A/N :Sorry for taking that long... time is not always cooperating, both for Valiya and myself. But she dusted this again, and the next chapter is already with her, so we are progressing nicely. Also, day 3 of this little charade is now fully planned out.
Thanks to judybear236 for comments!
The title is a reference to the quote on the previous chapter... and the quote to this chapter stems from the episode using the title... the little fun things we do.
Thank you to all who read and reviewed and put me to their favourites.
I would appreciate a comment again on this... I really hope you still like it!
See you next time!
Spirit
Chapter 21 Midnight on the firing line
"'To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'"
"They can't be serious."
As Stéphane herded him along, Marc Lamarin gave a gaze at his fellow companions that was part exasperation and part plain, naked fear.
The last one and a half days had been a pure nightmare. But even after having been threatened, thrown into unknown society and pushed into a position of keeping together those he considered his associates in this town, the current situation still held very different terrors of its own.
"Why not?" asked Stéphane with a slightly amused grin. He looked much better than he had in the afternoon – a few hours of sleep had done wonders on him – and he was back to the man Marc Lamarin knew: amusing, fierce and proud in a way that was alarmingly at odds with his well-being. "If anyone's earned it, it's you, as far as I was concerned. You had my voice, that's for sure."
"So I have you among others, to thank for this?"
"Indeed," Stéphane confirmed, without even the slightest hint of remorse, clapping on Lamarin's shoulder in brotherly appreciation. "And now stop fretting. Let's see what this council is about."
Lamarin nodded, but his gaze wandered back to his comrades who were still scattered about various tables, deep in discussion as drinks were refreshed and the evening drew on.
"I wonder," he finally said, "what Jacques will make of it."
Stéphane made a face.
"Ah yes, there's that," he commented uneasily. "That's going to be interesting. But not today, Marc. Things are as they are now. Jacques is not here. We are. So let's get going."
The back room of the café was only slightly less packed, but on the whole, it was better organized than the main room.
By way of assembling the tables, the Amis de l'ABC had divided the room into two sections.
On the far end where a second corridor led deeper into the building itself, a group of tables had been placed, around which activity was ongoing. This was where the gathering of information took place. Lamarin recognized a number of faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, going about exactly what Courfeyrac and Combeferre had asked about before.
Éponine was sitting next to Feuilly, showering the gentle fan maker in instructions while he drew, coal gliding over paper. Lamarin could not make out the result of their efforts, but he assumed that they were working either on the image of the attacker on the Amis de l'ABC, or the dwarf who had assaulted the de Cambouts.
Three other men, presumably members of the group stemming from the Barrière du Maine had taken up a seat and started on the same activity. They all worked together; two members of the Cougourde, a number of other men and two gamins, one of them being the ingenuous boy who called himself Gavroche.
A man of middle age strolled about them almost leisurely, talking at times to each artist, frequently assessing the images with squinted eyes, scratching his curly head under his cap doubtfully.
Stéphane placed a quick hand on Lamarin's shoulder.
"Go on already, Marc, I will be right back," he said. "I fear I also have an account to give on the juggler I have seen."
Marc, terrified at the thought of being the sole representative and slightly angered at the off-handed way with which Stéphane had dismissed having been appointed spokesmen by his fellows, shook his head.
"Surely you can do that afterwards," he contradicted. "Should we not first do what we have been asked to do by our friends?"
Stéphane had already been on the verge of leaving, but he stopped and watched Marc Lamarin with an uneasy frown that the younger man was fairly unable to place.
In all truth, he did not know Stéphane very well. He had been closer to Joseph than Jacques, and therefore not so much part of the group that Lamarin had frequented. But he had always seemed to him as a fairly agreeable fellow.
After a moment's hesitation, Stéphane responded with a nod.
"Fair enough," he said. "Then let's go."
And thus, they joined the group that had assembled in the corner opposite to those who were trying to put faces to their attackers. Here also, several tables had been grouped together to form a single one, around which those assembled that had agreed to take part in the council.
"Ah, the Cougourde," Enjolras said by way of greeting, and offered them places to sit. Combeferre gave them all a solemn welcome, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on Lamarin.
Enjolras let his gaze wander around the table for a moment. It was, on the whole, a strange group of staggering diversity, but he seemed satisfied and nodded once.
"That probably concludes it," he said, even though there were still chairs left at the table. But then again, Marc had thought that it had probably been difficult to estimate how many different groups would have felt the need to send a representative.
