A/N: Wow, thanks so much for all the kind responses, and the reviews! I've been floored! (*whispers* keep them coming ;-) )
I hope the next chapter is up to standards, it's all brushed up and ready for you thanks to Valiya again, as well as to judybear236!
Speaking of her, she asked me to mention a poll she put up on her bio page - so go there in great numbers and vote :-).
A short note of interest: Docteur Olinde Rodrigues, who appears at the end of this chapter, is actually not an OC as such but a historical figures. I'm taking liberties again...
Chapter 20: A view from the gallery
"On my world, we have learned that an inauguration is simply a signal to assassins that a new target has been set up on the firing range."
An hour later, Enjolras was honestly considering that he should have chosen another venture for this particular assembly of his. He had never seen the café this full, so packed with people that Madeleine and Louison had actually stopped passing through the crowds with the drinks. Instead, orders were shouted or passed from mouth to ear until they reached the bar where the two of them were standing with Lucien, the owner of the café. The drinks and the money to pay for it took the same paths. On the whole, this system seemed to be working, but Enjolras made a mental note nevertheless to ask them about it after the event had been concluded.
It would not do for them to lose their income due to the fact that he had made their café the home of a revolutionary group. Especially if this group had, by way of the circumstances, as they had been since yesterday, found themselves in the center of events and in the position to coordinate as many of their brothers as they could get hold of.
Enjolras and Combeferre had secured themselves the table at the right hand side of the café, where Enjolras had been sitting since they had come back from Saint Antoine. They were, of sorts, guarding the entrance to the back room of the café, which they intended to use for those activities that would need a little more space than the main room could afford.
Currently, the sanctum was occupied by Feuilly, who had, on their way back from Saint Antoine, taken his drawing materials with him. Enjolras had sent Éponine and Marius to him to give as accurate a description as she could on the assassin that had targeted them in the hope that Feuilly would be able to produce a recognizable picture of him.
That, at least, Éponine had agreed to willingly.
He was still not sure what had prompted her to finally agree to his offer of taking sides with him and his friends, and neither could he fully explain why he had insisted thus. Surely, Éponine had proven to be a valuable asset during the last hours. Enjolras could not deny that his little prison escapade would have ended quite differently if she had not been there to break the ice between him and her associates. A remnant of worry remained that there might be a price attached to this particular venture. A price for her, for him or even both of them, but he deflected this issue to be solved later, as it was probably currently stalled, due to the fact that most of the protagonists were enjoying government hospitality.
He had problems in abundance already, no need to artificially add more.
The words that Éponine had thrown at him on the other hand were to some extent grating. Of course, he had considered the fact that the last bloody uprising was not very long ago. That history, for all the achievements revolutions had brought, did not inspire too much confidence into the success of these ventures for those that were at the bottom of society. However, past experiences did point in a slightly different direction, nevertheless. It had, after all, not been the first time that they had tried to inspire a rabble – be it in response to an unfavorable charter, a rumor spreading through the city used to their advantage or an anger of even more dubious sources.
Paris had been a powder keg for years, and even the slightest incidents could create sparks. They had never lacked for support, or for a response to their calls.
However, maybe Éponine was right that there was a difference between a rabble and a revolution.
This was to be considered carefully, given the appropriate time.
Which was not now.
Now was the time to bring together their brothers. It had not taken long to form the plan. The first set of ideas had been laid out with Combeferre in his apartment the night before. Then followed a discussion with Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Jehan in the morning, in which he was missing his guide dearly – he felt neither the inclination nor the capability of keeping Bahorel's and Courfeyrac's more raucous proposals in check, but luckily Jehan had, at times, overcome his timidity and intervened, as well. Now came, between Éponine leaving and now, a final, quick discussion with Combeferre that took only a few words. All it needed was a very little of harmonization before the path was clear before their eyes.
Such were the comforts of friendship.
