Chapter Two: Maelstrom

He had a strange dream.

He dreamt that a portrait of Chopin was speaking to him while holding a blue rose. Then the rose spoke, but only said the name "Enjolras".

Then he realised he was holding the rose, and it was wilting fast.

The old lady came along and replaced the rose in his hand with a fresh one, but this time when it wilted, it turned into a knife. He then fell over and the knife was pressing on his stomach.

He woke up startled, still feeling the knife. He turned over and saw that he had been sleeping on the book.

Still half-asleep, he went to work: he worked in a printing shop, one that could print out anything from documents to customised clothing. It was pretty monotonous work, but he got on well with the people who worked with him, which usually brightened his mood.

Most tasks that day were straightforward, with the exception of two strange girls who wanted hoodies with Delacroix's 'Liberty Leading the People' on them.

It was a Sunday, so they shut early. With nothing else to do, he subconsciously started to walk towards the cemetery again. It was about the time of the downpour the day before, so there was a possibility of the woman being there again.

He passed a flower shop and, on a whim, bought a red rose. He did not know why but he decided he didn't want to come empty handed again and buying a blue rose would be too imitative.

This time he got a map and found Chopin's grave much easier. The woman was not there, but it was a bit earlier than the day before so he decided to wait. He had an idea that since the woman had such a specific ritual, she might show up at the exact same time every day. He sat down by the side of the grave and got his book out.

After a while, he heard the rustling of leaves as footsteps approached. He looked up and recognised the woman.

'What is your name?' he asked as soon as he saw her.

'Aurore,' she said – that was the name of the woman who had an affair with Chopin. Perhaps she was related to her. It was an unlikely explanation of her behaviour, but an explanation nonetheless.

'I'm Grantaire.'

'So, you came again.'

'I read up some more about Chopin. I don't know much about his music, but I know some more about his past now.'

They repeated the chores of the day before, but this time Grantaire asked the woman to follow him instead.

He had memorised Enjolras' grave's location so he could appear as knowledgeable as she was about the cemetery. He realised this was slightly childish, but he couldn't help it.

He found it easily enough, although he felt guilty about making Aurore pass through the trees. However, she did not make any objection.

She was definitely unusual, and this intrigued Grantaire.

He put his rose down in place of the blue one and asked her what she thought about the grave. Her opinion was similar to his, although she immediately recognised that it was to do with the June Rebellion.

At the start she was just saying the facts he knew, but then she told him a story she had heard from her grandfather whose father had taken part in the rebellion.

'He used to tell me about the people who took part in it. Most of his father's friends from then died there.'
'It was not a very successful rebellion, and mostly workers and students took part in it, so most of the dead would not have a grave like this. However, some students were rich. Especially some from a group which was called, as I recall, Les Amis de l'ABC.'

Grantaire smiled at the pun.

'They were the revolutionaries who held the barricade near Rue Mondetour. Their leader was referred to as Apollo. I don't know why, but it must have been because of his beauty.'

'He was charismatic, from a rich family and cold but just. This may be his gravestone. My grandfather remembered the stories his father told him but he did not remember all the names.'

'Thank you. This has been very informative. By the way, where do you get your roses?'

'It's a small shop just off Rue Gambetta. I'll show you'.

As Grantaire expected, the flowers there were cheaper so he promised to himself to start his own ritual of laying a red rose on Enjolras' and the stranger's grave every day.

He kept his promise for weeks. Then, one day, he was ill and could not leave his bed. He felt terrible for not being able to do so but he knew it would be irrational to endanger himself for the sake of keeping up a ritual.

The next day he bought two roses and laid one on the main grave and the other under the rock.

He picked up the old rose and was about to leave when something strange happened.

There were no petals on the rose, but suddenly they seemed to fly out of nowhere and attach themselves back onto it.

Then, when he looked up at the sky it was flashing between day and night.

When he looked back at where the rose was, it was no longer there. He was left with a fistful of dust.

The clearing disappeared.

There were trees everywhere, but soon they moved out of his face. He observed with horror as they turned into tiny saplings, and then disappeared altogether.

He looked down at his feet and did not see Enjolras' grave. He went down from the hill and could not see Chopin's grave. In fact, there were notably few graves there.

A short distance from where Chopin's grave used to be – will be? – Grantaire saw a trail of mourners leading away from a shiny new grave bursting with flowers, just by where the Casimir Périer Roundabout used to be. Again, will be?

When they were what he deemed to be a safe distance away, he went up to the grave and read the name. Jean-François Champollion. Year of death: 1832.

There was no doubt.

He had travelled back in time.

He was about to discard that theory as being absurd, but a small, open-minded part of his brain decided to push all the doubts to the back of his head and focus on what he was going to do next.

He left the cemetery and headed down Rue de la Roquette at a brisk pace.

He had no idea where he was headed so he continued in a straight line for as long as possible, hardly daring to glance around. This was not the Paris he knew – definite proof that he had travelled in time.

He found himself crossing to the other side of the Seine and then turning in random directions.

In total, he was walking for over an hour. It was freezing and he was out of breath so when he saw a warm yellow light coming from a café on a corner he decided to risk everything and go inside, not bothering to look at the sign above the entrance that read 'Café Musain'.

He did not have the confidence to sit at a table, and even if he did, he realised he did not have the contemporary currency.

As a result he lingered behind the door, hoping no one would notice him while warmed himself. It appeared to be working, as none of the people entering wanted to look back out onto the cold street.

In doing so, he was able to overhear a snippet of conversation between two young men entering.

'Did Enjolras tell you what we were going to be deciding this week, Bossuet?' said one of them while scratching his nose with his cane.

'No, Joly. I haven't seen him at all this week.' The other one answered, taking his hat off. Grantaire noticed he was bald, although he seemed around the same age as him.

'Well, whatever it is,' Joly answered, 'I hope this meeting will be over soon and we can get back home.'

They went up to the bar and got two bottles of wine. To Grantaire this seemed to be a lot for two people, but the waitress appeared to be used to it. Then they went into some passage and disappeared.

He quickly forgot about that because his heart was pounding in his chest.

From when he heard the name 'Enjolras' the rest of the conversation seemed to be coming from behind a veil.

The odds of this happening were astronomical. Him finding the man whose grave he had spent weeks obsessing about by complete coincidence.

No, he decided. It had to be more than that. He was in 1832 – the year of Enjolras' death.

It was fate.

Mustering up his courage, he walked up to the waitress the men had spoken to. Only when he had got her attention he realised he had no idea what to ask her.

'Can I help you?'

'I – is this where Les Amis de l'ABC meet?'

She narrowed her eyes and scrutinised Grantaire. He knew she was wondering whether he was a spy.

'That depends on who is asking.'

'I'm a student. I study with Joly.' He knew this was a gamble.

'What do you study?' She asked, raising her eyebrows. She said it in a casual tone, but he knew she was interrogating him.

He knew it was probably law or medicine. But which one? He tried to think back. Joly had a cane although he did not need one – but that could be to make himself look grander. Although – this was a group of revolutionaries, so he decided to go with the hypochondriac idea and tried to remember something else that would back this up.

From the conversation he heard, he assumed Joly and Bossuet lived together. Both of them were dressed warmer than the other people in the bar. He had to hazard a guess.

'Medicine.' He said in a surprisingly confident tone.

From the expression on the waitress' face, he assumed he was correct.

'Wait here,' she said, and went off into the passage.

Confirming his worst fears, she came back with Joly.