A quick count brought up the number of twelve.
Which was, on the whole, not the worst of numbers.
"Given the fact that I am not sure that all around the table are acquainted with each other, I would suggest a quick round of introduction," Combeferre proposed after exchanging a quick glance with Enjolras, who concurred, nodding.
"Sébastien Enjolras." He followed the advice of his friend without hesitation. "Amis de l'ABC." Combeferre at his side followed suit. "Jean Combeferre. Same group."
"Ramon Deleric," the man next to Combeferre introduced himself. His dark curls and black eyes reminded Lamarin of Jacques, but he obviously lacked the elegance in dress or manners, having discarded his jacket and sitting only in his waistcoat, sleeves rolled up. "University of France."
"Franc Goudin," continued a pale wisp of a man, slim and bespectacled, with hair blonde enough to be almost white. "La Sorbonne. University of France, I mean."
Marc Lamarin almost would have smiled. The former theology faculty had been the only one that still clung to the old thought of a university divided into schools, as opposed to the wholesale learning body that the University of France had become since 1793. There had been debates in the university, the theology students being remarkably stubborn about the old denomination of their faculty.
"Christophe Anillon," said a burly young man. He was blond and broad shouldered, hands clearly showing the remnants of rough labor. He was dressed simply, the waistcoat showing clear signs of wear, but he did not seem to be self-conscious about it. Instead, his manner and gaze were frowning and carried a certain gruff note.
"Jeanne Sellers." Her voice was remarkably rough for a woman, almost deep enough to be a man's and slightly rasping. She did not seem to be concerned to be the sole female of this assembly, sitting comfortably without much elegance in her simple, bluish dress. Her hair was thick, light brown and wound into a fairly coarse braid and only with difficulty contained in a bun on the back of her head.
Goudin shuffled uncomfortably.
"A woman?" he asked slightly incredulously, giving a questioning glance to Enjolras to whom he had apparently singled out as the temporary spokesman of their improvised council. But the leader of the ABCs did not even have time to answer, because Jeanne Sellers apparently had no intention of letting this comment pass.
"Thanks for noticing," she replied, sarcasm coloring her voice as she crossed her arms before her in defense. "It doesn't happen all too often."
"A bluestocking, more like," Stéphane murmured privately to Lamarin under his breath and chuckled. But of course, the woman heard and her head went around to him, a brow slightly raised. In an almost exasperated gesture, she unfolded her arms, taking hold of the hem of her dress to lift it slightly, revealing white stockings in her leather shoes. Lamarin felt quite winded at the improper gesture, but Jeanne Sellers rose her eyes to Stéphane again and shrugged.
"Not really," she responded. "But I could go home and change if that would make you feel more comfortable."
Stéphane, to his credit, actually grinned at the response, while Franc Goudin's exasperated start of a sentence, "Are you really going to…" intercepted with Christophe Anillon's slightly annoyed exclamation of "Jeanne!" Combeferre's slightly softer, but still well-heard, "Peace, peace everyone," broke through their cries.
Lamarin turned back, tore his gaze away from the woman who had crossed her arms again and glared at the assembly defiantly. Like Goudin, she singled out Enjolras as the one who would probably make a decision and directed her gaze at him. He held it with natural ease.
After a moment's silence, Jeanne continued, slightly less defensive.
"Look," she said. "We made a call of names, and out came Christophe and myself. I didn't even volunteer, but I won't apologize either. I don't want to overstay my welcome here. I suppose John could do it as well as I do, if that sits better with everyone, but that would still speak kind of volumes of how serious you all are about changing things and freedom for the people."
Enjolras' lips shortly twitched at that; if in annoyance, or even humor, Lamarin could not tell.
"She does have a point, Goudin," he answered neutrally. "And we have not assembled to define how the various groups determine their representatives."
"I respectfully disagree," Franc Goudin shook his head, pale wisps of hair wavering about him. "What legitimacy can a council have if the premises for election are not really defined?"
"A valid question if this were a ruling body," Combeferre elaborated. "Which it is clearly not. I will agree with you readily that for a legitimate representative body, a sort of constitution must be the center and fundamental of the formation of a council or parliament. However…"
"That's the question of the hen and the egg," Stéphane intercepted. "We can go on for days, if that's what we want." He sounded annoyed, toying with the handle of the mug that he had brought with him. Lamarin felt slightly anxious. He had never been privy to the firsthand experience, but from all he knew and had been told, Stéphane being annoyed was a circumstance to be avoided.
