It's about a man consumed with vice.
He's theosophical in nature,
And hedonistic in disguise.
And all his life he's been wandering,
Looking for teachers with the keys.
Nothing found, still searching for sound."
– THE TEA PARTY, "Underground"
The lamplight reflected off the rim of Grantaire's glass, and he admired the glow radiating through the wine it held. The evening had been an entirely pleasant affair. A couple of weeks earlier, Courfeyrac had run into two friends he hadn't seen for "simply ages", and since then the four of them had dined together several times. Courfeyrac's taste in friends was simultaneously eclectic and impeccable, but these two were something else altogether. Grantaire had decided within moments of the initial introduction that he liked them. He supposed the feeling had been mutual – they'd never yet made excuses not to meet with him. His consumption of alcohol had given them pause at first; the younger one had spent the dessert course earnestly lecturing him on the dangers of alcohol poisoning, but relented when Grantaire pointed out it was as good a way to go as any.
Tonight they were dining at Mere Saguet's, on the advice of Grantaire. So far there hadn't been any complaints about the house speciality – broiled fowl in white sauce with sautéed mushrooms. It was about half past nine and he was supposed to meet some other people in a nearby tavern at ten – but he didn't want to.
Mere Saguet's was always a sure bet if you wanted a savoury and filling meal, and the wine was good too. To say nothing of the company. As he poured himself another glass, it occurred to him that he hadn't felt this comfortable around people for a very long time. People had a tendency to either bore him horribly or overwhelm him completely. But he could think of nothing more pleasant than spending an evening with these three. Yes, the others could wait. Chances were, they'd forget to turn up anyway.
Taking a moment to savour the taste of the wine in his mouth, he leaned back in his chair and watched the world go by, keeping half an ear open to the conversation going on around him. Courfeyrac was wiping sauce off his plate with a crust of bread, his warm dark eyes flickering between the two men sitting opposite him. The two students lived together, apparently, and everything about them was redolent with the easy intimacy of long friendship. The current topic of conversation was a play they had seen the night before.
"Terrible, terrible, terrible," the bald one was saying. "If it wasn't for Adeline, I'd have left before Act Two was over."
"She could have stayed with me," his friend remarked mildly. "I thought it was all right." He drew his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his nose with it, for perhaps the twentieth time during the meal.
"You would," Bossuet remarked good-naturedly. He then took a sip of wine and winked at Courfeyrac and Grantaire. "Take my advice – don't waste your money. Just read the thing instead. Anyway, it hardly matters. I doubt Mademoiselle Adeline will be accompanying us to the theatre again."
"Wait a minute." Courfeyrac looked confused. "What happened to the little Italian girl with the huge eyes – Suzetta, was it?"
Bossuet shook his head, gesturing with a forkful of chicken. "No, Suzetta was Joly's girl, last month. Adeline's my girl, this month. Or, was." He glared pointedly at his companion. "I begged you not to sit with us."
"There wasn't anywhere else!" Joly protested. "That wasn't my fault."
"You kept sniffling the entire way through."
"Well, you're the one who spilt the strawberry ice down her gown. Then used my handkerchief to wipe it off. If all you got at the end of the night was her door in your face, don't blame me."
Courfeyrac looked from one to the other, shaking his head in amusement. "Remind me why you two get on so well again?"
Bossuet glowered good-naturedly at Joly, and flicked a crumb in his general direction. "I ask myself that question every day. And here's another question: When's the next singlestick display? Because this is something that I simply have to see."
It took Grantaire a moment before he realised the question had been directed at him. "In the Comte de Dechesne-Chéron's salon, nine o'clock, Thursday night, I think."
Joly blinked at the man slouched across the table from him, with his rumpled coat, creased cravat and tousled shock of hair. "And they let you in?"
"They let him in because he's good," Courfeyrac replied for his friend, and Grantaire was mildly relieved. Truth be told, he hadn't been in training for a while. "I've seen him. Trust me. My God," he turned to Grantaire, eyes sparkling, "do you remember that poor fop Michel whatshisname –" All of a sudden, his eyes snapped to a space just over Grantaire's shoulder, and his voice and face changed expression. "Combeferre?"
