A/N: Thank you so very much for everyone who is still following, reading and reviewing this! I really feel encouraged by all this positive feedback, it drives me on to writing more, for sure.
Eternal thanks also go, of course, to Valiya who again brushed and dusted this chapter until it shines :-). Thank you so much!
So here goes the next chapter, which will give an overview on what is there to be had in the frame of revolutionary groups. While the book chapter "Enjolras and his Lieutenants" surely was the godfather of this chapter, I'm interpreting some of the groups in a slightly different manner than Hugo hints; so purists beware, I'm taking some liberties.
Thanks also to judybear236 who gave me some corrections!
So, I hope you still like it, and leave me a comment if you want to.
Chapter 17: The good shepherds
"Raise your eyes and look at me." "It's disrespectful." "I cannot have an aide who will not look up. You will be forever walking into things."
The little one was growing by the minute. Bossuet could see it, and it was, in a way, heartening.
Joly, Bossuet and Lamarin left the Necker behind, turning towards the busy Paris streets. None of them would have admitted that they felt liberated in the least by leaving behind the somber gloom of the hospital.
They had quickly spoken to Sylvain, who had received a knife wound in his leg and was, if anything, livid that he was bound to his bed for at least another week yet, and paid a quick visit to Armand. The young nobleman had been caught in a deep web of feverish dreams and had not recognized their presence. The sorrow on Lamarin's face had been evident, even though after a while he had concurred that a watch at his bedside would have to be delayed to a later point in time.
Now, they had work to do.
They set out, following the addresses on the list that Lamarin had compiled with the help of Jacques Morier. On this was a list of twenty five names and addresses, the inner circle of what was called the Cougourde of Aix – of Paris.
Little stars indicated those that were reportedly out of town; Joseph Sicar being most prominent among them. This left fourteen in Paris, three of which currently were at the Necker.
So eleven remaining to visit.
Bossuet and Joly had taken a quick look at the list and devised a marching order to cover as many addresses as possible in as little time as could be devised. It also fitted in with a visit at the Dufranc mansion, where they were due to collect Combeferre around noon.
The first on the list was a small house surrounded by a wild, overgrown garden just off the Seine Quais. It was home to a silversmith and his wife, who had rented out their spare attic room to a student going by the name of Antoine Verez, a member of the Polytechnique, and currently conspicuously absent.
"I have not seen him since daybreak yesterday," the landlady told the three visitors sorrowfully, "he set out early and has not returned yet. Is something amiss?"
"Not necessarily." Lamarin calmed the woman with a careful smile. "He may just have spent too much time at the laboratories and then decided to sleep at one of his friends' living close by. But would you pass a message to him when he returns?"
She willingly agreed to that, and Lamarin left a quick word about this evening's meeting at the Musain and advice to get in touch with the ABCs as quickly as possible. This was a more secure way than giving himself or any of those at the Necker as a point of contact, seeing as he had no idea if his injured friends would survive, and he could not tell where he would spend the next days.
It had also been what Bossuet had advised him to do.
Next on their list was Philippe Tiranien, and he was indeed at home.
Their knocking was first answered by the sound of hectic shuffling and then deadly silence. But when Lamarin's voice gave assurance that he was just there to check on his friends, it conjured the door open like a spell.
Philippe shared his apartment with his sister Madeleine, a girl of fifteen, who had come up from Aix with him, seeing as her brother was her only family. Both siblings shared brown hair, dark eyes and a narrow face and looked alike enough to be twins, right down to the expressions of fear they both carried as Lamarin entered the room with the Bossuet and Joly.
"I didn't know what to do or where to go," Philippe confessed to Lamarin, as the five of them sat down at the table occupying the greater part of their one-room apartment. "And there was Madeleine to consider, so I went home and hoped that nothing would happen."
Lamarin nodded sympathetically. For a moment, it seemed to Bossuet that he was once again the eager boy that he had met in the lectures some time ago.
"I know exactly what you mean. This came so very unexpected… it has taken us all by surprise. And it has not only been us. Les Amis de L'ABC have been targeted as well, and there are two dead at the Barrière du Maine. Also, the owner of Le Globe is dead…"
This seemed more information than Philippe was willing to take, and he interrupted whatever Lamarin might have said.
"Oh, for the love of god!" he interrupted and buried his face in his hands, shaking his head softly. "What am I going to do?"
