Disclaimer: Cosette and Marius and the Friends of the ABC are Victor Hugo's.
Notes: Your reviews gave me warm fuzzy feelings. =3 Thanks so much. I don't like this chapter much, but meh. --;
The first week following the barricades was an odd one for all involved. All except Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire drunk himself senseless as he usually did, and Enjolras went on planning and speaking. The Friends of the ABC had always joked that Enjolras was unfeeling, but they had never truly believed it until then. They heard that he had returned to the Café Musain almost the day after the barricades. The others were slower in coming. All in all, it was almost a month before the remaining Friends of the ABC again gathered at the Musain.
Courfeyrac, Feuilly noticed as he sat wordlessly, wasn't there. But all the others were. They sat silently, uncomfortably, in the little back room, each at his own table, trying not to meet the eyes of the others present.
Combeferre sat with his back to the room, facing a wall. It was a position he normally hated, but things were no longer normal. The letter to his mother and brothers was still in his coat pocket. He had yet to send it.
"I do not understand," Enjolras said flatly, from his seat near the center of the room. Immediately, all eyes were on him. "Were not all of you aware that we risked ourselves going to fight? You all were aware that some would fall and some would not. You should feel fortunate that you live to fight another day."
"Oh, yes, I should feel oh so fortunate my friends are all dead and I am left alive to be hanged or imprisoned," Bossuet said, the sarcasm evident in his tone.
"And did you not know, going there, that that may happen?" Enjolras demanded, getting to his feet.
"No!" Bossuet snapped in return, rising as well. "I expected to be killed. Killed by you and your- our... foolish dreams."
"They were not foolish dreams, and it would hurt the dead to hear you say such," Enjolras said coldly, his blue eyes hard. Bossuet seemed unfazed by the glare which had silenced so many men.
"They were foolish dreams. We will never make a difference. What have we shown the people? What have we done for them? We've gotten their men and boys killed, that is what we've done. And we have shown them that any who try and fight back will die."
"That is not-!" Enjolras cut himself off, distracted by a noise from the main room of the Musain. There were heavy footsteps, and they heard the high-pitched voice of one of the waitresses faintly through the door.
"Please, Monsieur-!" they heard her plead, then she gasped, and they could only assume that she had been shoved aside. Combeferre got nervously to his feet just as the door swung open to reveal the police.
Feuilly rose then as well, so only Grantaire, passed out from drink, remained in his seat. The head of the group of policemen stepped into the room, glaring at the five students there.
"Gautier Enjolras?" he asked, and Enjolras straightened. "Olivier Laigle?" Bossuet nodded politely. "Pascal Feuilly?" The fan maker raised a slender hand. "Romaine Combeferre?" he asked, glancing from Grantaire to Combeferre, who gave a mock bow. The policeman narrowed his eyes.
"Then... that's Isaak Grantaire?" he asked, gesturing to the inebriated man in the corner. Bossuet nodded stiffly. "Alright, then. Where is Gerard Courfeyrac?" he turned to Feuilly. "You. Where is he?"
"I do not know," Feuilly said, quite honestly. The policeman obviously didn't believe him. He raised a large hand a smacked the boy across the face. Feuilly stumbled backwards slightly, looking quite shocked.
"Where is he?" the policeman demanded.
"I do not know!" Feuilly cried, helplessly. The policeman's face reddened.
"Liar!" he bellowed, and aimed a kick at Feuilly which sent him to the floor. The other policemen looked alarmed.
"Sir, weren't we supposed to-?"
"Quiet!" the first policeman snapped. "I'll get it out of him..."
"Wait, wait!" Bossuet said quickly. The policeman's eyes snapped to him. "I would assume Courfeyrac is at his house." Bossuet quietly, embarrassedly, gave him the address, his cheeks burning red with shame at himself. But he had to do it to stop them from further hurting Feuilly.
"Get them," the first policeman said to the others, before stepping out of the room.
"What about the other names, sir?" one asked. "Beauregard Joly and Jean Prouvaire..."
"They're dead, fool," the first policeman snapped. "Now arrest the living ones! I'll go after Monsieur de Courfeyrac." He said the name in a sneering sort of way. He turned on his heel and left the room and the other officers moved in.
"What did you do that for?" Feuilly asked Bossuet quietly as the policemen escorted them out of the café.
"I did not want them to hurt you..." Bossuet mumbled embarrassedly. "It was foolish."
"Do not worry," Combeferre said as he was led past them. "They would have found him anyway."
Not strangely, Bossuet didn't feel comforted.
The group was led to jail and put in one large cell, along with others credited with a part in the insurrection. Some protested loudly, while others sulked. Still others, like Feuilly, Combeferre, and Bossuet, just sat silently, quietly resigned to their fate. Only Enjolras seemed able to retain his pride. Grantaire had been hardly conscious when they put him in, but a few hours later, when he awoke, he started bellowing noisily and demanding to be let out. Needless to say, it didn't work.
Night had fallen and most of the cell's occupants had gone to sleep. Feuilly was awake, though, and so saw when the police opened the door and practically threw in a boy with curly red hair. Courfeyrac.
Feuilly could tell right away that something wasn't right with his friend. First of all, Courfeyrac hadn't protested being put in the cell at all, and, rather than looking around of greeting his friends, he was just... lying there.