"Which we don't, I hope," added a voice of a slightly older man from Lamarin's left, not without sarcasm. "This might be a dreadfully boring thing otherwise."
"Hah!" Stéphane concurred, clapping his hands. His mug would have toppled if Lamarin had not expected this and caught the tumbling cup. "My thoughts exactly."
"Think of it more," Combeferre tried again, from a different angle this time, "like a council between states, if you will. The peace negotiations in Westphalia. The congress of Vienna…"
"Which we certainly will not take as a model for anything," Ramon Deleric gave back hotly, and not without a certain amount of sarcasm. "I hope we can agree on that."
"Certainly neither in result nor spirit," Enjolras concurred. "But what Combeferre means is that these kinds of assemblies are based on a certain necessity, as well as the will of all participants to cooperate. The choice of representatives however, is fully in the hands of the various parties."
"I wonder what they would have made of Maria de Medici in Osnabrueck," Stéphane commented to Lamarin again quietly. Marc was beginning to feel a slight annoyance at his exasperating comrade, who was not exactly being helpful in the way of bringing this assembly forward.
"She was dead already at that time. And in exile before that," he informed Stéphane coolly. "And apart from that, this comparison is unbefitting in so many ways that I would not even know where to start commenting."
Stéphane was unfazed, but shrugged and leaned back.
"Just thinking," he commented, and let it pass.
"We should not forget why we are actually here," Combeferre began. "And while there is a time for fundamental questions on the nature of councils and parliaments, I fear that this is not the hour." He shared a quick gaze with Enjolras, who had actually raised an inquisitive brow that was responded to by his friend with a shrug and a miniature smile.
"So," Enjolras took up the thread, gazing first at Goudin, then around the table. "Is this a perimeter under which we might work?"
Goudin hesitated for a moment before he eventually nodded.
"I guess the comparison is befitting," he said.
Others responded with nods or small words of confirmation, and Enjolras nodded, satisfied.
"So then let us continue the introduction."
Stéphane and Lamarin were next, giving their names and affiliation before the cue went to Eustace Reverre – the slightly older man who had shown similar impatience to that of Stéphane – and Pierre Lafague, both from the Barrière du Maine.
Representing the cell from Picpus sat the probably most unusual member of this assembly. Frater Antoine was a member of the order of the Frères of Picpus, and he made it fairly clear that he had been pushed into this position by the members of his group against his will.
"It is not befitting for a man of God to entangle that deeply in these dealings," he said, not without regret. "Yet, I understand that the lambs are shaken by the events of the day. We have not been able to contact a significant number of brothers, and we do not know if they are even alive. I agreed to take on the place on this council only for today – there will be someone else as soon as we have regrouped and the dust has settled slightly. Griollet here, however, will stay on."
Enjolras nodded.
"It is appreciated. Thank you Frater."
He let his gaze wander around the table.
"Very well," he said. "So let's begin."
Enjolras quite intentionally did not take out his pocket watch to take a look at the time when the rabble finally died down. Dawn would tell the time soon enough.
After the assembly of Combeferre's improvised council had concluded, midnight had already passed. The subsequent discussions had further stretched the hours, time passing like wind, unmarked and unmourned.
Finally, the visitors filed out, some in groups of two or three, others forming merry bunches, mostly taking up Courfeyrac's advice to group together to provide less valuable targets in the process. The Saint Antoine group left as a whole, going the same way they had come earlier this evening.
Pierre Berat was collecting a set of drawings that had been produced in the back room, exchanging words with Feuilly, who was wiping smudges of coal from his hands as the two artists assessed the work of the evening. Enjolras felt a pang of bad conscience knowing that, unlike the rest of them, Feuilly would not be able to stretch his night rest into the morning hours. It was highly likely that he would have to pass to the atelier he worked at right away, without even an hour of repose. Given the fact that the man looked tired, Enjolras considered briefly that he should have seen this before.
But then again, the same went for the others that were part of the working class. Most of the Saint Antoine group, a few of those from Picpus, and the marble workers from the Barrière du Maine as well. Some of them had left early, but the majority had stayed up until now.
It was easy to forget in the fervor of things to be done.
Combeferre followed his gaze and nodded without uttering a word – the long familiarity between them had him probably guess Enjolras' thoughts anyway – and he went over to where Feuilly and Berat were sitting, exchanging a few words with them; kind, but insisting.