"Things seem to have calmed down for the moment," Lamarin tried to soothe him as he realized that he had probably frightened off his comrade with the list of gruesome events of the previous day. He placed a careful hand on the shoulder of the man several years his senior. It reminded Bossuet suspiciously of something that Combeferre might do, right down to the slightly frowning expression on his face. The boy was really learning quickly, and it seemed that he had paid quite a lot of attention. "Since the attack on Alexandre de Cambout, we have heard nothing new. We haven't been followed, I think…" he threw a quick glance at his comrades, and Bossuet shrugged.
"Not that I know of," he supplied. "And we should consider that they cannot have been that many." Taking together all that they had learned, he ticked the incidents off his fingers.
"Saint Antoine. Issy. Us at the market. La Barrière du Maine. All of this, apparently happening at the same time. Single assassins. Then the incident at Rue d'Olivel this night."
"Assuming that was not the same man, that makes five."
Bossuet nodded.
"So, even taking into account that some things happened that we may not know yet, I don't think we're looking at more than a dozen."
"For now," Joly contradicted. "I mean, we still have no idea where they came from, right? If that was only the first step…"
Lamarin shook his head.
"I… I do not think so, to be honest." There was still some insecurity in his voice, but much less so than before, as if a decision had been made and was now followed through. "We were completely unaware. That was when we were easiest to hurt. Now… we're wary. And we can do something about them."
Bossuet pondered that for a moment. The little one, he had to admit, was right, and he said so in no uncertain words. It was then, that he noticed the stare Philippe was giving them as he softly shook his head.
"You are all mad…" he informed them in a tone that might have been wonder, exasperation, or fear. "You are mad. Plotting and considering, and making small of the fact that someone tried to kill us, in cold blood no less…" His voice cut through the discussion that had felt only too natural, like a knife through soft skin. Madeleine looked at her brother with wide eyes.
"But Philippe," Lamarin started in an appeasing tone, but the young man would not hear. He shook his head again, more intensely this time before he looked at each other in turn, and took a deep breath. "I want no part in this."
That was surprising. But Lamarin did not give in so easily.
"You're scared?" he asked. "So am I. Believe me, and if you don't, ask them." He gave a quick nod to Bossuet and Joly, and the former wondered if it would be a good idea to concur now. But Lamarin gave no pause. His cheeks were aflame, in the manner of an excited child as he continued, fidgeting, but earnest as only a boy of sixteen can be. "But the truth is we can't…"
"No, Marc. That's enough. Don't try to pretend you're Jacques. You are not. And Jacques is lying in hospital, if he's even still alive. That's the truth. That is what it got him to. I want no part in this." Philippe shook his head again, stubborn, resisting, not meeting the younger man's eye. "If you could just listen to yourself. You make it sound like a game! We almost died yesterday, have you forgotten? Some of us still might!"
The two members of the Friends of the ABC exchanged a quick look, and Bossuet gave a minuscule shrug against Joly's questioning, slightly sorrowful gaze. Nothing that Philippe said was exactly wrong. However, none of this was also exactly… new.
"We were planning a revolution, remember?" he decided to remind them, looking at the young man with a slight exasperation born of disbelief. "That is not exactly a peaceful pastime."
For a moment, Philippe hesitated. And Bossuet understood. It was one thing to dream. Another thing completely to see the blood.
"My life is not mine to give away," Philippe finally concluded. "I… I have Madeleine to consider as well."
The girl did not protest.
"But…" Lamarin tried again, but Philippe shook his head.
"I'm sorry Marc. I really am. But I want no part in this anymore. Leave. Please leave."
Bossuet could see Lamarin's shoulders slowly sinking as a dejected look appeared on his face. Not a good start for a boy just having found his courage…
"Ah, look at this, isn't it marvellous?"
Grantaire stopped for a moment, taking in the scenery with a wide smile, of which Courfeyrac was not entirely sure whether it was faked or not.
Yet, for all the faults he might have exhibited, Grantaire was not known to hide his thoughts and feelings. In fact, it often seemed as if he made it a purpose to just give voice to the first thing that came to his mind, and thus, Courfeyrac had to concur that he was probably serious.