It appeared that Michel Whatshisname would remain forgotten for the time being. The other three men followed Courfeyrac's gaze, and saw a slender bespectacled man in a well-cut grey coat at the bar across the room. This was obviously Combeferre, for he smiled and waved to Courfeyrac, and mouthed "Good evening."
Courfeyrac leaned back a little further in his seat and cupped a hand around his mouth. "You coming or going?" he called.
Combeferre obviously didn't comprehend the question through the din of the room, as he cocked his head and raised his eyebrows quizzically. He pointed towards the staircase leading to the upper room, and Grantaire thought he caught the words, "I'm here with someone." Then, with more clarity, "Wait a minute."
Courfeyrac gave him another wave, then turned back to the others. "Eduard Combeferre. He's doing a history course, amongst other things. If you ever find yourself in a class with him, befriend him. He always takes notes."
Bossuet nodded. "The name rings a bell – I actually think I was in a class with him, last year." He frowned, examining the other man. "So that's what he looks like. Never seen his face. Always had it buried in a book, as I recall."
Eduard Combeferre was now making his way across the room toward their table. As it turned out, he did have a book – tucked under his arm. Up close, he revealed himself to be a handsome-faced young man with smooth dark hair and grey eyes that shone with an understated intelligence from behind his wire-framed spectacles. Indisputably mild in appearance, there was nonetheless something about him that breathed of a quiet, self-assured confidence. He clasped Courfeyrac's proffered hand warmly. "Hello. Haven't seen you around in a while."
"I dropped Russian Imperialism." Judging by his countenance, Courfeyrac was completely without regret. "Another week under Chantereau and I'd have gone mad."
"That explains it."
"Good to see you again." Courfeyrac nodded around the table. "Meet my friends – the bald one's Bossuet, the one blowing his nose is Joly, and the one with the wine bottle and bad posture is Grantaire." Handshakes and nodded hellos were exchanged. He then gestured to the standing man. "Gentlemen, this is Eduard Combeferre. He's an intellectual – but don't hold it against him."
"No, please don't." The words were spoken with good humour, and without further ado, Combeferre sat down. "I'm sorry, I shan't be able to stay long. I'm here with a friend from back home. He's new in town."
"Studying?" Courfeyrac inquired.
"But of course." Combeferre smiled slightly. "Law."
"Oh dear," Bossuet groaned. "As if there weren't enough of us already. Someone ought to call for a cull."
"I'll do it," Grantaire offered. "With my singlestick. I'll stand outside the university gates and take a swipe at every fifth student that enters or exits." Combeferre was blinking at him, a little taken aback, so he gave a one shouldered shrug to make it clear he was only jesting. "Or not."
"Oh." Combeferre obviously didn't know where to take that one next. He nodded to Joly. "You doing law too?"
"No." Joly shook his head. "Medicine."
"He's not doing medicine," Grantaire interjected. "Medicine's doing him. I've only known him for two weeks, and nearly every day he's come up with something new to suffer from." Joly looked a little hurt, but a wink reassured him that the other man wasn't being entirely serious. Grantaire turned back to Combeferre. "If your friend wants to taste the real Paris, then I'm the party to address, if I don't say so myself. Would you like to fall in with our motley crew tonight?"
Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac. "Where are you going?"
Courfeyrac shrugged. "Wherever Grantaire takes us."
"I've learned that you have the most fun when you don't know where you're going next," Grantaire explained. "Order isn't the only thing that comes out of chaos, it's only the dullest."
Combeferre looked a little uneasy, and resettled his spectacles on his nose. "Well, we were planning to catch the public lecture about social reform by Professor Hamilton, the writer from London."
Grantaire blinked. "Please tell me that was a joke."
"Why is that funny? Do you know who Hamilton is?"
"A very qualified gentleman," Grantaire nodded. "Married to the lady poet, I believe – which I suppose makes him qualified enough to discuss human misery." Combeferre opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced with an upraised hand. "But why do you need a reedy-voiced stick insect imported from England to tell you what a horrible world we live in? If you haven't realised it already, I envy you your naivety; and if you have, I commend you on your perceptiveness." He poured himself another glass of wine. "Why don't you and your friend come out with us tonight? If it's really so important, we'll find you some beggar lying in the gutter and he can tell you about the mind-boggling banality of it all. Or, after a few more of these –" and he tossed off the second glass as quickly as the first, "– I'll do it myself."
