Just as the dawn allowed the sun to creep out over Paris, gray clouds of mist blanketed the skies with militant haste– blocking out each ray of warmth with precision. From his third-floor apartment window, Enjolras could see that rain, though distant, was inevitable.
He finished scrawling out the final pamphlet in a stack that he had begun at four that morning. His wrist ached as he dotted the last sentence and returned the quill to its ink. All the pain would be worth it, he thought, whatever it takes to destroy an absolute monarchy. Enjolras walked to the water closet and washed his hands in the basin, scrubbing the black ink that stuck like tar to his skin.
The mirror before him was large and expensive, but dirty with one large crack cascading down into smaller branches. However, it was functional enough for Enjolras to still admire his perfect teeth and charming good looks. His vanity was Enjolras' only insecurity. And it wasn't hard to see why. Enjolras' light blue eyes sparkled like the clear waters of a running mountain spring. His golden blonde hair fell just above his broad shoulders, not by choice but from neglect, and his hair curled into soft healthy ringlets that were envied by all. He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh feeling exhausted though the day had just begun. Admiring himself he flashed a cheeky smile at the reflection in the cracked mirror before him. "Still got it!" he chuckled to himself as though to assure himself this was a joke, however, he was entirely serious.
He then returned to his desk and neatly stacked his manifesto pamphlets then wrapped them tightly with a red silk ribbon from the desk drawer. He grabbed his bright red yet shabby waistcoat and stuffed the pamphlets in his right breast pocket. Enjolras then headed out his front door and down the stairs to the streets of Paris.
Enjolras gagged when entering the cobblestone streets. Despite living in Paris his entire life he was still not used to lingering smell the densest areas of the city harbored. The putrid smell of the city streets had only gotten worse in the past three years, however recently it had become unbearable. Enjolras covered his nose in disgust and ran down the street. The cobblestones of the street were riddled with mud and human waste that had yet to be washed away. No wonder the illness was spreading Enjolras thought to himself, these conditions are inhumane. As Enjolras turned the corner he passed the gravedigger collecting decomposing bodies that had been left in the street all night. Likely the culprit to the unbearable stench throughout the neighborhood. Enjolras pulled the collar of his white cotton shirt to his face only to unsuccessfully block the scent. Head down, he ran as fast as he could to escape the disgusting scene.
His long stride carried him quickly through the deserted streets, it was still too early for most of the wealthy artists that lived in this neighborhood to be out. Enjolras picked up his pace leaping throughout the street in a strange contorted yet graceful dance. Graceful as it could be until in his haste he barreled into a small girl.
Instant embarrassment hit Enjolras with the same force as the initial blow of their bodies crashing together. Both of them toppled instantly to the cold hard cobblestone. Enjolras examined himself, his jacket was covered in mud, and god knows what else. Otherwise, he seemed much better than the poor woman he collided with. He tried to assess the damage as he raised himself off from on top of her in a pushup motion. She on the other hand had appeared to have crumbled beneath him lying face down on the ground. He only had a scraped knee and elbow, but—was she all right? Quickly changing from his position to kneeling before he offered his hand to her and asked, "Are you hurt?"
"Is that some kind of apology?" She snapped whipping her head around to look at him. Her face was dirty and her brown hair was wet and stringy. Her pink plump lips were chapped and had shrunk from dehydration. Her light hazel eyes were beautiful, although continuous lack of sleep had caused purple bags to form beneath them making her look older than she was.
"I was about to give you a proper one, I needed to see if you were all right first," Enjolras protested, taken aback by the response though not entirely undeserved. "Your hands! They're hurt!"He exclaimed.
"I'm fine" The woman responded. But she was genuinely hurt, and Enjolras could see this. Her hands were completely raw from the pavement and her chin had a large scrape that would definitely bruise if not scar.
"Can I please help you? I live around the corner. Can I give you a place to clean up? I think it's the least I can do," He said. Looking far too obviously at her clothes. It was clear to him she was a peasant. He knew the moment he said it, however, that she was offended.
"I have my own home where I can clean myself up," she said curtly.
"Yes.. right. I'm sorry to have assumed anything, I..." He trailed off because there was nothing more to say. Though Enjolras had spent much of his adult life fighting to improve the lives of the poor, he the only child of a wealthy family hadn't had a terrible amount of interaction with actual poor people discussing what their actual lives are like. Being confronted with the distinct inequality between his life and the peasants of Paris he often felt shame, pity, and embarrassment for the privileges he had and always would have.
"You what?" she snarked back.
"Nothing. Just—I apologize for running you down and hope you're okay" Enjolras replied hiding that he was becoming annoyed with her tone towards him. "If you're sure you don't want my help, I can leave you alone."
