(AN – Wow this story has gotten quite a few new followers over the past day, hello to all of you, so nice of you to join us, please pull up a chair. There should be one somewhere around the barricade. I'm afraid you have joined us at an inopportune moment as about to battle the National Guard…)
Chapter Fourteen – Children of the Barricade
The only way that Enjolras could have described the last few hours was just him going through the motions. He had so many times used his dreams of a better France as a way to hide from unwanted thoughts and feelings. It had become the only thing that kept him grounded, his only defence against a world he couldn't control. He used that defence now, fully throwing himself into the work at hand. Anyone who had looked at him would have seen only the leader and not known that, inside, he was anguished.
"You take the watch Courfeyrac, they may still attack again tonight." Turning to face those around him he added, "Keep the faith, more people are coming. I am as certain of it as I am certain that I can see the red flag atop the barricade."
If Enjolras had made that statement a week ago whilst they stood within the warmth and comfort of the Café Musain, it would have been greeted by a stir of approval, perhaps even the odd cheer in return. Today, though, it was only greeted by a glum set of nods, as if they truly wanted to believe him but just couldn't.
Instead, they sat around the cold damp barricade. Enjolras chose to say nothing as they passed brandy and wine amongst themselves. Who was he to deny them what comfort they could find at this time? A few slept, but most were awake, reminiscing on times gone by and laughing about their misspent youth like old men of eighty, rather than the young men that they were.
Enjolras took advantage of their momentary distraction; retreating into the mouth of a nearby alley to the left of the barricade, he finally allowed himself to let down his façade. He rested his head against the cool brick of the wall.
"What about your friend's lives?"
Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the memory of Eponine's lifeless face as her words drifted through his mind. In the last couple of hours, he had asked himself countless times what he would have done had he known that the term 'his friend's lives' had applied to her.
Nothing, he told himself, the revolution is more important—Patria is more important. However, the words sounded hollow and false even to his own heart. The truth was that once again, someone was dead because of him. If it wasn't for him, Eponine would be alive right now and not lying in some god forsaken tavern. He could only pray that the feeling that he had led all of his friends into a futile battle was just his grief speaking. Where were the people he had believed in so blindly?
He was glad that he had been spared the task of dealing with the traitorous Inspector Javert. The strange old gentleman had been on hand to take that responsibility from him. Enjolras wasn't sure that he could have killed in cold blood, on top of everything.
He pushed himself away from the wall and supported himself on his own two legs again. He couldn't hide here when people were relying on him, he would go through with this. He owed Eponine that much—he couldn't allow her death to have been in vain.
Returning from his hiding place, Enjolras spotted Marius. He was still relentlessly building up the barricades defences, pain etched across his face. Marius had the luxury of being able to show and act on his emotions.
"Marius, rest."
"How can I?" Marius responded. "She is gone."
Enjolras squeezed his friend's shoulder, thankfully ignorant to the fact that Marius was speaking of Cosette and not Eponine.
Enjolras did not sleep that night—though his eyes were closed, his mind was very much awake, memories of Montfermeil running through his mind.
"Come on Eponine! I want to get to the fair before it gets too busy!" He pulled her by the elbow, but she did not move. Her eyes were fixed on one of the visiting genteel ladies who was in town for the summer fair.
"Look at her parasol. Look at her beautiful bonnet and lilac gloves. How beautiful!" Eponine had effused, eyes shining.
"Come on. We don't want them to run out of toffee apples."
"But I don't want a toffee apple, I want lilac gloves!" she had said, reluctantly turning around and following him.
"When I am a lady, I shall have all the most beautiful things."
"Then you shall be spoilt and rotten and I won't want to be your friend anymore."
"No!" she had cried, her hands flying to her face, "I shall have no gloves so long as we can still be friends. We are blood brother and sister, don't forget."
"Monsieur, are you alright?"
Enjolras opened his eyes and looked into the kind face of Monsieur Fauchelevent.
"Oui."
"You looked distressed."
"I was merely frowning in my sleep," Enjolras replied.
"I was certain you were awake."
Enjolras studied the strange man before him. He was about to ask why he had joined them when he was distracted by Courfeyrac.