He surveyed the room. The Saint Antoine cell had arrived in full numbers, and many had been filing in from the Cougourde of Aix. Some of them had come together with Lamarin and Combeferre, who had been the first of the other emissaries to return to their home base in the Musain. Joly and Bossuet had been not far behind, and currently were chatting away merrily with Lamarin and a few of his associates. Amidst a group of students that had come in from the Polytechnique, Enjolras recognized Ramon Deleric, a friend of Combeferre's who had assembled a group of friends to come to the assembly that Marius and Enjolras had told them about in the morning at university. Law, medicine and even a few theology students had turned up in looser bands, because the most dedicated of them had found their way into one of the revolutionary cells long ago.
There was no news yet from the Barrière – which was a worrying thing in itself – but Bahorel and Jehan had just entered the café, pushing through the crowds towards the lookout post of Enjolras and Combeferre. They were alone.
"How did it go?" Enjolras asked by way of greeting, and Bahorel, taking off his hat, shrugged with a slightly unsatisfied expression.
"Not too well, I'm afraid," he said. "I haven't been able to locate any of them except for Frater Antoine in the end. He promised to try and find some of them on his own."
"There was no one at Les trois canards?" Combeferre asked.
"Actually, the first time we were there, it was still closed. But we passed another time right before coming here, and then there was no one in. The patrons swore they had not seen any of the usual crowd in three days."
Combeferre shook his head, a worrying frown on his face.
"There is no helping it now," Enjolras concluded. We will see if the good Frère has been able to find out more. Saint Antoine is here, at least, and some of the Cougourde."
"So Jacques' lost lambs turned up even without the shepherd," Bahorel commented grinning and earning himself a reprimanding gaze from Combeferre. Enjolras, on the other hand was not quite sure how to respond to this. Indeed, Jacques had a sense of uniqueness that had not always been beneficial for the Cougourde. However, he did not feel inclined to comment thus on a fellow revolutionary, especially on one whose support he was nonetheless counting.
The dandy on the other hand, did not seem to expect an answer. He clapped Combeferre's shoulder instead in a good-natured gesture that might or might not have meant that he had been joking. "Come, Jehan," he said, turning back to his comrade, who had remained a few steps back, surveying the assembled crowds with an absentminded frown. "Let's see what the back room is up to, before the commotion starts in earnest." He rubbed his hands in unabashed excitement, while the young poet indeed flinched when he was thus spoken to; he had been deeply lost in thoughts of his own before.
Bahorel's grin widened.
"Still thinking about that beggar girl?" he asked, and Jehan's cheeks actually turned a considerable red, as the comment obviously struck home. Enjolras marveled at the fact that his friend had gone from concern to serious discussion to sarcasm then to teasing in a manner of five sentences.
"Jehan had a moment of generosity there, as we left Picpus," Bahorel explained for the benefit of the others and grinned broadly. "Out of some twenty beggars he picks the young girl. Pure coincidence, of course."
"Generosity is never wrong, is it?" Combeferre chastised gently, and Enjolras suspected that he was trying to take away the attention from Prouvaire, who obviously did not feel comfortable about the way the discussion was going. "But you may as well go and see how far Feuilly has come with his drawings. The sun is not yet down, but it cannot be long before we start."
Bahorel obviously knew to take a hint and tipped his head, nodding. He vanished into the direction of the back room, an obviously relieved Jehan in tow.
"Ah," Combeferre noted as Enjolras turned his attention back to the room, and following his gaze and the quick nod of his head, Enjolras could see what he was aiming at. "Look at this. The situation does not seem quite as hopeless as it seemed."
Frater Antoine had entered the Café, a group of eight men of various ages in tow. He struck an odd figure in dissonance to the rest of the assembly in his simple white robe, but if he was aware of this, he did not show it. In fact he seemed as much an intrinsic part of those arriving with him as Enjolras could imagine.
"What do you think?" Enjolras asked. He was not very familiar with the group in Picpus.
Combeferre skimmed the arrivals.
"I see neither Vinceaux nor Namelle," he began, making a face. "This is bad news. Griollet is there, though. Small comfort at least. And there are only eight of them. Picpus in full numbers is closer to five-and-twenty."
