Chapter Thirteen: Messages
Enjolras watched from a distance as Combeferre wept in the corner of the barricade, leaning over a paving stone. Enjolras started in alarm as Combeferre raised his hand and slashed it against a fragment of glass that stuck out from the barricade, however the man seemed to have a reason for it, as he let the blood spill over the stone. It was in order to read the writing, although Enjolras couldn't have known this.
Combeferre's expression softened, then he smiled briefly before starting to cry again. After a while he regained some of his composure and started scribbling on a piece of paper. From the way he was glancing between the paper and the stone, Enjolras assumed he was copying whatever was written on it.
Combeferre folded the piece of paper carefully and put it in his inside pocket. When he started to lift the paving stone Enjolras saw the figure of Grantaire join him and help. They were heading in the direction of the basement.
Grantaire was conflicted. He had been observing Combeferre, just as Enjolras had, but he had no idea what to do. Once he saw Combeferre desperately trying to carry the stone away, he knew he couldn't stay away; when he went near to him, he had no idea what to say. He could not leave Combeferre to suffer alone, but there was nothing he could say that Combeferre would want to hear. There was no right answer.
They got down to the basement room and laid the stone down in a place that looked safe. This gave Grantaire an opportunity to look at the writing on it. It was bloodstained – it took him a moment to remember it was Combeferre's blood. He didn't want to intrude by reading too much of it, but he read just enough to see that it was a poem. Typical Jehan.
He looked up and looked at Combeferre. His hair was in a mess and it looked as if some had been torn out, and his face was ashen, but his eyes were red. They shone like there were still tears in them, ready to fall as soon as nobody was looking.
They both became aware of Javert's silent presence in the room. He had been brought back there after the National Guard had broken their side of the bargain. They went up to the main part of the wine-shop which was completely abandoned. No one was in the mood for drinking and laughing.
'Combeferre,' Grantaire said, then he was stuck. There were no words to express what he wanted to say. Tears streamed down his face and he hated himself for it. Jehan's death had destroyed him too, but he had wanted to be strong in front of Combeferre, as the other man must have been infinitely more hurt.
Combeferre understood, although he had no words to say so either. They embraced and Combeferre buried his face in Grantaire's shirt.
Courfeyrac entered the wine-shop, and Grantaire left, leaving Courfeyrac to comfort Combeferre.
He found Enjolras in exactly the same spot as he was before. He had not seen him cry at any point, but his eyes were significantly redder than earlier.
Enjolras wasted no time. He directed the repair of the barricade. The insurgents, far from being discouraged by the tragic passing of sweet Jehan, were enraged by it. They redoubled their efforts, making the barricade two feet taller as well as repairing the damage to it. Marius, however, had not been seen for a while.
Enjolras advised everyone to get two hours of sleep, however almost no-one followed his advice, including himself.
Grantaire was shaken. He could not believe Jehan and Bahorel were dead. Earlier, that is, in another life, he had never seen anyone die. He had only ever been to one funeral, and that was of a distant aunt when he was seven. He did not comprehend then what was happening.
Now, he realised, most of them wouldn't have funerals. He thought of Mabeuf lying on the table in the basement, and what would happen to him in a few days, after the barricade was taken. He was unsure of what would happen to any of their bodies.
He reflected – he knew that at least one of them would get a decent burial. He had seen the grave. He looked up at Enjolras and his stomach plummeted. When he first saw the grave, he felt no emotions at the thought of the remains six feet under him. Now he looked at who would become those remains.
Enjolras also looked up and saw Grantaire staring at him with a haunted look in his eyes.
'What is it?' He said softly.
'I've seen your grave.'
Enjolras nodded. He understood how Grantaire felt: guilty.
Perhaps as guilty as he did.
'Vivent les peoples,' he said, gesturing at the wall of the café.
Feuilly was standing by the inscription, nail in hand.
Enjolras reflected for a moment, then remembered something.
'Come on, Grantaire. We must hoist our flag.'
'But the flag is up,' Grantaire said, jogging to keep up with Enjolras' lengthy strides.
'Do you remember what I said?' he lifted up a ripped and bloody piece of fabric that Grantaire realised was Mabeuf's coat.
'This is our flag now.'
'And I meant it. Let all the treacherous cowards be reminded what true bravery and dignity is.'
The pole of the omnibus was damaged, but it still sufficed to bear the flag.
Everyone was restless, trying to find something to do. There was no longer any food at the barricade so Enjolras clearly forbade drinking. When around fifteen bottles of wine were found in the cellar, Grantaire discovered him hiding them under the table Mabeuf lay on.
'I don't think anyone will take them now,' he stated, a touch of triumph in his voice.
Enjolras had done something unexpected.
'As for the people, they were boiling yesterday, but this morning they do not stir,' he had said. 'Nothing to expect, nothing to hope, No more from a Faubourg than from a regiment. You are abandoned.'
He – the one who made those passionate speeches, the one who always chose to believe the best of humanity – he was saying there was no hope. He didn't sound like himself; he sounded like Grantaire from a few weeks before.
Needless to say, most of the insurgents were shocked. The ones who were in on "the thing" weren't surprised by the content of the message, but they were most definitely aghast that Enjolras had said it.
'So be it,' said a man in the crowd. 'Let us make the barricade twenty feet high, and let us all stand by it. Citizens, let us offer the protest of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people.
The identity of the man who said this is unknown, but what he said revived the spirit at the barricade.
Enjolras and Combeferre brought four uniforms. The insurgents knew what it meant. Four of them would have to leave.
Combeferre spoke of their duties to their families. He said they must not be selfish – they have to put others' needs over their own desire to sacrifice themselves at the barricade. He did not think, however, of his own mother.
After long discussions over who should leave, five men were chosen.
'There are five!' Marius exclaimed.
Again, the debate resumed. The decision was harder this time, as they were choosing one man who will die instead of five who will live.
They could not choose, and time was running out. They left the decision to Marius, who, although he seemed distant, was horrified at the idea of selecting a man for death.
Suddenly, a fifth uniform fell onto the ground. An old man had entered the barricade.