There was a certain irony in the fact that the two of them had ended up going towards the Barrière du Maine. This had been after the disaster a few weeks ago, when Enjolras had grudgingly entrusted Grantaire with strengthening the liasons with them. Instead, he had ended up drinking and laughing and playing dominoes, forgetting his reason for coming altogether.
Of course Enjolras had violently argued against a repetition of that spectacle, but it had been Jehan who had finally raised a valid point that even Enjolras' fervor could not brush away in a moment's time.
They all were scared.
Les Amis probably less so, having narrowly escaped the assassin's knife, and having found solace and company in each other, but there was no telling what the mood at the Barrière would be. They had lost the Virille brothers, who had been the bravest, most enthusiastic amongst them.
This visit was not about lighting the fire of the revolution. That would come later, and in its due time. This visit was about companionship. About reassurance and the calming effect that the support of a friend could have. This was about regrouping, about providing a new day – and not the least about the invitation to be uttered to arrive at the Café Musain in the evening.
If that was achieved by playing dominoes, so be it.
Enjolras had grudgingly agreed to that. It had been clear that this sort of need for a strengthening of companionship was nothing that he could – or wanted to – understand. But he had heeded the words of Jehan, not without notifying the poet that he should, if possible listen less to Combeferre and not sport the man's opinions in his absence.
Jehan had smiled at that, knowing it to be a compliment.
In addition, they had decided that no one of their numbers was to be left alone – and Courfeyrac tried to dispel both worry and disagreement at the thought that Éponine and Gavroche were currently roaming the cities of Paris on their own despite the impending danger. Actually, this concern had, to Courfeyrac's surprise, been quite strongly shared by Enjolras, who had looked at the disappearing siblings with a curious expression on his face that Courfeyrac had rarely seen on him.
"I can and will not keep them against their wish", the revolutionist had said, when asked. "They are the most freeborn of us." But Courfeyrac had heard the struggle behind the words. The battle between abstract belief and real danger.
Anyhow, all of this meant that leaving Grantaire somewhere was simply out of the question. Whatever he was, he was one of them.
They had decided to split up into three groups to cover the biggest possible ground. Hence, Grantaire was needed.
Courfeyrac didn't mind too much. Especially, since the man had not had the opportunity to drink too much yet.
Still, he had felt Enjolras' gaze upon himself as they had set out. His eyes spoke clearly what he had not said – and Courfeyrac knew it exactly, anyhow.
Watch him like a hawk.
That was not such a difficult task, given the fact that Grantaire was many things. Silent, he was not.
And so they had arrived at Richfeu's shortly after noon.
The sight that Grantaire was currently reveling in however, was indeed a welcome one. In front of Richfeu's, they had spied a group of three young men discussing amongst themselves who then lifted their heads towards the newly arrived.
"Look who decided to show his face." Pierre Lafargue was the first to speak. He was the oldest of the group, a marble worker, his hands rough and weathered from the day-to-day work with stone and chisel. Courfeyrac had met him at the Musain once and knew him to be a man overflowing with generosity, laughter and daring. He had taken a liking to him immediately, but had only met him twice. The other two, unknown to Courfeyrac by name, grinned at them and greeted them in a friendly manner. They remembered Grantaire. Courfeyrac was welcome by extension.
He didn't mind, but couldn't wait to repeat that fact to Enjolras, just to see the look on his face.
They were ushered into Richfeu's, into the mists of smoke and into the circle of laughter, offered a drink and placed among them. They were sitting together, enjoying the hour's rest that their work would allow them around midday.
They were distinctively not mourning. Quick words and quicker jokes flew between them, dominoes and dices were out. Drinks were flowing too freely for a simple lunch break and bets were high, probably higher than what those journeymen artisans could afford. But no one minded, and they just went on.
Two of them joined into a reckless, uncouth song that would, in the Musain, only be heard at the latest of hours – and certainly only when Enjolras had left. They clapped and cheered all through it, as if there was not a single worry to be had.
The Virille brothers' ghosts were sitting amongst them, and everyone was trying not to see.
Grantaire, predictably, could not resist joining the brawl, and all too soon he was caught up in the game of betting and gambling with Courfeyrac being powerless to stop it. He barely could keep himself from joining in.
It was almost – almost like having a good time, like enjoying youth, life and boldness. But Courfeyrac, for all his dash sensitive to the undercurrents and shifts of the room, could not find it in him to fully get lost in it.
In fact, the spectacle made him sad.