"So we have to expect a blood toll that we have not taken into account yet," concluded Enjolras, because there was little else to be said for this. Stating the facts accounted for clarity, and clarity was what they were aiming at.
"I fear so," Combeferre concurred.
"What is it you fear?"
Without making himself noted, Marius Pontmercy had joined the two on their lookout post, coming back from his occupation in the back room, looking slightly flustered but otherwise quite the same as always.
"That there may be some dead comrades that we do not know of yet," Enjolras explained, turning his gaze back to the steadily growing assembly. "How did it go with the drawing of the assassin?"
Marius let out a small sigh of exasperation that was mostly mocking.
"I bow to the superior memory of Éponine, actually. I have had quite enough of being proven wrong in my remembrances of the man for more times than I can stomach, and hence I figured Feuilly will be fine on his own with her."
Enjolras could not help the small smile that was creeping upon his face. An Éponine that was chastising Marius for not remembering correctly was a world away from the broken look she had given his retreating back as he ran to Cosette, right after the market incident.
It was satisfactory to see fetters falling away, no matter of which making they might have been.
"It is going well then," he remarked, and Marius was on the verge of answering, when shouting, calling and – of all things – singing from outside the café interrupted any conversation they might have had. It was all but covered by the overall noise that filled the café, but it attracted their attention nonetheless, maybe because two of the voices seemed to be achingly familiar.
Combeferre, who had not been present for the final distribution of errands due to his accompanying Hélène de Cambout, sent a slightly surprised gaze at Enjolras.
"You didn't," he said, not without humor, and Enjolras could not help a world-weary sigh, heartily regretting his actions now. From the start, he had not been thrilled at the thought of sending – of all people – Courfeyrac and Grantaire to the Barrière du Maine. The disaster from a few weeks back still stood very clearly in his mind, but he had been convinced to give Grantaire the benefit of a doubt again. His high estimate in Courfeyrac's ability to hold together a group had been the final thing that had tipped the scales in favor of this idea.
Needless to say, he had gone against better judgment. Still, it was not a pleasant thing to see one's suspicions confirmed.
"I fear I did," he confirmed unhappily. "I might add that I do have a suspicion that you are developing Jehan to be your spokesman in your absence, my friend."
Combeferre smiled slightly at that.
"Is that so?" he replied enigmatically. Enjolras let it stand at that, because the door opened and he focused on the newly arrived.
He had to hand it to Courfeyrac that it was a large group that entered the Musain, almost twenty, loud, raucous and even merry, and though he was placed at quite a distance to them, he still imagined he could just smell the remnants of alcohol that they brought with them. Grantaire was right in the middle of them, joking and laughing loudly, and – of all things – giving him a joyful wave that Enjolras shot down with one of his more deadly glares.
Courfeyrac entered as one of the last with his hand on the shoulder of Pierre Lafague, one of the older members of the group. He was laughing as well, but Enjolras did not miss the slight tension that betrayed the fact that he was anything but relaxed.
The noise in the room immediately increased as greetings popped up between those that knew one another and even those that didn't but who joined in the commotion, simply out of merriment alone. Courfeyrac, taking a last look on his accomplishment, separated himself from Lafague to steer towards Enjolras and the other two, a broad grin on his face. There were some remnants of spirit on his breath but his eyes were clear. Obviously, he had been holding back.
"All there and accounted for," he answered, pride shining through his voice. "Including Grantaire, and that was not exactly the smallest of feats."
Enjolras had to agree that bringing the complete group here – even in the state they were in – was indeed something to be remarked, especially with the ball-and-chain that Grantaire's presence was prone to be in such a venture.
"I suppose I am to congratulate you then," he answered, trying not to let too much of the annoyance show that he felt at the sudden turn of the assembly's interest to the newly arrived.
