the circumstances," it was Rodrigues who took it upon himself to answer. "We cannot complain. Most of the articles have been delivered, we are just missing two of younger freelancers who have undertaken a trip into the Saint Germain suburb, but they have already arrived here and are in the process of finishing up."

Combeferre nodded.

"Good."

They were dancing around the real subject standing between them like an invisible wall. Combeferre looked at the newspaper editors that had been his friends and allies for so long.

Inevitably, he ended with Hélène.

Looking into her eyes, Combeferre searched for the woman he knew and did not find her. She had crossed her arms before her chest in a defensive gesture, and her gaze was closed, challenging almost, chin proudly raised.

There was nothing that could have transmitted better just how hurting she was, and for all his experience, for all his knowledge, Combeferre had no idea how to console her. What did one say to comfort a woman that had just lost her beloved husband? What did one say if one was in a position like his?

He wondered if he had made a mistake by coming here.

Something must have shifted in his face, his thoughts betrayed to her, and for a moment, her eyelids twitched, batted once, twice, more quickly and out of their normal rhythm. The slight hitch in her breathing was the clearest telltale sign that she was swallowing whatever was threatening to break free. And then she looked away.

He cleared his throat, by no means certain that he would be able to speak, but miraculously, he could, finding words in the process.

"I was wondering if tomorrow's edition will by anything like today's."

The reactions were predictable.

A collective, breathless sigh exerted from Chevalier and Rodrigues, while Hélène's head whipped around towards him, eyes blazing.

And Enfantin took it upon himself to answer.

"Bold, wasn't it? Quite the acid feather Madame has displayed there." He was giving a slight, praiseful nod of his head towards Hélène who did not return his gaze. "A willing testament to our dear departed colleague, I would say. A better funeral speech was never given."

"It was moving," Combeferre levelly replied, turning towards Enfantin and leaving Hélène to her own devices for the moment. "And I agree that the feather of Madame de Cambout is something to be reckoned with. But…," he turned back to Hélène, "Madame, was that wise? Sorrow, I hate to say, is never the wisest counselor. And while your words were…," he fumbled for a description for a moment, a word that would tell her how well he had understood her without revealing the same issue to her colleagues and finally settled for, "… intense, they were also very open. More open than anything we have done before."

"We have been under attack, Monsieur." Now Hélène spoke up, her voice rougher than yesterday, but clear and firm. "As have you. By killing Alexandre, whoever is wearing the face of these attackers has declared war on us. And we will not have it."

"Indeed, we will not!" Enfantin was roused, his pipe forgotten, as his blazing eyes were flaring at Combeferre in a righteous fury. "This is the reason for the article Monsieur, that – I understand – you in all your tempered caution probably did not like very much. But this is an hour of action, and words are our weapons. We shall call out the darkness of this viper's nest into the world."

"Barthélemy…," Rodrigues intercepted, keeping his tone tempered. "We know all this. We have discussed it yesterday. And still, Monsieur Combeferre does raise a valid point. Madame, are you really willing to read words like those we have given out today in the open again?"

Combeferre could not praise the calm Jewish mathematician enough for his words, words he himself could not say for all that was standing between them, but Hélène ruined the effect by coolly saying "Why not?"

"Because you may regret it in the future."

The words were out before he could stop it, and Hélène froze for a moment. She closed her eyes, pressed lids and lips together in a momentary gesture of restraint. Her shoulders heaved in a deep breath, and when she turned to him there was nothing left in her eyes of the woman he knew. The glittering gaze was hard as flint.

"And how did this become any concern of yours? My regrets are my own, Monsieur. I meet them as I see fit."

Combeferre felt as if he had received a physical blow. In all their time together, with all the words they had never spoken, there had been a few things he could always be sure of when it came to Hélène. They had been friends. They had respected each other. They had held each other dear.

This had been the last line of defense that had always held true.