And yet, he put a brave face to it because he knew that there were no words of consolation, no words of calm that would command this storm to silence. There were things, that had to be ridden out, and this was one of them.
So when Lafargue challenged him to a game of dice, Courfeyrac did not resist.
The first game he lost, but Lafargue had already had much more than just one or two glasses of wine, and Courfeyrac knew well the secret arts of gambling and bluffing.
Fortune turned in his favor, while at the other table things were going exactly the opposite way for Grantaire, who lost but did not complain. Instead he boasted on the levity of feeling free, free of responsibility, free of charge and, ah yes, alas, also free of money.
For a moment, Courfeyrac wondered if he should intervene and stop this. The other friends of the ABC would probably expect it, but that would not have been well received by those around him; they were too far gone in their own dreams of denial to listen to reason. But that was just as well, because Courfeyrac was not very reasonable and let the thing run its course while concentrating on his game with Lafargue.
Which was, on the whole, going well.
"You have had me there," the marble worker said finally, when after another few games including some more daring bets from Courfeyrac that turned in favor of the student, had robbed him of most his money. "Like always, the bourgeois has the upper hand on the revolutionary." He shook his purse to show that he had no money on him to concur to Courfeyrac's last rise of bets. There was a rueful smile on his face, and Courfeyrac shook his head good-naturedly.
"Ah, you do see these things in a much too gloomy light. One can be both, you know?" Courfeyrac contradicted. Suddenly, the chance was there, an opening unexpected, and he seized it without hesitation. "So, what do you say," he proposed, finding he could not wipe a grin from his face. Perhaps it was smug to rejoice on one's cleverness, but then again, no one had requested him to be an angel. "Instead of a rise, you convince your friends to show up at the Musain tonight."
Lafargue squinted.
"What?" he replied suspiciously, but Courfeyrac shrugged.
"Just a proposal. We finish that game. I win; you and your friends make an appearance at the Musain this evening. I lose, this money is yours."
"Hmm…."
Lafargue pondered this for a moment. From the next table, Grantaire's good-natured complaints could be heard.
And then the marble worker shrugged.
"Why not?"
And unlike Bossuet, Courfeyrac was known to be very lucky.
Two apartments further it had become clear, that despite Bossuet's fears, Lamarin had not fully lost his spirit. He seemed dejected after the unfavorable start into their mission, but he did not give in as easily as he would have thought. The next two visits had been slightly more successful, and the two scared but not dejected students had joined forces in the second one's apartment, promising to come to the assembly in the Café Musain in the evening.
It seemed that the decision the young man had taken in the Necker held firm also in the face of the first adversary. And this was an encouraging thought.
The third address was a tenement of moderate quality. It was run-down, but well cared-for, and Stéphane Barilou was said to live on the first floor, third door to the left. No one answered their call, but as Lamarin knocked on the door, it swung open without any resistance.
And left the three of them staring at the open mouth of a gun.
Lamarin recoiled and bounced against Joly, who had raised his hands – the walking cane dropping to the floor with a loud clatter.
"Careful…" Bossuet sidestepped to get a peek of the man behind, trying to avoid the danger of being hit by a stray bullet. It was Stéphane as far as he could tell, with deadly determination in his eyes.
A moment passed before the member of the Cougourde realized who had come to visit him, and he let his gun sink down.
"Lord in heaven, Marc," he greeted his young comrade. "You gave me a fright."
"We gave you a fright?" Bossuet replied drily, fingers illustrating what he said. "That's an interesting concept coming from a man with a gun."
"Last time someone came here," Stéphane said, as he sidestepped to let his visitors enter the small apartment, "I was fairly glad I had that gun."
Marc frowned, as he followed the unspoken invitation into the room.
"What do you mean?" he inquired as they grouped around yet another table, being offered (and refusing) yet another time something to drink.
"What I just said."
Stéphane placed the gun before him on the table. Now that he took a closer look, Bossuet saw the lines beneath his eyes, the traces of tiredness. His shirt was rumpled and the waistcoat dusty and dirty. Several books lay scattered about, open at various pages, and a half-eaten meal stood at the stove in the corner.
Bereft of his gun and sitting calmly on a chair, Stéphane radiated fatigue.
It was unlikely he had gotten any sleep that night.
