Chapter Forty
The burn of the alcohol in the back of his throat was the only thing familiar to Grantaire that night at the Musain. Tucked away in his customary back corner, a half empty bottle sitting before him on the table, he watched the explosion of activity that was happening before him. People dashed back and forth with weapons and ammunition; the secret stockpile that the Amis had compiled over the years, secreted in a hollow behind one section of the wood panelling, was finally broken into.
A stream of scrawny gamins wove between the legs of the older revolutionaries, delivering messages scribbled on grubby, torn-off corners of paper, each new missive drawing the separate rebel cells closer together, the siren song of rebellion calling more and more men to their cause. Musichetta pranced around the room draped in the oversized sheet of red silk that was to be their banner, their rallying point. The men cheered and cat-called her actions, allowing that brief moment of sensuality to leach the tension from the room for a breath. Grantaire chuckled and shook his head as he watched, every flaw in the picture before him instantly noticeable to his sharp eyes.
For instance Courfeyrac and Bahorel were cleaning guns side by side, stone-faced and saying nothing. Both men were natural clowns, able to bring light to the darkest of situations, and yet now they were as quiet and serious as the grave that was gaping open to swallow them all. Actually, now that he thought about it, the Amis had barely spoken all evening, only exchanging worried, tense glances behind Enjolras' back.
Stretching his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, Grantaire allowed his gaze to fall fully onto the younger man, his observation not based now in aesthetic admiration, but in a keen study of his actions. Something had been…off…about Enjolras since he returned from collecting the, unfortunately seized, weapons. However, no matter how deeply involved he was with the Cause, Grantaire doubted that the glazed, frantic, grief-stricken look that overwhelmed even Enjolras' strict facial filter was caused by the loss of a few dozen rifles.
He emptied his bottle a little more, debating as to whether he should depart for his last, epic binge now or wait until he had some idea of why Enjolras had the same manic gleam in his eye as someone about to push a pistol into their mouth and pull the trigger. As if presented with a gift from Fate, at that precise moment Combeferre passed his table, hands usually cool and clean to rest on the foreheads of patients now smeared with grease and gun oil. Without saying a word Grantaire tugged firmly on the back of his waistcoat, pulling the younger man down into the chair beside him. Combeferre's evident exhaustion was obvious by the fact that he did not even attempt to chastise his assaulter or in fact get up.
"As it is very likely that tonight shall be my last night on this wonderful earth," Grantaire intoned, punctuating his sarcasm with another mouthful of nameless poison, "I would like to know what has driven Enjolras into this kamikaze like state of mind."
"I see you finally got around to reading that book on Japanese culture I leant you six months ago," Combeferre commented dryly. He wiped his stained hands absently on his trousers. "But your observation is apt," he mused. "I don't think Enjolras wants to come out of this combat alive…how very Shakespearean of him."
"Do you mean a Macbeth-like state of mind, or a sudden surge of Brutus-like guilt?" Grantaire questioned, watching as Enjolras checked the cleanliness of a rifle barrel, handing it back to the young man who held it – the baker's son from that charming little café just off the Latin Quarter if he was not mistaken – without a word, only a nod of steely-eyed approval.
"There appears to be a greater resemblance to Romeo and Juliet actually." When Grantaire stared at him in confusion he shrugged. "Something happened with Aimee, an apparent betrayal of some sort, and it…it's broken him."
Grantaire sat in numbed silence, not truly believing what he had heard. Aimee betray Enjolras? When? How? Why? Any final vestige of hope he held in humanity, and of surviving the next few days, disappeared from him as quickly and completely as sobriety on days when it felt like the world was leaning on him, burying him alive inch by crushing inch. So be it then. If life was so cruel as to tear apart this reluctant Hades and his beloved Persephone, then why should he ever expect there to be a dawn on his horizon? The night beckoned and who was he to refuse?
"Well, to steal a quote from the eve of another battle, I say 'die all, die merrily' which…" he drained the bottle, "is exactly what I intend to do. I intend to die so merry I shan't be able to shoot straight. In fact, I may get myself so merry that actually I shoot straighter." He swept his coat up with a flourish, trying to ignore the cloud of gloom his words brought to Combeferre's already drawn face. "And thus, I bid you, bon nuit." He swaggered across the wine-stained floor, pausing only to tap Jehan on his shoulder, a shoulder that all of sudden seemed far too frail to take repeated blows from a brass bound musket stock or rifle butt.
"I think they need some Shakespeare to fire them up, Jehan my boy," he whispered, quietly prompting, "the St Crispin's Day speech perhaps? From, 'We few'…"
Jehan smiled up at him, lips instantly continuing the speech, each glowing word tucked away in the vast expanse of his mind, his voice, usually so mild and gentle, now filled with gravitas and nobility. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he to-day that sheds his blood with meshall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile…"
"This day shall gentle his conviction," Feuilly's deep voice joined in as he rubbed an oil-soaked rag along the gleaming expanse of a rifle. "And gentlemen of England now-a-bed shall think themselves accus'd they were not here…"
"And hold their manhoods cheap!" Bahorel bellowed, speaking his first words of the evening and rousing a cheer from the assembled company, "whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!"