"That would be nice, at least," Courfeyrac retorted, seemingly unfazed. He leaned against the entry to the back room and surveyed his achievement with a satisfaction that to Enjolras seemed slightly exaggerated. "Come on, Enjolras, I know what you want to say. Spit it out or leave it be, but don't glare at me that way. It was like that or not at all."
Trust Courfeyrac to take the bull head-on. Enjolras nodded, knowing that Courfeyrac was probably not fully in the wrong. He had dealt with the Barrière du Maine group before and found them a capricious lot, enthusiastic in everything they did – artists, so it probably had to be expected – but also easily distracted and difficult to deal with. He had found it supremely difficult to reach them in the past. Probably, in the end it had not been the worst idea to send Courfeyrac.
"Don't let it fool you," the man continued, dash gone, his voice all of a sudden serious. "They're mourning. Grantaire and I crashed into something that was, for all intents and purposes, a wake for the Virille brothers, even if no one would have called it that way. I wouldn't have interrupted that even if I could, so I brought them here in the state they were."
"Anyone of enough sense to talk to?" Enjolras asked, satisfied with the explanation, putting aside any reservations for the practical and the next steps of their venture.
"I'd try Pierre Lafague, if I were you," Courfeyrac mused thoughtfully. "Though I have a suspicion that a lot of them are not nearly as drunk as they pretend to be." He raised his head at the voices coming from the back room and pushed himself away from the wall again. "But now you'll have to excuse me, my friends. I think there's a gamin arrived from the Rue des Grés, and I'd like to see how he's faring."
Enjolras nodded absentmindedly, registering with a certain amount of pleasure that apparently both Éponine and Gavroche had made it back safely, despite his concerns. Turning towards Combeferre, he found the man's gaze fixed on the entry door of the Café where three more figures were just pushing into the crowd, taking a few steps into the room.
Hélène de Cambout was wearing deep mourning black, a dress of simple cut but rich fabric, a black veil hiding her face and expression nearly completely. At her side, Enjolras recognized Pierre Berat, xylographist for Le Globe, a man of about forty wearing a workman's garb and a cap on his greying hair. The second man, dressed in much finer clothing, was not known to him and he made it a point to ask Combeferre later, since his friend was much more acquainted with the circle of the de Cambouts due to his involvement with their paper. The two men steered Madame de Cambout through the raucous group of revolutionists to a calmer part of the room, where they took up a lookout post. She let her gaze wander through the room and gave a curt nod in their direction that might have been directed at him, Combeferre or even the three of them.
"Well," Marius concluded. "It seems that most found their way here, at least. Could have been worse, could it not?"
Enjolras, surveying the room, felt inclined to agree.
They let another few moments pass while a few tardy visitors hurried into the café, pushing with difficulty into what had become a veritable crowd. A quick exchange of gazes with Marius, Courfeyrac – returning from the back room with Gavroche and a second gamin - and Combeferre finally decided the hour of action. Thus, Enjolras took a step, first on a chair, then on the table that he had cleared from the litter of notes that it had been covered with before. For a moment, he just stood there, watching the crowd, not saying a word as awareness that the assembly was about to begin spread through the visitors of the Café like a wave.
There was a peculiar sort of energy in this moment of silence before the first words, and Enjolras let it linger there, feeling it assembling as more eyes turned towards him.
At its peak, the wave broke, the tipping point reached, and Enjolras began to speak.
"Citizens," he began, "comrades-in-arms. My friends." He let his gaze wander around, from students to workers, from men to women, from young faces to old. "For this we are, brought together by fate, wrath and purpose, maybe before our time, or maybe just where we were supposed to be. Friends we are, brothers today, every single one of us inside these walls." He let the words linger for a moment, heard Combeferre shift slightly beside him. He would like that part of the speech, he thought, and so did many, as he opened the door to the companionship they so desperately needed.
"You have followed our invitation; well done it was and appreciated it will be, for we are facing ourselves with a situation that has changed dramatically from what we knew. Many faces I see amongst you, my comrades, my friends, but even more are the ghosts I see between you; those who are not here, but who would have every right to stand amidst us, at our side."