"Are you unharmed?" Joly, ever the doctor, looked at him concernedly. Stéphane seemed momentarily taken aback by that question before he shook his head, running nervous fingers through his brown hair.
"No lasting damage, I would say."
"So the man from the fair came back?"
Stéphane nodded.
"Oh yes. At least I think it was him." His gaze wandered to the window which was now closed and barred. "He introduced himself through that window over there, just as I was going to sleep. Luckily I heard him. He was not quite silent enough to be completely unremarked. Just as well; I had the pistol ready after the events of that day."
"You hit him then?" Joly could not fully ban the excitement out of his voice, but Stéphane shrugged, slightly at loss.
"Frankly, I am not sure. I would like to flatter myself that I did, but honestly I cannot say. It was dark and he was pushing his way through the curtains. I had a brief glimpse at his face, and I think it may have been the same man we encountered at the fair, but I cannot swear it either."
"That's curious…" Joly tipped the ground with his retrieved cane multiple times in thoughtful contemplation. "They have not done that anywhere else."
"Anywhere else? They?" Stéphane gazed between his three visitors with wide eyes. "What are you talking about?"
And it fell to Lamarin to tell the tale of the day and night past. Stéphane pondered the new information, his fingers nervously fiddling with the handle of the gun.
"I see," he said. "So I probably acquired the uncertain honor of having his attention."
"Doing what?" Lamarin asked, curiosity alight in his eyes. He was really growing into the role of being visible, as opposed to hiding behind the backs of people older than him as he had done before. Stéphane gave him a slightly predatory smile.
"Asking the right questions, probably," he said, not without pride. "I probably I came a bit too close to the truth."
"This sounds like an interesting tale," Bossuet encouraged, his curiosity piqued.
"Well," Stéphane explained, "I assume you all know the attack took place at a small fair in one of the carrières in Issy. When the attack had occurred and everyone scattered, I tried to follow the attacker." He shrugged. "The man was quick as lightning but I saw him vanishing towards Les Invalides, and then across the Seine before I lost track of him. I assume he must have hidden somewhere and then removed his mask and jester costume, and then I feared I would not recognize him from afar."
Stéphane rubbed over his face with both hands. The tiredness was more visible by the minute. Now that he was not alone anymore, he could allow himself to relax.
"Hence, I went back to the market. It was fully deserted, of course, but the gypsies were still there packing, and so I undertook to talk to them. As it turned out, they did not know the jester. He was there on his own accord, and they had already debated to chase him away. However, as it seems, business was good enough so that there was no urgency."
"Bad luck for you," Bossuet commented, feeling this to be inside his expertise.
"Indeed," Stéphane concurred. "However, there was an elderly man that told me something interesting," he continued his tale. "Apparently the way of juggling that the man used seemed to be familiar to him. He said that he associated it with another family he once knew, but he had not heard from them in something between five and ten years." A wan smile danced over his tired features. "I'm under the impression that they don't keep track of time so diligently."
"Was that surprising to him?" Joly asked. "I do not know much of those people, but they travel around, meet and separate, don't they?"
"Yes," Stéphane agreed. "That is so, and hence I cannot tell for certain. However, he deemed it interesting enough to comment on this… and that should be remarked at least."
"You have the name of that gypsy family?" Bossuet inquired.
Stéphane nodded. "Roussata."
That was an unfamiliar name to all four of them. Still, Bossuet thought, it was good to know. It might come in handy sometime later.
"So you probably were a bit too close to the truth," Lamarin concluded. "That's very good to know."
Stéphane nodded.
"If anything, the fact that he showed up this night is an indication for it. But… excuse me Marc, I do not want to deviate from this subject, but could you tell me… what happened to Jacques, Sylvain and Armand? I suspect you know. The gypsies told me they had been brought away, to hospital presumably, and that is all I know."
And so Marc Lamarin began for the third time today relaying the story of the injuries of his friends, of the offer of a regrouping in the Café Musain this evening, and of holding steadfast in the face of bloody adversary.
"Good lord in heaven, Feuilly, I swear I've never been so glad to see a man in my whole life!"
Feuilly could have heartily said the same to John Sellers, who was the first of the group assembled at a corner in the slightly run-down tavern to jump up and greet them with a hug. More accurately, it was a hug in Feuilly's case, and enthusiastic handshakes for Marius and Enjolras who entered after him.