"He'll do it anyway, and with great pleasure, if you don't shut him up soon." Courfeyrac gave Combeferre a pat on the shoulder. "If you and your friend have plans, fine. Some other night, eh?" He glanced up the staircase. "He's not waiting for you, is he?"
Combeferre followed his gaze. "No, I told him to come down when he's ready. Either he's a very poor guest, or I'm a very poor host. He spent the entire meal talking to everyone in the room except for me." There was no rancour in his voice. "He's either monosyllabic, or holding whole crowds captive."
"You know each other well?" Bossuet inquired.
"Our families know each other. Engaged in the odd inter-marriage pre Terror. He and I did a bit of running around together as children. You know how it is. I received commandment from on high to puppy-walk him through his first few months here. Not that he's actually required much in the way of puppy-walking."
"Where are you from?" Joly absent-mindedly rubbed the tip of his nose with his cane. "Provence?"
Combeferre nodded. "Yes, Marseilles. Thought I'd lost most of my accent."
"You have. I have family in Provence, that's how I know. But I'm from Limoges. Don't believe anything you've heard about Limoges – it's the most boring place imaginable. Looks like we're all from the south, then. Except L'Aigle here."
Combeferre looked confused again. "Forgive me, I thought your name was Bossuet."
Bossuet smiled the smile of a man who has been required to tell the same story again and again and doesn't wholly dislike it. "Family pun. My father was nicknamed Lesgueules, which somehow changed into L'Aigle, but was spelt L-e-s-g-l-e-s on a petition asking the king for a postmaster-ship at Meaux."
Combeferre's laughter was immediate and delighted. "So, Eagle of Words, which of your three names do you answer to, then?"
Bossuet shrugged and smiled. "Any of the three. But I digress – yes, it appears that most of us aren't regional by birth."
"I am."
Heads turned toward Grantaire.
"I thought you were from Bordeaux," Courfeyrac remarked.
"Not born there, though. It's true Parisian sludge that runs through my veins. Second of three children; the family moved to the country after the birth of the third, due to Mother's delicate health. In theory – and on paper, in letters home to the parents – I'm studying here."
"And spending your allowance on anything apart from textbooks. I know how it works." Courfeyrac turned back to the newcomer. "I shouldn't have introduced you to this lot, come to think of it. They could be a most unsavoury influence. I can feel myself growing more and more corrupt with every hour I spend with them and my God, that is the most revoltingly handsome man I've ever seen."
The latter half of the phrase was completely unexpected, and apparently unrelated to the subject at hand. Then everybody else realised that Courfeyrac's gaze had returned to the staircase, and four other pairs of eyes followed the same direction. Although Mère Saguet's was full tonight, it was immediately obvious who Courfeyrac was referring to. The party of four was stunned into silence for a moment, and remained uncomprehending as Combeferre made direct eye contact with the subject and called out, "Enjolras, over here."
The youth in question heard him, nodded, and began making his way over, leaving at least two seconds of silence in his immediate wake. Grantaire swallowed his mouthful of wine hastily, and nearly choked upon it. Courfeyrac had put it well – the man was handsome, revoltingly so, and walked with the unmistakable bearing of an aristocrat by long lineage. But he bore his beauty uncannily; as if it were a coat he could shrug off at any moment, something he hardly thought about, something that counted for nothing. His clothing, though of good fabric, was hardly sensational in design. His shirt was simple, and his cravat plain black and tied in a straightforward knot. But all of this somehow merely enhanced the extraordinary figure. In those first few seconds, Grantaire numbly attempted to explain what he saw, and how it connected to what he felt. What he saw was a boy who looked all of seventeen, tall and slender, and he wanted to use the word "fragile" to describe him, because that is how an angelically beautiful fair-haired youth should be described.
