The Shadow Follows the Wind
The summertime was when things changed for Samuel. Small things were changing long before summer--since Christmas, in fact--but it was in June when the world seemed to turn on its head.
Since Christmas, he'd gone on doing Dimitri's work. Since Twelfth Night, he and Edmond had spent their evenings at one or the other's apartment. He still didn't get on with Courfeyrac, but he did try to understand him. He tried to be kinder to Joly, gentler with Prouvaire, and better humoured with Bossuet, who was wry and clever and a good companion. With Pontmercy he tried to be patient, and with Bahorel reasonable.
He still treated Feuilly as a close companion, asking after Manon and Justin.
He still ignored Grantaire.
But it was in the summer when all his attempts seemed to come to nothing. He led as a good leader should, and taught his Amis the words of revolution, of freedom. But his successes seemed to be worthless. They didn't solve anything in the end, and bought nothing either. His words weren't worth life.
On twenty-fifth of May, Feuilly came in very late to Musain. His black eyes were quick and unsettled, darting here and there instead of finding one point and focusing on it. When at last his eyes did calm, he fixed them on the back of a chair and only half-heard Samuel's plans for the future.
After the meeting had broken up, Samuel sought him out.
"Feuilly. Feuilly, here, man. Is everything all right?"
"Should it not be, Enjolras?"
"You were late. I wondered."
The black eyes stared at Samuel, intent and sombre and disconcerting as always. He thought he must have been overreacting. "I had some trouble at home," said Feuilly softly.
"I see."
Feuilly was under no obligation to explain, and he didn't, but Samuel felt a tremor of worry that stayed with him all evening and made concentration hard. Edmond was forever looking up and asking gently, "Samuel? Are you all right?"
"Yes," he kept answering, and returned to his work.
Three days later, both Feuilly and Courfeyrac were missing. They never appeared at Musain, and afterwards, Samuel apologised to Edmond and went straight home. He couldn't sleep, and the feeling of worry became stronger and perhaps a little frightening. Something was terribly wrong.
On May thirty-first, when Feuilly and Courfeyrac were again absent, Samuel resolved to visit Manon. Perhaps she could explain it. He had plenty of excuses for the intrusion: they were his companions; they were his fellow students; they were members of his planned revolution. If he wanted to, he could even stop by and pretend he had come for a social call, but he knew he wouldn't pretend that.
He rapped on Feuilly's door and it was answered by Courfeyrac. Samuel started. Courfeyrac's hair was dishevelled and his clothes wrinkled, as though he'd been sleeping in them, and his usually-cheerful eyes were bloodshot.
"Ah. We wondered when you'd come. Silvain thought you would."
"What on earth's wrong?"
"Oh, God, Enjolras." Courfeyrac rubbed his hand over his eyes and forehead. "Manon and my dear little godchild have some kind of fever, that's all. You know Justin never speaks or smiles--he doesn't cry, either. Such a good child! He just lies in bed and stares at me."
"I--well, let me in, for God's sake."
"Yes, yes, of course. How stupid of me. Manon cries, though! She's already so thin it's absurd, but now you can see through her skin. Oh, Dimitri. Yes. Do come in."
Samuel slipped through the door, shutting it quickly behind him as Courfeyrac half-stumbled into the bedroom.
"I'm tired, you know," he said dazedly, standing in the doorway, "We haven't had much time to sleep. She always wants water. Hullo, Silvain, he came. You were right."
The summertime was when things changed for Samuel. Small things were changing long before summer--since Christmas, in fact--but it was in June when the world seemed to turn on its head.
Since Christmas, he'd gone on doing Dimitri's work. Since Twelfth Night, he and Edmond had spent their evenings at one or the other's apartment. He still didn't get on with Courfeyrac, but he did try to understand him. He tried to be kinder to Joly, gentler with Prouvaire, and better humoured with Bossuet, who was wry and clever and a good companion. With Pontmercy he tried to be patient, and with Bahorel reasonable.
He still treated Feuilly as a close companion, asking after Manon and Justin.
He still ignored Grantaire.
But it was in the summer when all his attempts seemed to come to nothing. He led as a good leader should, and taught his Amis the words of revolution, of freedom. But his successes seemed to be worthless. They didn't solve anything in the end, and bought nothing either. His words weren't worth life.
On twenty-fifth of May, Feuilly came in very late to Musain. His black eyes were quick and unsettled, darting here and there instead of finding one point and focusing on it. When at last his eyes did calm, he fixed them on the back of a chair and only half-heard Samuel's plans for the future.
After the meeting had broken up, Samuel sought him out.
"Feuilly. Feuilly, here, man. Is everything all right?"
"Should it not be, Enjolras?"
"You were late. I wondered."
The black eyes stared at Samuel, intent and sombre and disconcerting as always. He thought he must have been overreacting. "I had some trouble at home," said Feuilly softly.
"I see."
Feuilly was under no obligation to explain, and he didn't, but Samuel felt a tremor of worry that stayed with him all evening and made concentration hard. Edmond was forever looking up and asking gently, "Samuel? Are you all right?"
"Yes," he kept answering, and returned to his work.
Three days later, both Feuilly and Courfeyrac were missing. They never appeared at Musain, and afterwards, Samuel apologised to Edmond and went straight home. He couldn't sleep, and the feeling of worry became stronger and perhaps a little frightening. Something was terribly wrong.
On May thirty-first, when Feuilly and Courfeyrac were again absent, Samuel resolved to visit Manon. Perhaps she could explain it. He had plenty of excuses for the intrusion: they were his companions; they were his fellow students; they were members of his planned revolution. If he wanted to, he could even stop by and pretend he had come for a social call, but he knew he wouldn't pretend that.
He rapped on Feuilly's door and it was answered by Courfeyrac. Samuel started. Courfeyrac's hair was dishevelled and his clothes wrinkled, as though he'd been sleeping in them, and his usually-cheerful eyes were bloodshot.
"Ah. We wondered when you'd come. Silvain thought you would."
"What on earth's wrong?"
"Oh, God, Enjolras." Courfeyrac rubbed his hand over his eyes and forehead. "Manon and my dear little godchild have some kind of fever, that's all. You know Justin never speaks or smiles--he doesn't cry, either. Such a good child! He just lies in bed and stares at me."
"I--well, let me in, for God's sake."
"Yes, yes, of course. How stupid of me. Manon cries, though! She's already so thin it's absurd, but now you can see through her skin. Oh, Dimitri. Yes. Do come in."
Samuel slipped through the door, shutting it quickly behind him as Courfeyrac half-stumbled into the bedroom.
"I'm tired, you know," he said dazedly, standing in the doorway, "We haven't had much time to sleep. She always wants water. Hullo, Silvain, he came. You were right."