"Courfeyrac," Feuilly whispered. No response. He tried again, louder, with the same results. He frowned.
"Combeferre," Feuilly whispered, nudging his friend. Combeferre started, and his eyes shot open. He looked questioningly at Feuilly, who nodded at Courfeyrac. Combeferre frowned and crawled over.
"What is wrong?" Feuilly asked after Combeferre had had a moment to inspect Courfeyrac. Combeferre sat back and frowned.
"The wound in his arm. It's gotten infected, I think. He's feverish."
"Will he be alright?"
"I'm not sure..."
Feuilly wasn't quite sure when he fell asleep, but when he awoke light was doing its best to come in the cell's one, tiny window. Most of the others were awake as well, save Courfeyrac, slumped in a corner, his face flushed, and an older man with graying black hair. Feuilly saw that Combeferre was pacing restlessly, and he was surprised. He never saw Combeferre as the type to get nervous from being trapped in one place. He did, though, and when a guard walked past, he reached out to him.
"Please, sir," Combeferre said. "What are we being held here until? How long will it be?"
"You're here 'til the trial," the guard said gruffly. "Don't know how long it'll be."
Combeferre's eyes flicked down at the floor and only Grantaire, who had a keener eye than one might think, noticed his shoulders slump slightly.
"I see. Thank you, Monsieur."
Things were moving so very quickly, Cosette was a little bewildered, even if she wasn't as dim as people thought she was. Naïve, yes, a bit. Stupid, no. And she was smart enough to know that it wasn't good for Marius to be jumping out of bed when he'd hardly had three weeks to recover from the wounds he received on the barricade. He was a little too weak to actually jump, but he climbed out, and was shuffling across the room despite Cosette's protests.
"Please, Marius," she begged, her hands clasped. "You're going to hurt yourself..."
"It does not matter!" he insisted. "This is important!"
"Just tell me what is so important... surely someone could do it for you. Or you could it from bed... Marius, why are you going to the desk? Do you need a letter written? Dearest, let me write it and you may dictate. Please, get back into bed."
"No! I must write it myself. They aren't going to want a lawyer with pretty cursive- with no offense intended, Cosette, it's just..."
"Why does it matter what sort of lawyer they want? You aren't fit to practice any law for at least two more weeks!"
"I haven't got two more weeks, though, I've got ten days."
"Until what?" Cosette cried, exasperated, flinging her arms out. Her ringlets bounced, and Marius blinked, then started hobbling slowly, painfully, back to the bed, paper, pen and ink in hand.
"The trial," Marius said slowly, crawling back into bed.
"What trial?" Cosette asked, making her voice gentler. Marius pulled the stopper out of the ink and set it on the table beside the bed.
"They're trying my friends from the barricade," Marius said simply. "And I am going to represent them."
"Why did they choose you?" Cosette asked incredulously, then turned red. "Oh, oh I didn't mean it like that! I just meant... don't they know you were on the barricade as well?"
"They haven't chosen me," Marius said slowly. "I am going to volunteer. That is why I need to write them a letter."
"Ah. I understand now," Cosette said and smiled. "Just be careful, alright? Don't strain yourself."
"Thank you, Cosette," Marius said, smiling. Cosette waved away the thanks and quietly left the room.
Marius wrote and sent the letter and received a response but two days later. He would be the official representative of his friends at the trial. The news worried and pleased Cosette. Pleased her because it made Marius happy, and he kissed her so enthusiastically when he found out the news. Worried because he would have to work hard prepare, and he was hardly well, and definitely needed to recuperate longer. But she could tell there would be no changing his mind. So Cosette supported him. It was, she supposed, practice for later in life. She was his wife-to-be after all, and she would have to support all of his endeavors. She could make sure he didn't hurt himself, though.
Marius didn't have long to prepare for the trial. The judge didn't really care much about giving the students, whom everyone already knew were traitors and rebels, a fair trial, and didn't really care if Marius had enough time to get everything done well. So Marius had eight days. It wasn't enough time.
Many nights, Cosette would wake in the early hours of the morning to find Marius still awake and working, sometimes furiously scribbling a letter, other times coming close to hurling the ink at the wall from frustration. That evening, only three days before the trial, Cosette peeked in and saw Marius sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his head in his hands. She rushed to his side, begging to know what the matter was.
"I can't do this, Cosette," he said, not taking his hands from his face. She sunk to her knees beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't say that, Marius, of course you can," she said gently.
"I can't! I-... I mean... I should be there."
"Be where?"
"With them! I was at the barricade, too! I should be on trial with them... with my friends. It is as much Enjolras's doing as Courfeyrac's and as much theirs as mine. They're on trial and I should be with them!"
"Don't say that, Marius!" Cosette said, horrified. "Whoever rescued you didn't do it so you could talk this way. Would you truly rather be facing death in a jail cell than here... with me?"
"Oh, God, Cosette, it isn't that I would not rather be with you. You know I would. I just feel... why should I be the one who is safe? I was as much of a leader as Enjolras was, yet he is the one facing trial. I feel guilty, Cosette. I should be by their side."
"If you weren't here, who would defend them?" Cosette wanted to know.
"I don't know. I just know that letting them die at the hands of another lawyer who doesn't know them isn't as bad as betraying them this way."
"You aren't betraying them, you're defending them!"
"Yet it seems like I would serve better at their side."