For a moment, the fan maker seemed to contradict, but tiredness finally won over and the two of them went down to the main room, presumably to have a word with Lucien and Madeleine.
It had happened before that one of them had stayed in an improvised cot in the kitchen of the Musain, most often to Grantaire, but a few times Bahorel, Courfeyrac or Feuilly as well. It had been due to a particularly vicious bout of drinking for the first three, but out of similar reasons like today for the latter.
Berat, on the other hand, stepped up to Enjolras, his copy of the drawings of the assassins with him. He gave them over to Enjolras to have a look and he sifted through them quickly.
The first one was eerily accurate, and the image instantly brought back remembrance of the day before; the figure in the market. He had only seen him for an instant, but the likeness on paper was remarkable.
The second was a drawing of a man with a slightly knotted face, plumb nose, deep sunken eyes and a mop of unruly hair. Full lips and a slightly asymmetrical chin completed the picture, and a caption in Feuilly's accurate, clean writing read 'dwarf'.
"I will have Madame look at it to confirm," Pierre explained calmly, and Enjolras nodded in agreement.
The third showed a picture that was much less clear – the image of a jester as he would have seen on any given market, with a cap and a painted face. The depiction of the face was much less detailed than for the first two, which was unsurprising. Such a masquerade did tend to obscure the man beneath, and most of the Cougourde group had remembered the man by his dress and type rather than his actual features. 'Fairly short', the accompanying note said, and 'slender'.
At the side, almost as an afterthought, there was a crude painting of the same face without painting, the features only coarsely hinted at, as memories and descriptions had obviously been hazier than the first two.
The fourth picture was again relatively accurate, showing a young man with a smooth face, large eyes, carefully swung brows accentuating a finely chiseled face. He was not beautiful, but handsome, yet not overly so as to attract an unduly amount of attention.
"This came from the description of the boy," Pierre Berat explained and Enjolras wondered if he was referring to Gavroche or the other gamin that he had brought with him to the meeting. He would have to make it a point to ask Courfeyrac about it.
"These are very well done," Enjolras praised, feeling a short bout of sadness that Feuilly had not been there so that he could have given him the compliments himself. He would have to remember it on the morrow. Berat nodded.
"Yes, indeed. I will speak with Madame tomorrow – well, rather today – morning about the details, but we will get to setting the xylographs right away." Pierre appreciated the drawings again, a frown on his face. "Madame was kind enough to agree to having less images in the next two days of le Globe, so I hope we can get it done by tomorrow evening."
Enjolras knew from Combeferre that Berat was master over four journeyman xylographists, all who worked for Le Globe and were his to supervise and direct. He nodded.
"Thank you very much, Monsieur Berat," he said, placing a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "I would have you know that this is very well appreciated. And give my regards and utmost thanks to Madame de Cambout again, if you see her. I fear she is doing us a kindness that we will hardly ever be able to repay."
Berat nodded and took to placing his drawings into the satchel he had brought.
"She is Madame," he answered, explaining everything and nothing.
"Mayhap," Enjolras proposed, "some of the others will be able to drop you off on the way home. After all that we have heard, I can only conclude that we are being watched. Perhaps even now, and I would hate for you to be an easy target."
Berat nodded in accordance.
"Rest easy," he said. "I have already asked around. There are a few students that live not too far off."
Enjolras, satisfied with the answer, bade him goodnight. The man left the Café, calmly and unobtrusively, as was his manner, crossing a returning Combeferre at the entrance to the back room.
"Feuilly will get a few hours of sleep in the kitchen here," he reported, and Enjolras nodded, calmed to some extent. It was not in his manner to continuously ensure the well-being of those around him, but still he appreciated to know that all was being taken care of. Especially these days.
Together, they stood in companionable silence and watched the rabble dying down. The room had the languid feeling of a job accomplished to it. It was a rare contentment that came with the dying down of activity, mingled with a certain satisfaction at the deed itself.
Joly and Bossuet had shooed Marc Lamarin out; now he joined his companions from the Cougourde, bantering good-naturedly with Bahorel at the abandoned drawers' tables.
In a corner of the room where the walls were equipped with benches, the corresponding tables currently removed to the posts of command they had improvised, Gavroche and his young comrade calmly slept. The former was covered with Courfeyrac's jacket, the latter with Bahorel's violet one. Next to them sat a slightly thoughtful Jehan, observing the room with an absent-minded smile and Grantaire, his hands as ever, glued to a mug of wine.