But "fragile" was definitely not the word for it. Something in the youth's blue eyes spoke of an inner strength that belied and undermined his outward appearance. Normally, Grantaire would have written him off as another pretty-boy and thought no more of it, but that was impossible here. His sheer luminescence wasn't merely physical. Something Grantaire could not quite put his finger on seemed to radiate out of the man: it lit him up from within and burned out of his eyes, even from the other side of the room. In retrospect, Grantaire would come to realise that, for him, those few seconds were stretched and frozen and suspended in time forever – to be eternally mused upon, philosophised about, and perhaps one day even explained.
He watched as Enjolras walked across the floor of a noisy bistro and into his life, and would replay the incident over and over a thousand times or more in years to come. He would recall – or seem to recall – a chill creeping through him, and black feathered wings beating in his mind, and a soft voice whispering Destiny's a strumpet, but she picks her entourage well, eh lad?
But that was eleven years ago – almost half a lifetime and so much more. He had met Enjolras in the autumn of 1826, and by the summer of 1827 a group of young men had already adopted the back room of the Musain, and were already calling themselves – first with humour and then with gravity as the name gradually stuck – the Friends of the ABC. Eleven years . . . When he muttered the words aloud, they made no real sense. Grantaire knew that if someone had uttered the phrase "Eleven years down the track . . ." to him, he would have immediately lost interest and ceased to pay attention. Over a decade away. Hardly worth thinking about. The Friends of the ABC had been active for five years and all of a sudden that seemed obscenely long, five whole years taken out of the lives of a handful of youths who, if things had been different, would still be alive today, possibly entering the most interesting phases of existence.
"I'm not one for making false promises," Enjolras said. "Our triumph won't be immediate and the battle won't be straightforward. From now on you will live double lives, one in the open and one in subterfuge. When those lives coalesce, they'll coalesce with a vengeance." He paused for a moment and looked down at his hands. "I cannot guarantee you longevity, or even immediate safety."
The room was silent, save for the creak of Bahorel's chair as he leaned back in it. Grantaire looked quickly across at him, but the burly man was quiet and attentive. Bahorel had burst into the Musain one day, a barrel-chested, shock-haired stranger, and marched straight up to Enjolras and rumbled down at him, "I was tearing up the paving-stones before your voice broke, boy, so what's your game?" Bahorel declaimed to anyone who'd listen that he had no plans to fall in with some featherweight who'd probably leave Paris and his cause as soon as his parents called him home again – but continued to show up at the Musain week after week.
There were perhaps fifteen young men sitting in the back room today. In later months the number of core members would diminish, but today they were here because Enjolras had asked them to be. All except for Grantaire. He looked around the room and watched as the listeners regarded the speaker with the same level, candid gaze with which he regarded them.
It had taken perhaps a fortnight for Grantaire to realise that the blond-haired youth from Marseilles had an agenda, and when his three friends began cancelling other engagements to meet up with him in the unfashionable Café Musain, he had followed curiously. During those first few weeks – and how he would regret it later – Grantaire had felt there to be no real cause for alarm. He had seen more than one friend of a friend come bounding into Paris already up in political arms and eventually come to realise that Paris is a hard city to maintain a sense of idealism in. He had also seen charlatans, men looking to amass supporters for whatever reason and trying it through politics. But it soon became clear that whatever his true goal might be, Justin Enjolras was deadly serious about attaining it.
Now he was standing before them, offering them something Grantaire was not sure he could define. I should get up and leave right now, Grantaire thought to himself, and try to convince the others to do the same. I still can't work out what his agenda is, and that's a warning if ever there was one.
Enjolras looked back up at the room of open faces. "I guarantee you this, however: we can make things change. My faith in that is unshakeable. Revolution has never been solely the realm of the educated and the intellectual. But it is our duty to act upon our beliefs and let those in power know that we know the unjust state of our country. The cries of the downtrodden, the destitute, the starving, fall upon deaf ears – so we must make that cry our own. At first it will be stifled, muted, no more than a dissatisfied murmur that barely reaches the higher echelons of power. But we will turn that murmur into a roar and our challenge will be one that the government cannot fail to acknowledge. This can only be done if we work together."