He was vaguely aware that Enfantin had taken up talking – no, preaching - again, supporting Helene, and he clenched his fingers into the armrests of the chair he was sitting in, trying to sort out his thoughts. He needed to find rationality in all this madness that populated the room, to be a voice of reason as he had always been. Like he was used to, he swallowed a thousand words, of another kind this time, and ignored the curious look that Olinde Rodrigues was giving him.

"It is a sign of oppression as anything else," Enfantin continued, "and a sign of the power being in the hands of those that are misdirected and twisted. This society, as I have always said, is rotten to the core. Power is in the hands of those that think of nothing but keeping it to themselves, while it is only the regard for the well-being of our fellows and those beneath us that can advance us into another – a better world. It is the blatant disregard of everything we believe in – the fetters of a world that has outlived its purpose. What is it that we are bowing to - what is it that you fear, Monsieur? The dictates of an unjust government? The dictates of society even? Away with those, I say. This is not the time for delicacy, for veiled words and caution. We must be better men than that, we, who have seen the path that is still obscured to others. We, who by dedication and science, must lead on and open a way to a brighter future to those that are less than we are. If it is by words like those, then it shall be. We are ready."

"We are not," Combeferre contradicted, having founded his voice and composure again. The anger at Enfantin's words helped. "Neither you nor us. This is the wrong time, Enfantin, and this is certainly not the place for single-handed heroism. The sections are in uproar. Too many of us are not prepared to act. You of all people should know that!" The last was directed at Hélène and Olinde, who had at least been present during the beginning of yesterday's meeting. "We will move out of cover, and in time, but, Monsieur, for the love of God, we must exert caution, or this will be over before it even began."

"He may be right in this," Chevalier tried his hand at support, but Enfantin had already found a different target for his words.

"God," he snorted, angrily now, gesticulating agitatedly with the pipe in his hand. "What would you know of God's love? Was it not Jesus Christ that did not choose the opportune moment but the right one? Was it not him, who bravely spoke out and did not heed the consequences? We are standing at the edge of a new world, Monsieur, and God is with us on this path. We must not fear darkness or death."

"Neither of which is the point," Combeferre answered, aiming for calmness in his voice. "Still, we are aiming for success, are we not? And this would imply some tactics."

"Tactics are secondary," Enfantin said, "the cause, God's just cause is absolute."

"You are venturing close to blasphemy, Barthélemy", Chevalier warned, shaking his head.

"But who says what blasphemy is?" Enfantin flared up, predictably, but Rodrigues shook his head.

"Barthélemy, I implore you. Not now. This is leading us nowhere in this discussion. We are all well aware of your opinion on the subject, but please, let us keep to the problem at hand."

"Thank you, Docteur," Combeferre answered with heartfelt relief. "While I do appreciate your courage, I would suggest that we at least try to take a calmer route, until a certain regrouping has been undertaken…"

"But what we really need," Enfantin contradicted, "is more followers. More convinced fighters for our cause. You will not achieve that in secrecy. Is this not in the first place why you joined us? So that your people, so that the ideas of your group, could be presented to a larger forum?"

"In parts," Combeferre admitted, "though I will also readily admit that I do take pleasure in the discussion and distribution of the ideas born in this circle."

"So then I truly do not understand what the problem is!" Enfantin answered. "We have done exactly what is needed at the moment. What Madame has written is the clearest of outcries, and it will reach far. It is a rousing call that will reach the stoutest of hearts."

"Undoubtedly," Combeferre answered. "It will also reach the ears of those that killed Alexandre de Cambout."

"There is always a risk," Enfantin said dismissively, and now, finally, the last straw was reached.

"Alexandre is dead," Combeferre iterated, speaking every word with unmerciful clarity. "He was murdered. And it is only by sheer luck that we have not lost Madame as well." To his own surprise, his voice kept steady at the last sentence. "We have angered someone enough to send a burglar into the mansion of the de Cambouts and end a life in cold blood. We are beyond risk, Enfantin. Danger has become reality. The first of us has died, and there will be more to follow if we do not turn to caution! Who knows if next time Madame will wake up in time to escape?" His best argument, knowing that Enfantin appreciated Hélène. Knowing that her active participation in Le Globe had been the final argument that had estranged Armand Bazard from his longtime friend.