At the entrance from Rue des Grès, Éponine and Marius were discussing, and Enjolras could not help frowning at that. Marius' posture and manner was beseeching, while hers seemed almost reluctant, her shoulders tense and uncomfortable.
But before he could find it in himself to understand, whether what he felt was indignation or just annoyance at the distractedness of Pontmercy, he felt a weight on his shoulder. Courfeyrac, who had crept up on them from behind, wiggled between him and Combeferre, arms draped over both their shoulders.
"So," he said cheerfully, "do we proclaim this operation a partial success, or what?"
"I would say so," Combeferre answered with a slight smile. "I daresay we could be looking at a worse situation than we are right now."
"I see," Courfeyrac nodded gravely. "So, what does a man have to do to get a full account from his friends on a meeting he was all but excluded from? Buy a round of wine for everyone?"
Enjolras, while understanding his friend's curiosity and feeling quite inclined to satisfy it, was about to reject the offer, but Combeferre was quicker.
"I will pass, I think," he said, "but thank you for the offer, and of course…"
He broke off, realizing that the rest of his speech might not receive the appreciation deserved, because Courfeyrac had not even fully waited for an answer. He instead departed towards the main room, shouting to Louison to bring up the desired beverage, as a celebration was in order.
The exclamation seemed to rouse everyone again, the friends crowding around the assembly of tables as Lucien brought up a set of bottles into the back room. Even the two gamins, roused by the activity in the room, moved towards them again. They looked quite droll in the oversized coats that they had not bothered to take off, as they – slightly sleepily – took their place at the table.
Éponine hesitated for a moment before joining them, coming in a step behind Marius, looking at the assembly with a certain reservation, looking towards him as if she were asking for permission.
Enjolras, with difficulty, pushed aside exasperation. She was taking half a step back for every single one that she took towards them. It was also a tiresome, slow process that called forth his impatience.
She was not timid, he thought. She did not mind speaking frankly, as she had proven to him on various occasions, remarkably frankly, as if challenging, daring him to be affronted at her lack of poise and manners.
He frowned slightly at the revelation, wondering what had inspired it.
Yet, neither did he fear being challenged, and he was less easily to be offended by courage and good sense than rumor would often have him.
When it came to Éponine, there was probably some understanding in order. He did imagine that the life she had been living had been a difficult one. Those which fell through the cracks of what passed for a society in France these days probably had little reason or inclination for trust.
Fetters, everywhere…
She had hesitated at his frown, only slightly, but finally, her courage won over. She tilted her head while meeting his gaze, another dare yet, and he responded with a raise of his brow.
"Mademoiselle?" he asked drily, the best way to scold her for her hesitancy he could think of. She was surprised for just a moment, but then, of all things, the ghost of a smile crept onto her tired, narrow features.
A few steps later, she took a seat at the table, as if she had been doing it for years.
Courfeyrac, not sharing the hesitancy of Enjolras and Combeferre – in fact, not respecting it – handed out mugs filled with wine, starting with the two who had explicitly denied drinking with them in the young hours of the morning.
Enjolras, knowing his friend well enough to estimate that just playing along would require less effort then getting into an argument, took a sip and began the much desired account. Also, he had begun to feel rather tired himself.
"The council has been formed of twelve members as of now. It may well be that we will have some additions to it later, given the fact that some of the looser fractions are not represented, even though it may be worthwhile to include them. As long as things are vague as they are now, we will meet every other day, with at least one representative for each group at alternating locations to be able to keep the word from spreading too far. We will start at the Corinth the day after tomorrow, and from then on, we will probably turn to the lodgings of the other groups as well."
"It's an experiment, of sorts," Combeferre added, looking woefully into his still-full mug. "An attempt at unification has not been tried. There is a certain risk to it, diverse as we are, but…"
"We've discussed this before," Enjolras interrupted. Combeferre's doubts were well noted. A council of this diverse a nature was in any case a difficult ship to sail. Revolutionists of a more Jacobin nature, Saint-Simonists, Reformists, Romantics, even all those who knew too little to attach a specific political affiliation to them, while still feeling that their cause was generally a just one, made up for a heterogeneous group that was difficult to direct or control. Yet the benefits of the arrangement outweighed the dangers by far.
Combeferre sighed and pinched his nose with two fingers, obviously tired. They all were. Outside the Café, the first sounds of birds awakening heralded the arrival of morning.