"Enjolras, the other barricades have fallen. We are the only ones left."
"But there are no more than thirty men here."
"Yes, and against the entire National guard," Courfeyrac uttered grimly.
Enjolras felt his face blanch. It confirmed what he had come to fear over the past few hours—the people had not stirred. He wished Eponine was here, even if it was to tell him that she had told him so.
"Gather everyone," Enjolras said firmly to Courfeyrac.
Enjolras prepared himself for his final speech.
"Citizens, we are abandoned by the people of France. But let us not blame them. They are afraid, they were downtrodden and we have tried to raise them up in vain. I will ask none of you to throw your lives away. If you wish to, you may leave." Enjolras felt defeated as he waited with bated breath to see who would go, but no one moved.
"Gavroche, you must go," Courfeyrac said to the young boy.
"No!" Gavroche replied indignantly. "They killed my sister! I want to fight them! I believe in everything Monsieur Enjolras would say at the Café Musain. I won't give up."
The sight of youngest of them all still prepared to fight for the cause, bravery and determination shinning in his face, had a strange effect on the men of the barricade. Little Gavroche, the street urchin who could not read or write, had, with his few simple words, re-inspired the enthusiasm of the men more effectively than any of Enjolras's clever speeches ever could have done.
The life that had been missing from the barricade returned with even more enthusiasm than it had previously possessed. The students once again took up arms.
"We are low on ammunition," Joly whispered to Enjolras.
"I had it sent inside after the first attack," Enjolras replied, but not soon enough.
~X~
Unseen to the men of the barricade, Gavroche had heard Joly's statement, but not Enjolras's reply. Quick as a fox, he had slipped through a gap in the barricade. He did not hesitate when he saw the soldiers waiting at the other end of the street, making his way forward, boldly grabbing the pouch of ammunition from one of the national guardsmen. Thinking that perhaps this could be the man who had shot Eponine, he bent over and laughed in the man's face.
"That's for me sister."
BANG! A warning shot.
Gavroche assumed they had missed their target and shot a mischievous grin at Combeferre, who hissed at him to return behind the barricade.
"Can't even hit a kid," he laughed, dancing a little jig to mock the guardsmen as he retrieved another bag of ammunition.
BANG! Not a warning, the shot hit its target.
"Gavroche, come back!" cried Courfeyrac, the gun shot alerting him to what was happening. He tried to climb over the top of the barricade, but was restrained by those thinking clearly, who knew it would be suicide.
Gavroche limped towards the next body he had targeted. Retrieving the ammunition pouch, he threw it over the barricade.
"Get back here at once!" Enjolras cried, following Courfeyrac as he scrambled down the barricade and made his way to the entrance on the left hand side, which was partly shielded by a building.
Gavroche began to limp his way towards Courfeyrac, he couldn't, however, resist pausing to turn and poke his tongue out at the enemy.
BANG!
He never got to throw his final insult. Mercifully, his world went black instantly before he knew what had happened. He died thinking that he was having the last laugh.
~X~
They say that when you are angry, you see red. Enjolras had been seeing red most his adult life—the red flag of revolution. The moment that he saw a distraught Courfeyrac, sobbing like a child, cradling Gavroche's little body, he no longer saw red—he saw white, pure white rage.
"You at the barricades listen to this, the people of Paris sleep in their beds. You have no chance! Surrender now whilst you can," came a voice from the other side of the barricade. "Don't throw your lives away."
Enjolras knew that all hope was over for them then. If the ideals he held so close to his heart would not come to be by his hand, so be it. In that moment, as the next words he spoke were formed in his head, he thought only of revenge.
"Let us make them bleed before we die!"
"We will make them pay," said Combeferre, who had never wanted to fight.
"For every man," wept the grief-stricken Courfeyrac.
And every woman, thought Enjolras. "And others will rise to take our place, they will see! The people of France will not stop fighting until we are free!"
"Cannons!" came the call from the National Guard the moment they realised no surrender was imminent.
The explosions that had been threatening since General Lermarque's funeral went off at once. In the heat of battle, it is hard to know where to look. Enjolras's senses were overwhelmed, one minute a bang drew his attention to his left; the next, a flash of light drew his attention to his right. The wounded were piling up faster than Joly could tend to them. He looked aghast as Enjolras dragged yet another injured man into his makeshift hospital.