Feuilly had spent his day at work in the small atelier down by the river, not so far from this place. This was where he toiled, together with three other workers on the assembling and painting of fans, and the comforting smell of paint and coal still clung to his clothes and hair like a never forgotten perfume.
After spending the night in Joly's apartment, they had decided that circumstances were not worth him risking his employment, and the two of them had dropped him off before moving on to Enjolras' apartment.
The task of meeting him in the evening had fallen to Enjolras and Marius. They in turn had spent their day at the university learning that the attacks that had targeted the revolutionary groups had not extended to the slightly less organized assemblies that were the faculties among the students. La Sorbonne was fully undisturbed by the events of the day and night past, and that in itself was good news.
From the atelier, they had set out towards the "Joliet", a slightly seedy tavern that was the home base of the Saint Antoine group, in the hope of meeting some of the workingmen there that formed the heart of this movement.
From a first and quick head count, almost everyone seemed accounted for and in relatively tolerable spirits.
Trust John Sellers to do what had to be done. This was obviously his work.
Feuilly had known the Englishman for three years now, ever since the young man had arrived in Paris as a journeyman carpenter on his wandering years. He had learnt to appreciate the city, his colleagues and finally Jeanne, a grisette born and bred in Saint Antoine.
He had never talked of going back to Portsmouth since, and in fact Jeanne, now Jeanne Sellers, was sitting amongst the Saint Antoine brothers as if she belonged there.
Most of the members of the assembly worked as carpenters in the various workshops along Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine and knew each other well. It was tangible in every word they said.
A few moments later, Enjolras, Marius and Feuilly were comfortably seated amongst the carpenters and factory workers that formed this group and conversation was shared over a glass of wine.
"It's good to see that you have assembled despite what has happened."
"What else was there to be done?" John Sellers' French was heavily accentuated, but otherwise fluent after his three Paris years, and he had slipped into the role of the spokesman of the group with ease.
Feuilly thought that there was some beauty in this. No one cared where John Sellers' cradle had stood, and his friends took him as a comrade, nothing more and nothing less.
"Indeed," Enjolras concurred with a pointed look in Marius' direction that was lost on the young baron.
"So, you were attacked as well?" John Sellers took a big swallow of cidre; he had never learnt to drink wine, and the stout ale of his home island seemed to be the only thing lacking in France, as far as he was concerned.
Feuilly nodded.
"We were indeed," he confirmed, "even though we were lucky to escape unscathed."
Sellers nodded.
"As was young Lucien here," he said, clapping the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. The man made a dismissive gesture.
"It was not half bad. It was just that I was pretty certain I was being followed." He grinned. "Went to the market to find some comrades of mine. I think that's when he took off, then. Actually, at that time I thought him to be… someone else." There was only the slightest hint of unease in his voice, but Enjolras turned to it like a hawk to its prey.
"Meaning?"
Lucien squirmed slightly, uneasy under Enjolras' gaze. It was a notion that Feuilly did not begrudge him; the man's stare did take some getting used to.
"I may have borrowed money from one or two people," Lucien confessed finally, and Enjolras relaxed, curling back languidly, losing interest in the trail of thought altogether.
"Ah," was all he said as he closed the case.
"Anyhow," Lucien continued, "the crowd probably scared off whoever it was."
"Strange," Marius said, a frown appearing on his forehead. "If one considers that we were attacked explicitly in a crowd."
Feuilly pondered this for a moment. He had already remarked the same thing, and had turned it around all day, twisting the thoughts and issues amidst all the leaves and ornaments he had been painting.
"Night, day, hidden, open… I would say that there is not much that is common between how they act. It may be that this group is composed of very different men," he finally voiced the conclusion that had struck him some time in the afternoon, amidst ivy of green and red. "Whatever is binding them together, it must have combined a very diverse group."
"That is not as unusual as that, is it?" Marius commented with a smile. He looked from the almost aristocratic seeming Enjolras to Feuilly in his worn waistcoat, smudges from the paint still on his fingers, then on to sturdy, bearded John Sellers with calloused carpenter's hands.
"True," Enjolras commented. "So the imperative is to find the common element."
"Apart from wanting those dead that oppose the government," John Sellers iterated drily, but the humor was lost on Enjolras.
"Apart from that, yes," he confirmed soberly. "I meant – beyond the obvious."
