The Shadow Goes to War
The following morning was one of quiet, tense bodies and calm, soft voices. They had to do /something/, after all, to pretend nothing was wrong.
It was a Saturday.
It was the day before Lamarque's funeral.
At one-fifteen, there was a knock at the door, and Edmond answered with his usual special smile for whoever was there.
"Hullo, Combeferre," said Courfeyrac tiredly.
"Hello. Do come in. How are things?"
Courfeyrac sighed. "I'm afraid they're not well. You can tell, can't you? I usually have something clever to say even for the worst situations, as you know. Well. No. Things are terrible."
Samuel sat at the table, trying not to notice that his hands were shaking. "Well? Just tell us, for Pity's sake."
"Well. They've died. Manon and Justin. So I am, once again, just plain Michel Courfeyrac, and no one's Uncle Michel, and Feuilly is no longer a father or a husband. It's like going back years, but worse."
"Dear Lord," Edmond said softly.
"I just thought you ought to know. There won't really be a funeral. He can't afford one. There's just enough money to have them buried. --And yes, I did offer, but damn it, it's his family and he refused."
"We understand," said Edmond. "Thank you for telling us."
Courfeyrac left.
"It's my fault, isn't it?" said Samuel at last. "I couldn't make him listen. I couldn't get him to be sensible and let me help and let me--"
"It isn't anyone's fault. There wasn't anything to be done, and they tried. They tried as hard as they could. It wasn't anyone's fault."
Samuel didn't believe him.
The next day, he was woken early by another set of knocks on the door.
Feuilly looked as though he'd finally gotten a good night's sleep after the week spent taking care of his family. He wore a new set of clothes, with a handsome starched cravat in black and a well-pressed black silk waistcoat. His shirt, topcoat, and trousers were also black. His hair had been combed neatly and his face shaved, and his black eyes were just as solemn as they ever were. But something had changed.
"Well, Enjolras."
"I'm sorry for your loss. It was my loss, too. It was everyone's loss. She was--"
"Thank you."
"Yes."
"It's Lamarque's funeral to-day, isn't it?"
"In four hours."
"Everyone has gone tense. Paris is holding her breath."
"They expect something will happen."
"Perhaps they are right to do so. I think, Enjolras, that it is time we had your revolution."
Samuel took in once more the black suit, the neat face, the black Druid eyes that watched. They had changed. Behind the solemnity and the quiet, dignified calm, they had changed.
"Yes," he said. "It is time."
FIN
The following morning was one of quiet, tense bodies and calm, soft voices. They had to do /something/, after all, to pretend nothing was wrong.
It was a Saturday.
It was the day before Lamarque's funeral.
At one-fifteen, there was a knock at the door, and Edmond answered with his usual special smile for whoever was there.
"Hullo, Combeferre," said Courfeyrac tiredly.
"Hello. Do come in. How are things?"
Courfeyrac sighed. "I'm afraid they're not well. You can tell, can't you? I usually have something clever to say even for the worst situations, as you know. Well. No. Things are terrible."
Samuel sat at the table, trying not to notice that his hands were shaking. "Well? Just tell us, for Pity's sake."
"Well. They've died. Manon and Justin. So I am, once again, just plain Michel Courfeyrac, and no one's Uncle Michel, and Feuilly is no longer a father or a husband. It's like going back years, but worse."
"Dear Lord," Edmond said softly.
"I just thought you ought to know. There won't really be a funeral. He can't afford one. There's just enough money to have them buried. --And yes, I did offer, but damn it, it's his family and he refused."
"We understand," said Edmond. "Thank you for telling us."
Courfeyrac left.
"It's my fault, isn't it?" said Samuel at last. "I couldn't make him listen. I couldn't get him to be sensible and let me help and let me--"
"It isn't anyone's fault. There wasn't anything to be done, and they tried. They tried as hard as they could. It wasn't anyone's fault."
Samuel didn't believe him.
The next day, he was woken early by another set of knocks on the door.
Feuilly looked as though he'd finally gotten a good night's sleep after the week spent taking care of his family. He wore a new set of clothes, with a handsome starched cravat in black and a well-pressed black silk waistcoat. His shirt, topcoat, and trousers were also black. His hair had been combed neatly and his face shaved, and his black eyes were just as solemn as they ever were. But something had changed.
"Well, Enjolras."
"I'm sorry for your loss. It was my loss, too. It was everyone's loss. She was--"
"Thank you."
"Yes."
"It's Lamarque's funeral to-day, isn't it?"
"In four hours."
"Everyone has gone tense. Paris is holding her breath."
"They expect something will happen."
"Perhaps they are right to do so. I think, Enjolras, that it is time we had your revolution."
Samuel took in once more the black suit, the neat face, the black Druid eyes that watched. They had changed. Behind the solemnity and the quiet, dignified calm, they had changed.
"Yes," he said. "It is time."
FIN