**Prologue, Part Two: Sometimes He Paced**
He was the type of boy who could never be completely understood; he was an enigma of sorts, a roaring fire hidden by an impenetrable layer of ice. At night he would pine by himself in the solitude of the empty Corinthe, and he would do so for hours, pining and pining sometimes until the sun rose the next morning.
Thus was the life of Julien Enjolras, the radiant young revolutionary of France: by day he preached; by night he brooded. No one ever really knew the things over which he deliberated, but somehow he sent the message to the world to let him alone when he did so. And no one argued with this.
Step, step, step, he paced up and down the wooden floor, eyes fixed on everything and nothing in particular. He truly was a sight to behold, a young, rich Apollo with rumpled hair and furrowed brow. The scarlet and gold vest that once rested crisp and neat upon his shoulders now lay in a heap on a table from being unceremoniously tossed aside. Such a tidy boy in such a state!
Julien always kept himself in order, except on those nights when he paced and pondered this way, at which times his soft, reasonably short golden hair fell across his eyes, forcing him to push it away irritably from time to time; he allowed his black cravat to nearly untie and drape itself loosely about his clavicles; he pushed up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned his blouse a bit in the hazy heat of the summer night, continuing his seemingly endless debate.
After the routine meetings with his friends he still had leftover energy to burn, more thoughts to pick at, a craving for thinking that could not be satisfied by further discussion with his comrades. There still remained a people he must save--lost and forgotten in the gutters of Paris-- who did not sleep, so neither would he.
But at last he sat at a table, unable to pace any more without losing his mind, and buried his face in his hands, rubbing his tired eyes in fatigue and frustration. He raked a hand through his silken hair and heaved a sigh before standing once more and gathering up his vest from its dejected spot on the table's surface. He then pulled it over his shoulders and headed for the door, finally exhausted from his mysterious musings, and exited the Corinthe.
A fine boy out at such a late hour might have appeared suspicious to most anyone, had they seen him emerge at that moment.
But most of the time, no one crossed his path.
He was the type of boy who could never be completely understood; he was an enigma of sorts, a roaring fire hidden by an impenetrable layer of ice. At night he would pine by himself in the solitude of the empty Corinthe, and he would do so for hours, pining and pining sometimes until the sun rose the next morning.
Thus was the life of Julien Enjolras, the radiant young revolutionary of France: by day he preached; by night he brooded. No one ever really knew the things over which he deliberated, but somehow he sent the message to the world to let him alone when he did so. And no one argued with this.
Step, step, step, he paced up and down the wooden floor, eyes fixed on everything and nothing in particular. He truly was a sight to behold, a young, rich Apollo with rumpled hair and furrowed brow. The scarlet and gold vest that once rested crisp and neat upon his shoulders now lay in a heap on a table from being unceremoniously tossed aside. Such a tidy boy in such a state!
Julien always kept himself in order, except on those nights when he paced and pondered this way, at which times his soft, reasonably short golden hair fell across his eyes, forcing him to push it away irritably from time to time; he allowed his black cravat to nearly untie and drape itself loosely about his clavicles; he pushed up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned his blouse a bit in the hazy heat of the summer night, continuing his seemingly endless debate.
After the routine meetings with his friends he still had leftover energy to burn, more thoughts to pick at, a craving for thinking that could not be satisfied by further discussion with his comrades. There still remained a people he must save--lost and forgotten in the gutters of Paris-- who did not sleep, so neither would he.
But at last he sat at a table, unable to pace any more without losing his mind, and buried his face in his hands, rubbing his tired eyes in fatigue and frustration. He raked a hand through his silken hair and heaved a sigh before standing once more and gathering up his vest from its dejected spot on the table's surface. He then pulled it over his shoulders and headed for the door, finally exhausted from his mysterious musings, and exited the Corinthe.
A fine boy out at such a late hour might have appeared suspicious to most anyone, had they seen him emerge at that moment.
But most of the time, no one crossed his path.