And so Grantaire exited, the words of the greatest of English playwright's guiding him out onto the street. Words that may give hope for now, but would be nothing but ink on paper and wasted breath in the air when the bullets started to fly. Let them have their moment, their fantasy of hope, their righteous assertions; all he wanted was a drink.
He wasn't quite sure how he had ended up in a place like this, all low lighting, rich upholstery, and raunchy music, but as long as his set of 'friends' for the evening kept buying the wine and kept losing at dominos, cards, and any other stupid game they could come up with, he wasn't going to look this gift horse in the mouth. Or, perhaps more accurately, he wasn't going to look the pile of squirming female flesh that was spread across his lap in the face.
He emptied another bottle, his fifth of the evening (or was it sixth? He had lost count several bars ago), allowing himself to truly appreciate the wonderful things the girl was doing with her lips on his collarbone. What was wrong with a little hedonism? He could be, and probably would be, dead by this time tomorrow. He craned his neck sideways, surveying the room as best he could from his slouched position, soaking up the sight of earthly pleasures being consumed in a manner that made him feel as if he was not the only attendee who felt the close breath of death whispering through his hair.
Just as his companion moved her attentions to his earlobe he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. The pale purity of the colour in place that his step-mother would vehemently label 'a filthy den of iniquity' caught his attention and he blocked the girl's pleasurable ministrations with his forearm for a brief moment, half-turning in his seat to survey the crowded room. Thinking her customer was losing interest she whined pathetically, groping drunkenly at his belt in an attempt to draw him back. But her actions left Grantaire completely cold, because across the room, perched delicately on the lap of a richly dressed gentleman was none other than Aimee.
Ice filled his veins, a miracle considering the amount of alcohol mingling there with his blood, and he pushed the girl away with a firm shove. "Find someone else, darling," he said, tossing her a few coins, "I'm suddenly not in the mood."
Pocketing his winnings, his head strangely clear, he slipped away from the table unnoticed by the drunken dandies he had spent the evening hustling. Pushing between the curling opium fumes, inhaling the scent of liquor and lust with every breath, he moved closer, anger for his friend and horror from himself as he watched the unknown gentleman wrap an arm around Aimee's waist, play with the lacings on her bodice, tug playfully on one of her loose ringlets. Her face was turned from him but the way she sagged into his body reflected true enough her affection for her new suitor.
Grantaire's mind raced. What should he do? Was there any reason for him to anything? Was this really any of his concern? Would any action he made heal the wound in Enjolras' soul? As he floundered, his indecisiveness a blunt reminder of his level of sobriety, Aimee appeared to excuse herself from the table, crossing towards the door to the ladies' powder room. Before he had made any conscious decision on the matter Grantaire found himself following her, angry words locked behind his teeth waiting to be released on this graceful Judas.
The room was thankfully deserted but for Aimee as he snuck in behind her, the door's lock engaging silently. She stood with her arms braced against one of the wooden toilet tables that lined the walls, one hand tugging to loosen the strings of her bodice to allow herself a full breath.
"Fancy meeting you in a place like this." He was pleased, both with her startled gasp and with his voice for concealing his level of inebriation.
"Grantaire!" Her eyes were still wide with fear, but strangely she moved towards him.
He was confused; these were not the actions of a woman caught cheating. Unless she had no shame on the subject and in that case his words would be more than deserved.
Her eyes roved frantically over his person, filled with what looked like…concern? "How did you get past his men?"
Her dress, he noted absently, was actually pale green and silver, not virginal white as he first assumed; apt, considering her actions with her new lover only moments ago. Her words then filtered into his slightly addled brain and he stared at her in consternation.
"Whose men?" he asked stupidly, but then he saw the bruise. Though hidden under heavily applied powder and rouge it gleamed a dull purple across her cheekbone and down her jaw. A new bruise, only garnered a day or so ago.
He saw the split lip next, swollen and puffy. When he took a step closer he was sadly not surprised when she flinched minutely; he saw the tremor of fear that ran through her. Despite the velvet choker clasped about her neck he still noted the faint bruising around her throat and he knew without a doubt whose hand the marks would match.
"What happened to you?" he murmured. Her eyes were puffy with crying and was that…? With slow movements he took her hand, his stomach dropping in a manner it should not until he faced his hangover tomorrow morning as he saw the rusty black stain of blood caked behind her fingernails.
"Is Enjolras alive?" Her words were slightly slurred and he noticed for the first time how wide her pupils were. Laudanum probably…and he doubted she had administered it herself. "Is anyone hurt?"
"Everyone's fine," he assured her, deciding that now was not the time to relate the state in which he had left Enjolras. "Well, as fine as can be on the eve of battle."