He let his gaze wander over to where the group from the Barrière du Maine was standing and caught a peculiar look from a few of them. Perhaps it was with eyes that might have been glazed by the spirits, or even by tears. Over at the bar, where the Saint Antoine group had taken their lodgings together, he saw Jeanne Sellers standing closer to her husband, his stony face complemented by her expression of sorrow.
"Yes," he confirmed, a little softer, into the silence. "We have lost brothers, these days. We are diminished."
He let his voice take on intensity again; bit by bit, turning from past to present.
"What malice has wrought this ploy, we do not know yet. But deep in our hearts, we all know why. We have been attacked by those we seek to overthrow. The war we have started to plan has been sent back into our own ranks, but how?" He drew himself to full height, letting his indignation and fury seep into his voice, into his every fiber. "We have met them on the places and squares of this city. We have shouted our accusations into their faces. We have cried words of their injustice so that even the stones may weep, have challenged them to meet us and to hear our pleas. And what have they done?"
He snorted, shaking his head.
"Knives in the dark. Stray attacks in a crowd. A coward's mission for a coward's regime. The last remnants of the achievements of the revolution are lying in shambles at our feet. Patria herself is weeping at what she sees. Tell me my friends – what is left of the declaration that our forefathers so courageously sent out as a beacon of hope to all mankind? Equality? Take a look around! Equals we are in this room, because we choose to be so, but outside, on the streets? The government is laughing at this noble intent!"
Some grumbling rose in the room, and Enjolras continued, fuelling the anger that was beginning to rise. He needed them furious, he needed them courageous. Fear had no place in their venture, and he had set out to chase this specter from the room, once and for all.
"Freedom? Resistance against opposition? Liberty of speech? Why don't we ask Alexandre de Cambout about it, who openly spoke about what is happening in this city? Ah! We cannot. Because he paid with his life for what he believed in, paid with his life for the rights of man! How about the third article then? The people as the sole provider of sovereignty, the principles of Rousseau? Trampled upon by the man who calls himself king!"
He spat out the word, for the murmurs had grown louder, intercepted by single shouts. Enjolras could almost grasp the energy in the room with his bare hands.
"Every article of the sacred declaration, every thought of our brave and courageous forefathers has been warped and forgotten, has been torn and tattered beyond recognition. But are we not their daughters and sons? Is it not us now, who have to carry the torch if those who should honor it, have forgotten its significance? This is our responsibility, and we cannot remove ourselves from it and still be called man."
A few affirmative shouts spurred him on.
"And thus I say – we will not have it. If it is battle they want, battle is what they shall receive. They have tried to scare us, to waiver us in our convictions, but we are more than that. We are those who will not be silent. We are those who honor the proud ideals of freedom, respect, democracy. And these will shine too brightly to be forgotten. Today, my friends, we mark the dawn of a new time. Divided we were, and united we shall be. They see us as one and the same? Well then we shall be it, and our combined fury and strength shall drive all those out of their rabbit holes that seek to divide us, seek to silence the voice that speaks what must be spoken. We will not stay idle in the face of oppression. For we…" he took a final breath, "we are the revolution! Who's with me?!"
Shouts went up, first – of course – from his friends, standing beside and around him like a living wall of trust and support, but the cries spread through the room like wildfire, a terrible, beautiful thing to behold.
Enjolras felt himself trembling with the power of the onslaught, swept away with the almost overpowering wave of conviction that was a wonder to behold, a miracle that never lost its charm on him. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
For an eternity, the room was a powder keg, shouts and chants and enthusiasm filling the air with an atmosphere thick enough to grasp. Enjolras used the relatively unwatched moment to help Combeferre mount the table at his side, where together, they waited for the rabble to die down, chief and guide, united in purpose and understanding.
"Well spoken, my friend," Combeferre said, just loud enough to make himself heard over the noise, and Enjolras smiled at this, because he knew the compliment to be sincere.