"Yes, I know," Combeferre replied slightly ruefully. "So, apart from a rather philosophical discussion on the legitimacy and political justification of this council, we have broached the matter of how we deal with the official investigations that are certainly ongoing in this city."
Enjolras nodded.
"In fact, Éponine and I have encountered an Inspector going by the name of Javert in La Force. He had been on his way to investigate the whereabouts of the Rue d'Olivel assassin."
"Javert?" That roused Gavroche, who had been content to huddle on a bench at Courfeyrac's side, half asleep, but still listening. "That man's a loose cannon."
Enjolras remembered the short conversation he had had with the inspector, an experience he did not particularly care to repeat. Whatever Javert's dealings otherwise, Enjolras was sure that the policeman had recognized him. It was probably due to, as Éponine had pointed out, that head of his. Plus the situation had been a tense one, where law and insurrection had met and passed one another unscathed. He would certainly rather avoid another brush-in with the man.
"You know him?" Courfeyrac turned towards Gavroche, who grinned mischievously. "What'd you do without me, hm? 'Course I know him. Sniffs around in all the corners, that one. Better beware."
"I would not have put it quite that way," Enjolras added his own words to that of the boy, "but yes, I would not feel grieved either if our dealings with this man would be brief to nonexistent."
"Nevertheless," Combeferre intercepted, calmly, but not without determination, hence drawing their attention back to him. He was returning to the recall of the result of a hard-won argument. "We in the end agreed that it may be more beneficial to cooperate with the authorities in this matter, as long as we do not put ourselves in danger."
"Bah," Bahorel snorted in disgust. "Why should we ever do that?"
Combeferre turned towards him, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. Enjolras leaned back and watched. It was a repetition of the discussion that had carried out during the improvised council, where Combeferre had – with surprising vehemence and eloquence – argued for cooperating with the municipal police. And won.
"Because whatever else may be going on, and whatever else our opinions may be – what has happened to us yesterday is against even the laws of Louis Phillipe. There is no telling yet who is behind this charade – and we would do well to find out – but I cannot imagine that the whole set of municipal police, including their helpers and supporters, is privy to this sort of procedures. There is a good chance that the attacks on us may open quite a few eyes in influential places about what this government really is."
"Hmm…" Bahorel mused, thoughtfully tapping his knuckles onto the table. "I like the way you're thinking."
"Thank you," Combeferre replied drily.
"Apart from that we have again emphasized the current need of companionship," Enjolras took up the thread again. "In addition, we will spread the word further, both on the regime and revolution itself, as well as on what happened. It would do well to distribute the knowledge of the attacks in the city so that there is less possibility for hiding and covert action."
"That's a dangerous thing to do." Enjolras turned towards the source of the voice. Éponine, her arms crossed, had leaned back in her chair and watched him defiantly. "You might make them more desperate."
Enjolras nodded.
"Yes, we might. We have considered that. However, at the end, we will not want to spend the rest of our days looking anxiously over our shoulders. Truth is, Éponine, we want them found, and soon. If anything we do chases them out of hiding, all the better."
She shrugged and considered this for a moment before she nodded, perhaps not in agreement, but at least in appreciation.
"That's a brave thing to do," she said, strangely earnest, and Enjolras was not quite sure what kind of response was expected from him.
"Ah, but that's us," Courfeyrac answered, unfazed. "And I agree actually with both of you. I'm sick of hiding."
"Hear, hear," Bahorel answered, predictable as the sun that was rising outside the café, bathing the streets in an eerie, greenish light. "Never a truer word spoken inside these four walls."
"So this covered that," Combeferre tried to pick up a lost thread from before. "Also, we tried to gain an overview on the number of people available for each group. The Barrière du Maine and Saint Antoine seem to be on our side in full numbers, apart from those that have fallen to the attacks. With the Cougourde, things are slightly more difficult. There have been a few members that refused to show up or further participate in our activities."
"That was probably just what was intended," Jehan spoke up unexpectedly. "Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed."
"As Shakespeare would say," Combeferre concurred with a slight smile. "Just so, Prouvaire, I assume that this was indeed the intention."
Enjolras took up the thread and continued.
"Things are worse still in Picpus. Frater Antoine has been unable to locate most of them, and what investigations he carried out do not inspire much confidence. We do not know how many of them have fallen."
"Patience," counseled Combeferre, but his sorrowful gaze spoke otherwise. "We may yet learn more."
Silence settled in for a moment, again broken by Courfeyrac who stretched languorously like a cat.
"Well then," he concluded. "A successful night after all."