The young man sitting at Grantaire's table smiled faintly, ruefully. Grantaire glanced at him. Feuilly worked long hours to pay his way through university, and spent what little recreational time he had in writing and distributing political notices of his own. One of them had fallen into Enjolras' hands and an invitation to the back room of the Musain had swiftly followed. Grantaire knew of Feuilly – he'd seen him haranguing drinkers in taverns and passers-by on cold street corners – and knew that the young man had been trying to whip up a little support of his own. He had been surprised that Feuilly would want to fall in with somebody else, but like Bahorel, Feuilly had returned to the café time and time again.
Grantaire himself had returned time and time again. At first it was curiosity – if Courfeyrac and the others were going to be part of something then he wanted to be part of it too. But the more he scrutinised Enjolras, the more he felt that there was something staring him in the face that he was somehow missing. The youth's forthrightness could have been disarming, but it quickly became clear that Enjolras would allow no man, woman or child to take liberties of any sort with him. It did not take Grantaire long to realise that Enjolras disliked him, and he took a perverse satisfaction in the fact.
"He doesn't suffer fools gladly," Combeferre had felt obliged to say to Grantaire in a low voice during those first few weeks. Grantaire had been stung, and then riled. He tried his utmost not to think about him but that became an impossibility. Enjolras was becoming a part of his friend's lives, and a part of his own, with a speed that was bewildering and not a little frightening.
At first he thought that politics was just another passing fancy that Courfeyrac was toying with, but this turned out not to be the case. When he unwisely suggested it, Courfeyrac had been infuriated and insulted – rightly so – and the two friends had quarrelled. Now the same Courfeyrac looked up at the tall fair-haired youth, and there was a steely glint in his eye that Grantaire had never seen before. "We are with you," he said simply. "Always."
There was a rumble of assent around the room and Grantaire looked swiftly back at Enjolras. Enjolras was unsmiling.
"If that was a pledge of eternal loyalty, take it back."
A slightly stunned silence followed. Courfeyrac's gaze wavered. Enjolras' did not.
"I didn't come here to build a cult. You are here as equals, men of courage and faith, capable of quick thought and swift action. I see you as friends and comrades and that is how I wish you to see me. Your allegiance lies not with me or any other single man, but with our cause. Always remember that."
You smooth-faced bastard, Grantaire thought hollowly. Just look at them. They'd do anything you asked them to. The thoughts dropped like blocks of cold granite in Grantaire's mind as he watched Enjolras, half-hoping to catch his eye. Enjolras talked on and Grantaire watched the others listen, a dull rumbling roar inside his head rendering the youth's words incoherent to his own ears.
Leave this place, Justin Enjolras, he cried inwardly, wishing himself the courage to cry it aloud. Leave us, for I see you now and the truth is suddenly, obscenely clear – it stares back at me with hollow eyes. The truth is that you believe every word you say. Your conviction is real. Your purity bedazzles me, terrifies me, all the more so because you yourself don't understand its power, do not wield it intentionally. I look at you and I realise that I am looking at a man who will die young; I see it in your eyes, I hear it in your voice. Well damn yourself if you like – no mortal man could stop you – but I beg you to spare my friends. Don't make them take up their crosses and follow you over the edge of the world just because you can. Please, please spare their soft flesh and unwise hearts and leave us now. Leave, because we will never leave you. Leave before I lose my will to fight against you. I don't want to come to love you, because I know I'll only lose you . . .
At the same time, though, the years flown by felt like nothing at all. If Grantaire stopped short and closed his eyes, he could see their faces once again, hear their voices as if they had only ceased to ring a matter of minutes ago. And it wasn't just that – Paris itself had not changed. Even seen at this hour of night, with the steady rain drumming down, nothing was truly different. No bright banners of freedom festooned the streets; the ragged men and women hurrying past all regarded him with the familiar gazes of suspicion, hostility or dull indifference.
A girl of perhaps fifteen sidled up and grabbed his sleeve with a smile that passed for coquettish. Grantaire was about to shake her off when their eyes met, and whatever she saw in his sufficed to make her recoil and creep back into the shadows from whence she came. He strode on.