"Enjolras, I can't do this! I would be better out there helping you."
"As you wish, but help this man first."
"Enjolras!"
He rushed towards the sound of his name being called. He made it only in time to see Combeferre pierced three times by a bayonet. Combeferre momentarily raised his eyes towards heaven before dying.
And with that, Les Amis De l'ABC began to fall.
Bahorel would never be late to another lecture.
Feuilly had made his last fan.
Bossuet's bad luck had finally caught up with him.
Courfeyrac would chase the tavern girls no more—his child-like enthusiasm for life had been put out.
Jean Prouvaire's last poem was ripped from his lips seconds before he was shot, "Vive La France, Vive La Republic!"
He saw Marius fall as he was shot, Monsieur Fauchelevent rushing to his side.
He had not seen Grantaire for some time, and was disappointed to realise that he must have left them.
A few of the workers who had joined them were trying to make their way into the Corinth for protection. Enjolras rushed to aid them.
"Stand aside!" he cried, and with a swift kick the door he broke the lock and the door swung open. Enjolras motioned for the men to pass behind him.
"Hide in the roof," he said. He shot what he realised was his last bullet at the first soldier over the barricade.
Once all were safely inside, Enjolras joined them. He would keep the soldiers at bay as long as possible. He placed the barrel of his now useless rifle through the door handle to delay the inevitable entry of the soldiers. Snapping off the butt, he took it into his hands and used it to smash away the flimsy wooden ladder that led up to the second floor of the Corinth.
The stairs removed, he stood above the gaping hole that used to be the entrance to second floor of the Corinth. He had his make-shift club in hand, ready to face the soldiers trying to break down the door.
"Enjolras?"
He turned around to find Grantaire.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was waiting for you."
By the looks of things, Grantaire had drunk himself into a stupor. Enjolras filled him in on the state of things. "The only one of our friends left is me—you must hide on the roof with the remaining workers who joined us."
"I know, Enjolras. That is why I've been waiting for you here. This has always been my plan."
Enjolras had no time to give thoughts to Grantaire's strange words. At that precise moment, the attempts to break down the door were finally successful.
They poured into the building in a furious fervour; they too had seen their friends fall. Enjolras fought valiantly, holding a regiment back with just the butt of his rifle. He did not know how long he would have kept it up if Grantaire had not grabbed him and pulled him backwards.
"That is him!" one soldier cried, pointing to Enjolras. "He is their leader!"
Enjolras dropped his make-shift weapon and picked up a discarded revolutionary flag. He folded his arms across his chest, knowing he had done all that he could.
"Shoot me."
"No!" cried Grantaire. "He is not the leader—I am! Vive la France!"
"What are you doing?" Enjolras hissed, turning to his friend as the rifles were lowered at them.
"You must know," said Grantaire gripping Enjolras's hand, "that I have always been a little bit in love with you."
Grantaire still had hold of Enjolras's had when the report rang out. In a last act of bravery or devotion, Grantaire stepped forwards into the line of fire. He took six of the eight bullets that were meant for Enjolras.
The impact of the two remaining bullets along with the force of Grantaire's body being thrown backwards sent Enjolras toppling through the open window, the revolutionary flag still gripped in his hand. He had no time to process that he was not mortally wounded. He thought he was dying as he fell backwards. Then his head struck against the stone wall of the building beneath him and his world went black.
~X~
Eponine woke to a deafening silence. The world focused around her as she struggled to gain her bearings. It came back to her in a flash—her hand shot to her shoulder, confirming that she was still wounded and it had not been a dream.
As her vision became less blurry, she realised that there were people lying beside her. She rolled over, and instantly recoiled from what she realised was the glassy eyed face of Courfeyrac. She sat bolt upright—her world spun precariously around her and she had to grip her knees tightly to prevent herself from falling backwards.
Taking a deep breath, she got shakily to her feet. It was then that she realised Courfeyrac was not the only one there—a whole line of young men were on the floor, and at the end of them was… Oh dear God, thought Eponine. Rushing unsteadily forwards, she fell down onto the body of her poor baby brother.