"They can't fight," she slurred, shaking her head wildly, oncoming hysteria turning her breathing to panicked pants. "They're all going to die!"
"No, they won't," he assured her, surprised to find a tiny part of him almost believed it. "Once they break Le Faucon out of prison they'll gather their army and take over the city." He gripped her hand tighter, trying not to think about where the blood had come from. If it was from scratching the bastard he hoped she had hurt him good. "Everyone knows the plan; it'll all be fine."
"That's just it," she hissed, moving closer to his ear. "Everyone knows the plan. Everyone."
There went his stomach again. "What are you saying?" he asked slowly, wishing for the first time in…possibly forever…that he wasn't drunk.
"There is a spy in the ranks, hired to report on the revolution," she whispered. "He knows everything. Numbers, weapons, size of groupings. He's just waiting for the final plans and then the Guard can be deployed. It'll be a massacre."
"Who knows all of this? Your friend out there?" His fear made his tone sharp and hurtful.
"He is not my friend!" she spat, showing a spark of the Aimee he recognized. "He calls himself The Patron and he…" she choked on her words only to release them on a rushed breath in a whisper. "He killed my father."
"What?" Grantaire's head spun and he cursed every sip he had consumed that night.
"You have to get to Enjolras." Her voice was dull. "Tell them about the mole."
"What about you?" She had pulled her hand from his.
"I have to go back with him." She scrubbed at her arms with her hands and he didn't want to imagine what echoing stain she was washing away. "I don't want to but I have to…he slit Papa's throat…right in front of me…and all for nothing."
Grantaire felt sick. Sick from the drink, sick with fear for his friends, sick for the horror this girl was having to endure alone.
A knock at the door startled them both.
"Amorette?" the voice was silky but cutting. "Amorette, dearest are you nearly done in there?"
"Just a minute," she called, tilting her head to listen for his retreating footsteps. "You have to go out of the window; he'll be waiting just outside," she whispered, fear seeming to clear her senses a little. "Go and warn them about the mole, now."
"Come with me," he pleaded. "I'll never forgive myself if I leave you here with him and neither will Enjolras." He reached for her hand but she back away, retying the laces of her bodice.
"If I don't go with him, neither of you will be alive to feel anything." She smiled sadly at him. "He doesn't even lock the door, Grantaire; he knows that threatening Enjolras' life and the lives of all the Amis is enough to make me stay of my own volition. You have to leave me."
"Like hell am I going to leave you here," he hissed, struggling with the window. The drop was only eight feet or so, though his drunk vision made it seem a lot higher, the picture slipping in and out of focus.
"Too late," she murmured, and he heard the lock disengage. "Goodbye, Grantaire."
With a muffled curse he clambered gracelessly out of the window, hanging his full body length from the sill to lessen the drop. Still, it was an unpleasant shock to his knees as he hit the ground, crumbling into a foetal position as he vomited up the contents of his stomach. Staggering to his feet he stumbled out into the street, using a nearby horse trough to rinse his head and hydrate his complaining body a little.
Although he knew there was no time to waste he was forced to wait a moment to regain his sense of balance and was therefore in a prime position to see Aimee and…what had she called him…ah, the Patron…exit the building and step directly into a lavish carriage pulled by pair of handsome blacks waiting outside. As he watched the tall, lean figure of Aimee's capture, and the murderer of her father, step into the carriage, Grantaire knew, with a certainty he had never felt about anything before, that he could not leave this girl behind.
But what of his friends? Fighting to clear his mind of the perpetual fogginess that always seemed to hang at the edges of his consciousness he scanned the streets frantically, finally finding what he was searching for in the shape of a small, ragged boy.
"Hey, you!" he whistled to gain the boy's attention, one eye on the carriage that had not yet departed.
Eyeing him warily the boy approached and Grantaire almost wept to see the small tricolour rosette pinned to his grubby clothes.
"You want to help the Revolution, yes?"
The boy nodded eagerly.
"Then you have to run, as fast as you can, to the Café Musain in St Michelle. You know the place?"
The boy nodded again.
"Tell them that Grantaire sent you…and tell them…remember this perfectly…." He deliberated for a moment on how much to say but decided to keep it simple. "Tell them there is a mole in the ranks but that the Guard do not yet know the full plan, only numbers. Tell them to be on their guard."
He felt the last part was a little unnecessary but it drove the message home. He had the boy repeat it back to him then sent him sprinting on his way. Perfect timing too for the carriage containing Aimee had just begun to move - a lost cloak had apparently been the cause of the delay.
Thankful for the quiet streets, Grantaire took a calming breath and began to follow, keeping to the shadows in a steady run.
A/N So there we go, another chapter closer to the finale. Please review; reviews are motivation and with the amount of work ahead of me, for any writing to happen motivation is what I need. Thanks for reading and for sticking around!
Until next time, mes amis,
Libz xxx