"I have strived at winning their hearts," he answered. "Now you direct their minds."
"All in time," Combeferre answered and turned his gaze back to the crowd, waiting for the enthusiasm to settle slightly, an expression on his face that only those who knew him well, recognized for unease.
Enjolras knew that his friend did not care much for taking up the stage for himself. He rather preferred to direct from the sidelines; it was his way to slip his thoughts and opinions rather quietly, but with no less conviction or impact. But this was not the way they could operate in these hectic days, and thus Combeferre had concurred to take up the torch that Enjolras had so enthusiastically lit.
"Divided we were," Combeferre began, taking up Enjolras' words when the noise had sufficiently died down for his voice to be heard and understood, "and united we shall be. But what does that mean?" He did not raise his voice, and his tone was fairly even. It was the calm rock amidst the tide that Enjolras had unleashed, and yet, just as unwavering. He was emitting a conviction and calm strength that was a counterpoint to that of Enjolras, and he felt his pulse slowing down, his trembling receding as his friend continued to speak.
"It means that where before we were a group of comrades, we must now become allies. We cannot continue as we have, each on their own paths and devices. But what is the path, you might ask? The answer is: I cannot tell you. For if I did, I would be no better than the ones we seek to overthrow. But what is it that we know? And what is it that we need?"
Combeferre gave a smile as he took a short pause.
"There is little we know about what has happened these last days and yet more than we think. This is what we need to assemble first. The enemy currently has no face, and his likeness is scattered amongst us in fragments and pieces, like an image shattered that only in its entirety can be understood. So this must be the first thing we do."
He took a moment's pause, his voice slightly unsteady, and Courfeyrac handed up a mug of wine to him. Combeferre drank deeply, part in thirst, part – as Enjolras suspected – for courage, and went on.
"The second objective, once information is gathered, must be coordination. Like I said, the many voices must unite, must form a chorus of sorts that will be harder to break than a single man's song. So how can we achieve this? And here I draw on the thoughts of those that have spurred us on, on the lights that shine through the dark pages of history. And so, into this room I call the spirit of Kleisthenes of Athens. I call into this room the spirit of Rousseau. I call the courage of the fathers of the American constitution – Jefferson, Adams, Franklin. So we propose that each group of you call upon two representatives, so that we may form a council of sorts. A council of equals, legitimate by the trust of us all, quick of decision and strong in spirit. This shall be how we decide the path, like the democracy of Athens, like the dream that Rousseau never saw fulfilled. We will be the seed from which a republic shall spread."
He let this linger as Enjolras gauged the reaction of their audience. Combeferre had calmed the spirit of the room, certainly, but his proposal had elicited a couple of lively discussions amongst those present, and that was just as good. Indeed, it had been his idea to form this council, which would allow them to pass on information more quickly from one group to another. Enjolras had seen the advantages immediately and had needed little convincing.
"All right." Courfeyrac's clear voice broke through the discussions that filled the room, as the various groups were already beginning to flesh out amongst themselves what the proposal brought before them might mean. He had exchanged places with Combeferre, who seemed to be quite relieved to be able to step down from the impromptu stage again. "After all this talk, let's get practical, shall we?" He rubbed his hands and took a quick look around. His eyes were sparkling in the candle light and Enjolras realized that he was enjoying himself utterly. His enthusiasm spread easily, like wildfire on dry wood.
"First things first. We'll try, if we can, to assemble all those that will be part of this lovely revolutionary council today – or at least get a few names. I know that not everyone's here in full numbers, but at least one person from every group who feels he should show up would be nice. Jehan in the back room will take down names, mind you, so as soon as you have decided, feel welcome to go there. We'll probably have a first assembly right away, since we're all here, so don't hesitate to come to our humble lodgings."
He slightly shifted on the table, the furniture wavering a bit unsteadily. Enjolras braced himself but of course, Courfeyrac was unfazed.