"Could it be some kind of private course of vengeance?" Marius wondered. "Someone assembling a number of sinister people? They would probably be paying them."
"That or it is some government incentive. Or some agents of the police, operating in secrecy. I have heard that such things happen. Or it could be a group of madmen." Feuilly had indeed had the time to give the matter some thought. It had not been the most agreeable thing to occupy his thoughts while he was working, but it had provided enough of a diversion nonetheless. "At this point in time it would be difficult to exclude any of the options."
"True." Enjolras brought both hands flat on the table before him in a gesture that was characteristic. "This is why we still must continue to gather what information is there to be had, as Combeferre has so accurately put it." He turned to Sellers. "We have roughly two hours until nightfall, Sellers," he said. "At nightfall, we will assemble at the Café Musain, with all those that we have been able to reach. Can I count on you to be there as well?"
"The Musain… that's at Place Saint Michel, is it not?" Sellers pondered. Enjolras nodded.
"It is."
"That's all good and well then, Enjolras," Sellers responded with a jovial ease that seemed intrinsic to him. "We'll be there in full numbers. Don't you worry."
Feuilly felt almost proud.
A few hours before in Picpus, things were looking much less bright. Jehan found it difficult not to feel disheartened at their lack of progress.
"All right. That is quite enough."
Bahorel apparently felt similarly as he shook his head. They were staring at yet another set of empty, silent windows, and another closed door that had not given a reply to his knocking.
This was the fifth attempt of contacting any of their associates in Picpus, and all of them had been equally unsuccessful. They had passed at various houses and two factories that Bahorel knew of, but neither had been at home, nor at their work which they had been able to get hold of from one of the members of the Picpus section.
"I have to say," Bahorel continued, pushing his cap into his neck and scratching his head carefully, "I'm somewhat run out of addresses." He looked around at the moderately crowded streets. It was past lunchtime and most residents of this area were either at home or going about their business, and a slightly pensive look crossed his face.
Jehan was at loss for what to say. His contacts with their friends from Picpus had been virtually nonexistent before – it had been mostly Combeferre and Bahorel who kept up this connection – therefore, he could be of little help. He knew that the area was mostly bourgeois, not quite as rich as Saint Germain, but well-off, nonetheless. Combeferre had related that the Picpus group was probably the group that in composition and spirit was most akin to Les Amis de l'ABC. Enjolras had ferociously argued against this, claiming that Picpus, indeed, was not holding steadfast yet and much work still remained to be done. He had even gone as far as sneering at their meeting place – a fairly well-off tavern just off the cemetery – claiming it to be awfully elaborate.
They had been to that tavern already, finding it deserted as well.
But the thought of their meeting place brought back the memory of something else Combeferre had said. After a moment's hesitation, Jehan spoke up.
"Did they not meet from time to time, somewhere on the cemetery?"
Barohel whirled around to him, and his eyes lit up immediately.
"Jehan, for a dreamer, you're magnificent," he gave the off-handed praise that he was prone to distribute without further thought, then slapped a hand against his forehead. "Why didn't we think of that before? Of course they do. Come, come, hurry up. No time to lose. We should have done that from the start!"
He set off in the direction of the cemetery, leaving Jehan to trail behind in a slightly dazed manner, struggling to keep up step.
"If nothing else, there will be Frater Antoine, and he will certainly be able to tell us if he has seen any of them."
"Frater Antoine?" Jehan inquired. Bahorel was more than willing to explain.
"He's one of the Fraters of Picpus; an older one, to be certain. Maybe even from the start of when the Fraternity was founded, but who really knows. Anyhow, from what I've been told, he's been as much as one of them. Nevertheless, that sounds odd – a Frater in support of the revolution."
"Well…" Jehan carefully answered, "I am not sure it is quite that easy. I know they were founded to strengthen the church after the Reign of Terror, but they do a lot of work for the poor. Why would they not be supportive?"
Bahorel laughed.
"Because they're churchmen, Jehan", he gave back good-naturedly. "The day one of them is in favor of any change, no matter how it looks, is the day you my friend stop to wish for love eternal."
That stung, for all its good-naturedness, and Jehan fell back to his silence, while they approached the cemetery.