"That is all I could ask for at this point," she replied. While she glared Enjolras once again extended his hand. This time she took it, cautiously, but discarding it like trash as soon as she regained her footing. She stumbled a bit wobbling on her ankle. Enjolras extended his right side supporting her with his large frame. Once his arm rested on the middle of her back he realized how truly small she was. She couldn't be taller than 5'3" but she was incredibly thin. Her shoulder blades poked out like small wings on either side of her back. Her face was gaunt as if she hadn't had a full meal in years. Her arms were tiny, nearly skeletal. The exhaustion of her face and her frail body did her natural beauty no favors. She had the build of a young girl and the worn features of a much older woman. Both 15 and 55 wrapped up into one young adult.
"Could I walk you to your house? You seem a bit unstable," he said earnestly. She did not take it earnestly.
"No!," She smacked his extended left hand simultaneously breaking free from his right supporting on her back. She stumbled off, going down the street and around the corner into a nearby alley. And with that, she was gone as quickly as she appeared.
"What on earth just happened?" he mumble to himself. Muddy, embarrassed, and perplexed Enjolras slumped to Le Café Musain where he spent most of his free time.
Café Musain had a backroom that served as Les Amis de l'ABC clubhouse. There Enjolras spent most of his time with friends and fellow revolutionaries debating philosophy and entertaining plans of revolution. Enjolras prayed the café would as empty as the streets. He attempted to head to the back room with the washbasin immediately when entering the side door of the café, only to be forced to a halt by the handsome drunkard himself Grantaire.
"Why do you smell like pig shit?" Grantaire slurred with a smirk. "You're usually so 'hygienic,'" ending the sentiment with a bellowing laugh.
"Just back away Grantaire," Enjolras said rolling of his eyes and pushing lightly on Grantaire's chest for emphasis. "I swear to you I was clean earlier this morning." An annoyed chuckled escaped his lip but he was already close to losing his short temper. Pushing harder past Grantaire, Enjolras walked past towards the water closet in the back of the café.
Grantaire fell back into his chair as casually as if this were a dance the two had arranged. He sat assumed sipping his drink chuckling to himself. "If only I had a friend just like you but different in nearly every way. The things we could do, he and I," Grantaire said with a drunk silly smile that faded to somber.
"You're so drunk. Calm down, I'll lighten up in a few moments after I move on from my horrible early start." Enjolras shut the water closet door loudly. He removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his linen blouse. His shirt was billowy and white, the collar cut a deep v across his chest revealing a small peak of both blonde chest hair and muscular pectorals. The sleeves were loose around his muscular arms but could snap with buttons on his wrists or elbows for functionality. Enjolras washed the minor wounds he received in the fall. Grantaire was right about one thing he was usually extremely hygienic, especially now that a plague of cholera that had been ravaging Europe all year had finally reached Paris.
There's a woman next door to the café who could wash his clothes while he worked, he thought, but what clothes would he wear while she did that? Perhaps she would let him borrow something.
Enjolras cleaned his face and stared at himself in the mirror. Not to admire himself as he had this morning but instead to ponder. He worried about the girl he trampled earlier. She seemed to be weak as it was without him literally crashing into her. He felt awful not only for running into her but also putting his foot in his mouth. He had never been good at speaking to women, or men for that matter. He could be incredibly charming when he wanted to be, but rarely did the motivation come. The opinion of others just wasn't something he often spent time thinking about. Many women had expressed interest in him over the years though he hardly even noticed they were even advances.
He was nearly twenty-six and his family was desperate for him to marry to create another heir. An heir that would actually utilize his family's wealth to its full advantage. Unfortunately for his parents, Enjolras had no interest in marriage or even love. He had never even kissed another before, and though that may bother some, Enjolras saw no issue. He saw his devotion to revolution running deeper than others who distracted themselves with short and pointless love affairs.
Enjolras sauntered out of the café to the laundress next door. "Madame De Lessivé, could you wash my clothes for me while I work in the café, please? I will also need to borrow some clothing if possible." She looked at him with a glare. She did not have a strong opinion of l'ABC and saw them as a group of drunks and a noise nuisance in her neighborhood.
"It will cost you extra," she responded making clear her inconvenience.
"Naturally! I can't thank you enough!" Enjolras replied with a smile. Nothing was free in Paris that was for sure. He reached into his waistcoat's inner pocket for his coin purse to pay the women the fee and a hefty tip.
When all of the sudden panic rushed to his face. He noticed his pocket was empty. With a quick panicked search, Enjolras knew all his pockets were empty. Not only was most of his money gone but his father's pocket watch and the wrapped stack of pamphlets he had spent the whole morning working on. "Where on earth did his things go?" He thought. The panic was settling in and his hand began to shake with anger, sadness, shock? He couldn't place the feeling exactly even if he tried.
That's when he realized the girl, he had underestimated her. She was not weak at all, in fact, she was a thief, and he was her victim!