It was the only idea how he might be able to reach him.

But inevitably his gaze was drawn to Hélène. She was staring at him, eyes wide, and she slowly shook her head.

"Don't make this personal," she whispered, and for a moment, he could hear her behind all the composure, behind all the iron and steel. And yet, he could not bring himself to lie to her.

"But it is," he said, equally softly, and something wavered in her eyes.

And then composure was back again, and she spurred into motion, brushing past armchairs and tables. She left the room in a whirl of black lace and hectic movement.

He watched her go, heard her stepping down the stairs and into the main room.

A few moments later, the sound of a fiacre departing told him she had left the building.

Michel Chevalier took a deep breath. In absence of Alexandre, he was the closest thing they had to a leading editor; he had been with Le Globe from the start and carried the most experience with him.

"All right," he said, turning practical, his gaze going back to the papers. "I do think it might do well to temper some of the things we have done a bit, don't you, Barthélemy?"

Enfantin shot him a dark glare. But there were three of them against him – four, if one counted Marius Pontmercy, who had done his best to stay unremarked during the argument and was still very much looking spooked by the heat of the previous discussion.

In any case, the odds were against him, severely so, and Enfantin snorted, dissatisfied.

"As you wish," he replied angrily and took up his pipe again, relighting it and looking out of the window. "Do as you please. I see I have no power to stop you."

Combeferre sensed that this was the biggest admittance that they could hope for and turned back to the others, who had started to assemble the papers.

"So," he began, "would you need help with this?"

This actually prompted a smile onto Rodrigues lips as he nodded.

"Desperately so, Messieurs. Thank you for the offer."

Combeferre nodded and turned to the work immediately, only quickly after followed by Marius.

Nothing like true work to forget, or at least brush aside what had just happened.


The world was divided in blacks and whites.

Black and white, checkered of sorts, was the floor, the tiles slightly worn by time and abuse, but still showing the original pattern intended.

Black and white was the light in the room. White was the may sun that was burning its way past the windows, brightening the room with unmerciful clarity, and black were the shadows it threw, patterning the room into sections and compartments.

Grantaire had chosen a place of darkness to sit and gaze into the light, as was its due, and the shifting and change of non-colors filled his senses as wind slightly moved the curtains at the open windows.

The world looked different after the first bottle.

Black and white was the force that filled the room with its argument, an example and study of fierceness that colors would have shied away from as they would from dreams and nightly visions.

Black was Jacques de Morier, the sick man lying in his bed. His curls were dark and ungroomed, falling into his black eyes that shone with fever and anger under the curtain of long lashes, dark was his skin and black was his anger. A man of shadows he was, and he was burning.

White was Enjolras in all his glory, white and golden, marble his skin and pale blue his eyes. His fury was burning, hot and fierce, and white as smoldering iron in the fire.

The effect was enhanced by the fact that Morier was lying in a spot of light while Enjolras had chosen a place of shadow, as if both of them knew that the absence of what they were put into clearer relief their nature.

It was a glory to behold.

The rest of the room had receded into nothingness, the boy Lamarin as well as their comrades Bahorel, and Courfeyrac, who in the first stages of the argument had tried to interfere, but had since then slunk back to the sidelines before the force of nature that was unfolding.

It was beautiful and terrifying to behold, like a city burning or a thunderstorm raging.

He could not turn his eyes away.

His light was in so much brighter relief in the face of shadows. But then, he had known that before.

He had likened them to Apollo and Thanatos before, but now, in the face of the real thing, he understood that Morier was not Thanatos but rather Erebus, much more of a force of nature than he would have had him, and there was nothing gentle about him.

They had started out cautiously – as far as these two could exert caution; a concept that would have probably made Combeferre cringe – but the pace had picked up quickly, and now the anger was out in full, both the selfish one of Morier and the righteous one of Enjolras.

There was nothing to do but ride that storm out.

"What are you implying?" Enjolras asked in exasperation, crossing his arms before his chest in a gesture of anger. "Why on earth should Lamarin's influence, his participation in this council be harmful?"