Frater Antoine was in his late forties, a man with graying beard and receding hair and had a comfortable air around him that allowed one to feel at ease. His friendly face was slightly crude, a chubby nose reddened cheeks spoke of a joy of life that was not too natural in a churchman. In another life, he might have been a tavern owner or the friendly patriarch of a bourgeois family – this century's tides and turns had swept him into the service of God, and he seemed content with it.
According to Bahorel, he had been a supporter to the Picpus section for a while, acting as a point of contact, providing shelter and passing messages between the revolutionaries. He seemed to have slipped in a sort of fatherly figure, not quite included, but certainly still part of the movement.
Seeing Frater Antoine and his friendly, open face, it was not difficult to believe how this had come to pass. Jehan found him easy to like.
Jehan and Bahorel met him in one of the small side chapels of the cemetery. They found him replacing the candles with calm, studied, careful movements, and as he turned, he gave both of them a smile.
"Monsieur Bahorel," he greeted, his gaze wandering on to Jehan. "And Monsieur…"
"Prouvaire," Jehan supplied, by way of introduction, and Frater Antoine nodded. "It is a pleasure," he said, putting aside the candles he still held in his hand and turned towards the two students, shielding his hands in the wide arms of his robe. "What brings the Friends of the ABC to this place?"
Bahorel, who knew the man, took the lead while Jehan was left to watch.
The chapel was small, only four benches in front of a tiny, crude altar, the paint of which had faded a while ago. A few candles – some fresh, some of them burnt down almost to stubs – lit the dim room. It was evident that they were also clearly responsible for the patina that clouded the small windows. The room appeared somber, dark and serene, a fitting chapel for a cemetery.
The place was in an almost charming state of decay, not rotten enough to be disgusting, but certainly faded enough to indicate former, old glory now gone through the darkness of ageing.
He thought it a fitting metaphor for the times they were finding themselves in.
"That is disturbing news indeed," Frater Antoine responded, as Bahorel had finished his tale – which he cut short – on the attacks of the Friends of the ABC, as well as his inability to locate any of the members of the Picpus cell. "I had not expected this." He gave a small, almost rueful smile. "Of course, there always was my hope, that the tides could be turned without resorting to violence – but I fear that this will fall on your deaf ears as much as it fell to the deaf ears of my boys."
He took a look around, his face bathed in twilight in the dark of the chapel.
"However, I had hoped… not so soon, and at least not in this manner."
His face lingered for a moment on the cross standing on the altar, a sorrowful gaze in his eyes, shaking his head.
"We are all in god's hands, as it seems," he sighed finally, and turned back to Jehan and Bahorel, as if having come to a resolution.
"So, what would you have me do?"
"Have any of them been here since yesterday?" Bahorel asked, and Frater Antoine shook his head.
"I am afraid not, my boy. I have seen some of them the day before yesterday, but that also was only four of them. You do know they usually meet in Les trois canards?"
"We've been there already," Bahorel contradicted. "It's still closed."
"I see… so, what can I do then?"
Bahorel readjusted his cap, as he often did mid-thought.
"Well, I guess that you would know more about where they usually are. If you could just try and find some of them that would be splendid. There'll be a meeting at nightfall, at the Café Musain. For as many of us as we can find up until then."
Frater Antoine frowned thoughtfully, his gaze wandering to the candles he had put aside.
"That can be accomplished, for sure. I suspect I should begin immediately."
"No time to lose," Bahorel concurred. "I truly hope you will find them all."
A notion of sorrow crossed the holy man's face.
"Yes," he said pensievely. "I hope so, too. Although after what you have just told me, this will require quite an amount of faith, I fear."
"We should have faith, as long as there is hope," Prouvaire intercepted. He would not have his friend and this interesting churchman give up on their associates so easily. "It will leave the world to be a brighter place."
There was a surprised smile on Frater Antoine's face as he turned to Prouvaire.
"A singular young man, you are," he said. "And those were beautiful words. I thank you for them."
He turned towards Bahorel again.
"I know it is unusual, but could you probably finish…" his gesture showed towards the almost burnt-down candles, "my duties here for the moment? After all this, I think I should get to work immediately."
Bahorel looked surprised, but Jehan stepped in. This was small repayment for the help the man was offering.
"I can do it," he said, stepping towards the candles.
"Thank you, boy," Father Antoine said, and was out in a shuffling of sandals and rustling of robes, leaving Jehan and Bahorel in the silence of the small chapel to replace the candles, hope and pray.