"No, no—no," she whispered brokenly, stroking his blonde hair back from his waxy face. "Oh, Gavroche. Why you?"
Her grief was rudely interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. With a melting heart, she kissed Gavroche's cold forehead one last time before melting back into the shadows.
The footsteps, she realised, belonged to none other than Inspector Javert. Not caring anymore if she was arrested, Eponine jumped forwards as he bent over her brother's motionless body. She stopped in her tracks as she saw him remove the medal he always proudly wore on his chest and pin it onto her brother in a mark of respect. Tears sprung into Eponine's eyes.
Returning to her hiding place, she watched as Javert made his progress through the barricades he had sought to destroy only the day before.
She followed him outside. Something had caught his attention.
Her heart leapt up into her throat. There hanging from the window was Enjolras. Defiant to the last, his hand clung onto the red flag that was spread out behind him. His feet were caught on the edges of the window, his hands flung up above his head. He looked as if he was part of the flag itself—the motif of revolution.
Javert's attention was then arrested by something in one of the nearby alley ways.
The moment he was out of sight, Eponine rushed forwards. She couldn't bear to leave Enjolras hanging there like that; her heart bled for the little serious boy that she had known.
Her senses on full alert, Eponine scanned the area. There was no sign of the National Guard at the moment. They must have retreated to lick their wounds now that the students were defeated. She knew that they would not be gone for long. She feared that they would leave Enjolras hanging there for days, or worse, parade his body about Paris as some kind of warning to others. She couldn't allow that.
Finding the entrance to the Corinth, she found that the stairs that used to lead to the second floor had been destroyed. Going as fast as her spinning head allowed, she rushed outside and grabbed a discarded chair from the barricade, using it to climb through the hole that led to the second floor.
She saw Grantaire's crumpled form lying on the floor next to the window, anchoring the edge of the flag that Enjolras still held. That must have been why Enjolras hadn't fallen completely out.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Grantaire as she passed him and reached out of the window, grabbing the lapels of Enjolras's red jacket. Bracing her feet against the edge of the wall beneath the window frame, Eponine leant backwards, using her body like a lever to pull Enjolras back inside.
At the last moment, she jumped to the side to prevent herself being crushed by the weight of him as he fell back into the Corinth. She gasped as she heard the muffled grunt he let out as he hit the floor.
"Enjolras?" she said, barely daring to believe her ears as she placed her hand in front of his mouth and felt the gentle stirring of his breath against her palm.
Her injured shoulder protested as she used all her force to roll him over onto his back. She had no medical knowledge, but she could see that blood was seeping across his white shirt, which was obviously not a good sign. What she would give for Enjolras' friend Joly to be here!
The sound of wood snapping outside caught her attention. She risked a peek out the window and saw that a few of the National Guard had returned. She needed to get Enjolras out of there now.
Grabbing his shoulders, she shook him with all her might.
"Come, Enjolras—you need to wake up."
To her dismay, his breathing was becoming fainter, his face whiter.
Growing desperate, she did the one thing she knew had always riled him up as a child.
"Marceline Enjolras, you must wake up this instant," she said, voice coming out a bit shakier than she wished it to.
A small frown creased his forehead.
Placing her good arm under his shoulders, she raised him into a sitting position.
"Stand up, Marceline," she commanded.
His eyes still closed, he raised himself to his feet, still mostly unconscious he leaned heavily upon her small frame.
Her legs shook beneath her. Please god, she thought, just give me the strength to get him out of here, even if it kills me.
Half dragging him, she began to make her way out of the Corinth just as the soldiers decided to make their way in…
(AN – Ok before you hate me, I had to watch Gavroche's death so many times for this chapter, it was literally devastating! So I suffered for this chapter to. Because in this stupid country Les Mis is not our on DVD until 13th May and I couldn't find an unedited version of the barricades falling online anywhere I mostly had to go from memory/imagination. Hope you don't mind the result. I'm going to go and sob in a corner now over what I just did to some of my favourite fictional characters.
I would just like to say a massive thank you to SusannaLovesRowling for all her continued help with this story!
I know it's a Cliff-hanger, I'm sorry, I will get the next chapter up asap!)