Jacques snorted.

"I do not expect you to understand us, Enjolras. Whatever you do in the Musain is your own business. But the Cougourde has worked long and hard to be an efficient body, and I have no intention of jeopardizing that. In every army there must be chains of commands. And you will admit that I am still with the living?"

Barely, Grantaire thought, given the blazing fever in the man's eyes, but he had to admit, that he was holding himself with considerable strength. Jacques de Morier, that much was obvious, was not an easy man to overpower.

"No one doubts this," Enjolras shook his head. "But you will admit we had no time to wait for your return to health. We need to move now."

"No time for even a message?" Jacques asked nastily.

"We informed as many of you as we could. Joly and Bossuet were here, if I remember correctly."

"Sending me your henchmen," Jacques snorted. "Quite a way of invitation."

"Henchmen?" Enjolras threw his head back, golden curls waving in glory. "Henchmen? I have no such thing, Jacques, and even the expression makes me shudder at the way that you may think about those men who freely joined sides with you. We are equals, Les amis de l'Abaissé, we are friends. I have no need for henchmen or mindless followers."

"Really….?" Jacques de Morier asked, more quietly, and for a moment his gaze strayed away from the golden haired revolutionary, into the shadows, into the directions of those that were there, and yet were not.

In the direction of Grantaire.

There was a nasty glint in Morier's eye.

"I have no idea what you are implying," Enjolras gave back, and Grantaire wondered if this was true. How could it be true?

"Ah well." Morier backed off easily with a shrug. "Whatever you do inside the Musain is your business." His eyes turned to Enjolras again, black and blazing. "But I will not have you influencing La Cougourde!"

"I am not influencing anyone, Morier," Enjolras emphasized, his hands opening at grand gesture. "Why would I?"

"Why then is it that you have Lamarin here singing your song in all kinds of tunes?"

"I am sure you are aware that Marc Lamarin is a free being. If he came to join the Cougourde I sincerely hope that it was done on his own accord and will. Likewise, if he chooses to pay us a visit I do not see in which way this could arise your ire." Enjolras shook his head. "It is a while ago since we have decided to join forces. I had not been under the impression that this has changed recently but if this is a misconception, please, Morier, enlighten me."

"Joining forces indeed," Jacques retorted. "Joining forces is an interesting way to put it. Isn't it rather – rallying under your command?"

"This is ridiculous, wrong and leads nowhere," Enjolras sneered, angrily. "What are you aiming at?"

"I am aiming," Morier hissed, "at you meddling in things that are distinctively out of your scope."

Enjolras raised a blonde brow, fury momentarily replaced with dry aplomb.

"I am?" he gave back, his voice cool and only barely vibrating with sarcasm.

"This council of yours. A barely veiled attempt at the same move that has happened two years ago. At least the beast shows itself in advance this time. Tell me Enjolras, what's your ambition?"

Grantaire felt his own fury rise at that statement. To accuse Enjolras of anything like this was presumptuous. He considered rising to Enjolras' defense, but he dared not interfere, would not interfere with this natural disaster.

Something in the room shifted, the ballet of black and white rearranging, finding its metaphoric resonance behind that what met the eye. The devil and the angel, the shadow and the sun, heaven and hell in an eternal battle that spread out here, in this room, before his very eyes.

Enjolras straightened himself subtly, a movement barely perceptible, but going through every fiber of his being. The effect was imminent and astounding.

In times of fury and opposition, Enjolras was capable of breathtaking calm. While before, the room had been full of fire and shouts, of hisses and grand gestures, all the telltale signs of a thorough quarrel, it was now calm and silent, the world holding its breath at the shifting forces between the two men.

Jacques, in his bed, seemed to sense it, too, the change wrought in his opponent, but he was not cowered, as Erebus would not cower before Aither, the light that he had born, as Nyx would not cower before the brightness of Hemere.

Born one of the other, they were still akin and alike and equal. But Grantaire had enough darkness inside himself.

Yet, it was a moment of perfect beauty, a moment of absolute, undying light, a security never found inside himself, that good, that the ideal was possible.