"Now for the trivialities of life," he continued, ticking points off his fingers. "Like Combeferre pointed out, it would be splendid to put a face to the enemy. Thus, everyone who thinks he has seen one of the attackers, go and talk to Feuilly. In the back room as well, even though, come to think of it, it may become a little cramped in there." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, it can't be helped. In addition we need of course everyone who is practiced at drawing faces – say, for example those, who spend their days in ateliers and studios jotting down sketches before committing them to stone and marble, for example…" He winked at where the Barrière du Maine group was assembled, and a cheer went up from there. "Marius here is going to take down whatever else we know about the attackers, so if you saw someone go somewhere, recognized an oddity of speech or movement, heard rumors, smelled liquor on their breaths, whatever the suspicion; he's the man you want to talk to."
He stemmed his hands into his hips, taking a moment's consideration before he continued.
"That probably covers our work here today, but while we're at it already, a piece of friendly advice – " he let his gaze sweep over the assembly for a moment before he continued, "we've made good experiences by explicitly not being alone. We divided into groups and made sure no one roams the streets alone. Or is alone during the night." Predictably, his gaze quickly went to Gavroche for just a moment, but the gamin was not paying attention to his speech, but instead laughing away merrily with his young comrade about a joke that only they were privy to. "While it's of course everyone's own decision, as Combeferre would probably correct me now, this may be a wise course of action to avoid any further incidents."
For a moment, Courfeyrac exchanged a gaze with Enjolras. He raised his brows in an unspoken question, but Enjolras could not think of anything he might have forgotten that they could not take on in the smaller council they hoped would form. Thus, he responded with a minuscule shrug that his friend copied before he turned back to the crowds.
"Well then," he said, removing his hands from his hips and clapping them twice instead. Enjolras absurdly thought of a farmer herding his cattle. "Let's get going, shall we?"
From then on, it was pandemonium.
She chose the moment of chaos and disorganization to step up towards them. A calm, dark figure accompanied by two paladins, faithful guardians at her side.
It was not often that Courfeyrac was left searching for words. But Alexandre de Cambout had, over the span of the last year, become his friend, and he flattered himself that this friendship had extended to his wife as well.
The Cambouts were – or had been – a lively sort, and he had spent quite many interesting evenings in their company, be it in various places over the city or in their house in Rue d'Olivel. It was impossible to think that Alexandre was no more. It was impossible to imagine the one without the other.
They had been ingenious in their dealings with the paper; Alexandre keeping patrons and capricious financiers in check, while Hélène spoke to the writers and arranged the daily dealings of the paper. In Alexandre's name, of course, but Courfeyrac had never been fooled by this display.
Alexandre had been the driving force of the paper, his enthusiasm brushing aside all thoughts of obstacles. But Hélène had been the paper's soul.
They had known and trusted each other with their eyes closed. Courfeyrac almost marveled at this strange and unusual sort of relationship, and found that this reminded him more of his connection with his friends in this Café than of a marriage. In response to this observation, he was utterly at loss how to console her.
She took the decision from him as she reached their little group and greeted them with a befitting curtsy.
"Messieurs," she greeted them in a tone of neutrality, inclining her head first towards Enjolras and then to the rest of them before she firmly fixed her gaze on the leader again.
"Madame." Courfeyrac was not inclined to stand on ceremony, and he would not be denied. "I am deeply sorry for your loss."
She turned to him and nodded in what passed for gratitude, her eyes closed during the movement and dry as they reopened.
"You shouldn't have felt the need to come… not today," Courfeyrac continued carefully, but she shook her head.
"What I feel inclined to do, Monsieur Courfeyrac, is my decision and mine alone." The reprimand was soft, but Courfeyrac could not shake the feeling that this was not the first time today, that she had uttered a similar statement. "In fact, I could have done nothing else."
She took a step aside to open up the path for her two companions.
"I assume all of you know Pierre Berat?" she introduced the xylographist, who tipped his slightly shabby cap and gave a friendly greeting to all of them. Indeed they had met him before, since their dealings with Le Globe and the leaflets they had printed had, after a while, called for his arts on several occasions. Courfeyrac knew him to be a friendly man, quiet and calm, married, two young children, but not averse to their cause and in his own silent way, very dedicated. Sometimes he thought, given a different crowd in his youth, Berat might have become a second Feuilly.