The crow alighted on his shoulder, flicked water droplets from its head and wings.
she sensed you were different
"I figured," Grantaire grunted.
she won't be the only one boy all those who suffer pain will recognise you as something different to themselves and yet something similar they may recoil or they may reach out be warned
"All those who suffer?" Grantaire smiled bitterly. "That should bond me with three quarters of Paris at the very least."
where are we going
Grantaire paused on the street corner, trying to get his bearings and blinking rainwater out of his eyes. "Enjolras lived in a building on the rue de Coutard. We're going there."
do you even know what you're looking for
"Do you?"
remember what i said boy i don't have all the answers
Grantaire considered that, and decided that the crow was telling the truth. "Maybe other people have moved into his rooms since then. I don't know. But there'll be people there who remember him, perhaps. Let's hope I can think of the right questions to ask them."
He walked on, and the crow remained on his shoulder. The small tavern to the left, that was right. It had obviously been closed down some time after 1832 but the sign still hung over the door, the faded depiction of a charging bull and scarlet-coated toreador.
"Next left down Blessard," he muttered aloud without realising.
have you been to enjolras' apartment before
"I've been invited in once, but hardly out of generosity and good grace. I was with Bossuet and we ran into him. He had some pamphlets to distribute and we had to go up to his rooms to collect them. I believe he'd have preferred to leave me standing out on the street, but it was raining and he was a gentleman born and bred, after all."
The crow was ominously silent for a few moments and Grantaire felt the hair on his neck prickle. Then, gently –
but you've followed him more than once haven't you
Grantaire felt a lump rising in his throat again and swallowed hard, forcing it back down. "A lot more than once. It's a long walk from the Musain. He acted as though he wasn't afraid of anything, but that doesn't mean anything won't happen. We all heard the stories about idealists who were getting too vocal being attacked in the streets. After the riots of '30, Bahorel suggested he might want some protection. He refused, of course."
did he know you followed him
"God, no." Grantaire almost laughed aloud. "He'd have moved to the other side of Paris if he'd known about it."
One of the tenement buildings on Blessard had been burnt hollow in a fire, Grantaire noted. He was silent as he picked his way around the rubble in the streets, trying not to think about the rue de Chanvrerie.
and did anything ever happen
"Of course something happened – he got shot," Grantaire spat. He knew that wasn't what the crow had meant, but he didn't care.
The rue de Coutard was narrower than the rue de Blessard and the sign announcing its entrance was rendered illegible by rust and weather. The first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras' building, he'd wondered why Enjolras had chosen such a nondescript bushel to hide his light under. Some students did live in this district, certainly, but it seemed an odd choice of address for a young man from a noble family who could have done much better for himself.
"Probably just the reason he chose it," Feuilly had once commented when the topic arose in conversation one day. "If you wanted to locate and arrest a politically active law student, chances are you wouldn't start your search a matter of streets away from the Faubourg Saint-Jacques."
Bahorel had muttered something about children slumming it and moved on to other things.
Enjolras' building had always been one of the better-looking in the rue de Coutard and even now it stood out from the others. Or, Grantaire thought, perhaps that was just because he recognised it as Enjolras' home. The building was dubbed the Rougemont, after some charlatan from the 1790s who claimed that images of the Blessed Virgin appeared amongst the peeling plaster and damp watermarks on the walls of his apartment. As Grantaire drew nearer, he saw that the number of boarded-up windows had almost doubled since he was last here. He had heard Combeferre mention once that Enjolras' lease on his rooms was permanent, but wondered what he would do if the young man's apartment had since been taken over by a tanner and his brood of squalling brats.
The crow flapped its wings, making the air whistle past his ear.
"What?" he snapped.
something happened didn't it
"Perhaps." The word was out before Grantaire could stop it, and once it was out, suspicions and ideas coalesced and became horribly tangible. If he says it was a matter of plain bad luck, I'm prepared to go with that, he heard Bahorel's voice say, and did not know what caused him greater unease – the haunting familiarity of that voice, or the edge of doubt he heard in it, imagined or otherwise.
An old woman shuffled down the steps of the Rougemont, reeking of stale fish and eyeing him suspiciously. He stood aside and let her pass before he entered.
Thunder rumbled overhead.