Enjolras was incredibly calm in his response.

"You will take back this insult, Morier," he said, not even loudly, but the tone in his voice spoke of the danger involved. "It is unwarranted and not worthy of either of us." He took a deep breath and continued, with slightly less tension. "The council, which, by the way, was initiated by Combeferre, not me, is an instrument of unification. Its purpose is not to exert control over others, but quite to the contrary to harmonize and consolidate. We are scattered, Jacques, and some of us are hurt. Some sections have been ripped apart at the seams, and if we are to maintain our common goal we must work together in this. Strength, as I have heard say before, is in numbers in this venture." He pressed his lips together, clearly his fury had subsided enough to show again, to replace ice with fire. "It is no one's intention to rule over this… council. It is just this. A place for counsel. Now you may be unfamiliar with this concept, which is a sad thought in itself, but do not dare to desecrate this instrument by defiling its purpose."

Jacques smiled.

"Indeed, Enjolras? Very well for the sake of peace I may retreat from this. But still. Look around you. Why do you think they follow you… chief… isn't that what you're called by them? It's not the common goal, my friend, no. It is something much more pure and basic than that." He shifted aside locks from his sweaty brow, taking a deep breath before he continued. "It's adoration. Admiration. You and me, Enjolras we are two of a kind. Born to lead. The difference between the two of us is: I accept it. I know who and what I am. You, on the other hand, do not. You fool yourself with words of equality, of companionship, but what are you really? I have known you for a while, Enjolras, and you are many things, a leader not least among them, but a friendly man you are not. You set yourself apart. And rightfully so, because those who lead carry the burden of responsibility. We have to set ourselves apart to remain what we are. I do it by decision. You do it by nature. The sooner you accept it, the better."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"And this is why, if you call an assembly without me in it, you will become its leader, if you want it or not. And you will shape it to your thoughts, and you will shape it to your ways, and in time, you will become a tyrant. You need people like me, Enjolras. People who stand up to you and don't just follow you. Equals."

Grantaire was so aghast that he did not even know what to say, and judging from the expression in his blue eyes, so was Enjolras. Even Bahorel and Courfeyrac were stunned into silence at the discharge of energy in the room, a game, that was supposed to be interesting to watch and slightly amusing all of a sudden becoming sour.

Enjolras was, for just the smallest of moments, looking as if he had been slapped, but the notion only flickered over his eyes for the fraction of a second, before again, cold fury resettled in his eyes.

"Morier," he said, his voice dead and calm. "You and I, we will never," and he emphasized every word, "be equals."

"This is getting out of hand," Courfeyrac had apparently, finally, found his voice again. His voice was like an odd element in the room, and it startled all of them.

"Listen, Jacques, all of this was with the best intentions. Perhaps it was a mistake of us coming here, granted. But we still should kind of remember that we are pursuing the same goals. We are, are we not?" He stepped up to the two opponents, actually calm in this moment, dash forgotten. It was one of those moments that Grantaire recognized from time to time, when he realized why this man, who often seemed shallow and flighty, was such an intrinsic part of their group. He sensed the mood immediately and reacted on it.

Turning to Enjolras, Courfeyrac seemed rooted so much in reality, shattering the picture of black and white, of sunlight and shadows with his own auburn colors.

"Enjolras, this leads to nowhere. Let us all take a break from this. Maybe we should sleep on it and continue this debate tomorrow."

Enjolras blinked, once, twice, and then surprisingly nodded, throwing another glance at Jacques.

"Yes," he said. "Perhaps we should."

It was decided.

And thus they filed out again, Bahorel and Grantaire, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, leaving behind only Jacques and Lamarin.

"You are staying?" Courfeyrac asked, throwing a questioning glance at Lamarin and the boy nodded.

"Yes," he said softly. "I am Cougourde, after all. And he should not be alone after this."

For a moment, Courfeyrac hesitated, and then placed a quick hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You are right, Lamarin. He should not. Be well."

And then he left as well, as the ripples of fury left the room and all that remained was silence.