"From what I have just heard," and she gave a short nod towards the now empty table that they had used as a stage for their speeches, "I have a suspicion that his art may be needed. That is – if I assume correctly that you would have those faces printed on paper for better distribution?"
"Indeed," Enjolras confirmed, agitation in his voice. "This is splendid, Madame, and you have my profound thanks. Especially given the circumstances we would not have expected it."
"Given the circumstances, there was nothing else that I would have been able to do," Hélène responded, her voice taking the same neutral, factual tone. "Make no mistake, Monsieur Enjolras. My husband is dead, and not a minute goes by where I would not do anything – anything – to remedy this, but this is a thing beyond my power." Then, for just a split second, there was a remnant of pain in her voice, well hidden. "However," she continued, "this…" she gestured towards Pierre Berat again, "is within my power. I did not follow around my husband in the way a sheep follows a shepherd. I intend to continue what he fought for, and thus, as long as I can keep it, Messieurs, Le Globe is still yours. And this…" her gaze turned back to Courfeyrac and behind the veil that hid her face he saw deadly determination in her eyes, "… is not something that could have waited."
Hélène nodded at the confirmation of acquaintance and turned towards her other companion. "Speaking of which: This is Docteur Olinde Rodrigues," she introduced, and the man – of similar age as Berat but significantly better dressed, with dark hair and slightly oriental features – gave a greeting of his own. Combeferre seemed to know him, but the others did not. "He is part of the editing committee of Le Globe," Hélène explained. "I am well aware, that I am facing a number of uncertainties ahead, and I am also aware that my time will be not fully my own during the days to come." A sorrowful frown appeared on her face, but she continued and her voice was steady. "If you cannot reach me, speak to Monsieur Rodrigues as you would to Alexandre or myself. He has our utmost trust."
Rodrigues answered with a quick smile before he turned towards the group of revolutionaries again. "Monsieur Combeferre will probably know how to contact me," he added, and Combeferre nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face.
"Of course, Docteur," he answered with a friendly nod. "We appreciate your offer."
"It is no more than we must do," Rodrigues answered smoothly. "I am sure you know this as well."
Hélène nodded at the matter being settled, and Courfeyrac thought he could see a slight yielding in the line of her shoulders, as if some weight had been taken off them.
"Messieurs, I hope you will excuse me," she said, slightly less cool, slightly less composed. "It… has been a trying day."
"Of course." Combeferre's answer came all too quickly, before Courfeyrac could even react. "Will you be… safe on the way home?"
"Don't worry," Rodrigues answered calmly. "I will see to it that she comes to no harm on her way back to the Dufranc estate."
Enjolras nodded.
"Then this is settled. Madame…" he took a step towards Hélène, towering over her by almost a head. Courfeyrac blinked at the strange image they gave – bright, gold-locked Enjolras, lean and slender, and the small, slightly plump woman, clad completely in black, hair and face hidden by the mourning veil. "You have my utmost appreciation for coming here, for your offer and your continued support. It will not be forgotten."
"I would hope so," she answered, and there was just the tiniest remnant of a spark in her voice, a fleeting glimpse of who Hélène de Cambout usually was. "It would be a wasteful shame of good work, otherwise."
"Indeed, Madame," Enjolras confirmed. "Rest easy."
She nodded, and then, before they knew it, Rodrigues had steered her out of the café, and they heard the noise of a departing fiacre, hooves and wheels on cobblestone.
Combeferre was staring at the door she had vanished through. His fingers gripped a chair that was standing at his side.
His knuckles were white.
Courfeyrac clapped his shoulder in brotherly appreciation.
"You, my friend," he informed him good-naturedly, "are the biggest fool this side of the Seine."
The smile on Combeferre's face was wan.
"I know," he said. "I know."