Chapter V
~June 5, 1832~
The date was June, 5, 1832. It was the one of those grey days. The sky was hidden under a thick blanket of pale grey clouds, a dreary shadow was cast upon Paris, the streets and everything in them was hued grey, and light falls of rain came and went throughout that entire day. Today was the day of General Lamarque's funeral. Crowds of working men, housekeeping women, students, the rich, and the poor, alike, gathered in the streets of Paris in hopes of beholding the presence of the fallen general one last time before his body was brought back to his birthplace in southwest France. They watched the hearse, accompanied by priests, officers, and great ranks of soldiers, role slowly through the streets of Paris. Some stood stiff, still, and silent, like statutes with cold, hard, and lifeless faces, while others grieved and wept bitterly, sobbing and burying their faces in the arms of their loved ones, while still others beheld this mournful sight with reverent sorrow, grave respect, a will to alleviate the good man's memory in their minds, a passion to fight in his name in their hearts, and a burning anger at injustice in their souls. The masses grew to what some say was over 100,000 people. That was when it all began.
It was as if a spark had suddenly been dropped onto the street, and all of the city immediately went up in flames. Furniture of all sizes and types—tables, chairs, couches, desks, dressers, pianos, instruments, mattresses, beds, wagons, carriages, wheels, boxes, coffins, everything that anyone could find—was thrown out of the windows of houses, apartments, inns, stores, shops, and pubs and hurled down into the streets, where they were swept up by people below and constructed into the barricades. The paving stones of the streets were torn up, young trees were uprooted, fences were ripped out of the earth, stairs and railings were axed apart from the foundations, and all of these things were added to the barricades. At last, the barricades arose! All throughout the streets of Paris there were barricades, behind each of which the rebels waited, armed with whatever weapons they had, a few guns and a few muskets, loaded with self-made bullets that had been formed out of melted glass, a few sabers, a few knives, along with kitchen knives, blacksmith's tools, hammers, picks, spades, anything that they could find. A few perilous rebels against the entire army, with poor weapons, and no training. Yet, they were ready to fight. The people had finally come forth from the darkness. Now, they were ready to fight, despite the consequences that awaited them.
On this same morning, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly were sitting around a table in the lower level of the Café Musain, safe out of the chill of the falling rain, and enjoying breakfast. Bossuet was talking happily and in a carefree manner, joking and laughing about his bad luck. Joly, on the other hand, was in quite a panic, raving about the bad cold that had befallen him, and continuously hoping and re-hoping that it was not the beginning of smallpox: someone has mentioned the disease earlier that morning, and Joly had cried out, "Good Lord! I hope, by God, this curse is not what has become of me!" and ever since, he had been unable to get the idea out of his head. Bossuet continuous assured him that this was not the case. "You are not the one with bad luck, Joly," he had joked, but when Joly was too afraid to find this humorous, he said instead, "Do not be ridiculous, Joly! It is only a cold! Hypochondria has gotten the best of you, again!" It was nearly half of an hour before Joly finally calmed down a bit, but shortly after this, he began raving over a new panic, about the bad oyster that he had swallowed and the fear that it would make him sick.
During all of this time Grantaire sat at the table opposite of Joly, listening to him and Bossuet in both amusement and annoyance. While they were eating, he was drinking. He had already drained an entire bottle, and now he was working on the second. He had not even eaten breakfast yet, and already he was intoxicating himself. He was mostly silent throughout the morning, as he was absorbed in the thoughts of General Lamarque's death, of the Revolution, of the Friends of the ABC, and of what Enjolras planned to do today. He doubted that it would happen. He doubted that the people would rise. Then again, he doubted everything. But there was one thing that he did not doubt. Enjolras. If there was any man who could rally the people of Paris, convince them to give their lives for the sake of freedom, and lead them into battle against injustice, it was Enjolras. The more that Grantaire thought about it, the more he began to believe that there was a chance that this would happen, and the more he began to dread and detest the moment when it did.
Bossuet and Joly were in mid-conversation when Grantaire suddenly burst out, "This is outrageous!"
"What is outrageous?" Joly asked, his voice horse and his sinuses stuffed up from his cold, as he and Bossuet turned to Grantaire with a start.
"All of this!" Grantaire cried out. "The Revolution, General Lamarque, the Friends of the ABC!"
"Grantaire!" Bossuet suddenly hissed at him, and looking nervously over his shoulder, "Keep your voice down!"
As if Bossuet had not spoken, Grantaire went on, "Enjolras wants a revolution. This is well," he said bitterly, even mockingly. "This is splendid! There will be a revolution! The people will rise, all of us will fight, and then all of us will die! Enjolras believes in General Lamarque, he believes in the Revolution, he believes that the people will rise, but this is what I believe: Anything that a man believes in will betray him. That is simply the bitter truth of life, the bitter fruit that grew on the tree in the Garden of Eden, the fruit of which Adam ate to damn the world and curse us all. Now, a man can not believe in anything, because everything that he believes will find a way to betray him. Perhaps, Enjolras is right: the people will rise today at the funeral procession. Today, perhaps, they will be ready to fight. But what about tomorrow? After today's gone by and the night closes in, after they have witnessed that death is not a glory but a horror, after they have lived through battle, heard the guns screaming, smelled the odor of the smoke in the air, seen the blood draining out of the dying bodies of their fellow bothers, after they watch the person that they love—"
Grantaire suddenly halted in his speech, as if his tongue had suddenly been cut off, as if a knife had suddenly pierced his body, or as if he had suddenly choked on the wine that he was drinking, but as there was no wine in his moth, he must have choked on his own words. He took a brief moment to look away from Bossuet and Joly, to fight some unformed expression off of his face, and to clear his throat. Then, he raised his eyes to look upon his friends again and he went on as if nothing had happened, "After they watch the people that they love die before them, then! Then, my friends, they will no the truth. They will not be standing along side us singing of Revolution, but they will be locked away in the protection of their houses, abandoning us, hiding from the battle, and listening to the guns fire as the bullets strike us down. Perhaps, the people will rise to day, but they will betray us tomorrow! And as for the Revolution, we cannot win. It will not bring anyone any good. It will only bring trouble, pain, suffering, humiliation, punishment, and death. That is why the Revolution is outrageous. The world is outrageous… and stupid! Anyone who thinks any otherwise of any of this is stupid! I, myself, am stupid, because even though I know the truth about all of this, I stay with the rebels." He sighed and shook his before taking a long drink from his bottle. "That is why it is best not to believe in anything," he finally closed his argument. "Anything that a man believes in, or trusts in, of has faith in, or loves will betray him and will leave him."
When he had finished, Bossuet and Joly only stared at him, unsure what to stay, and unsure how to respond, unsure what had brought about this sudden harangue. But they did not have to say anything. Grantaire did not seem to expect them to say anything or even what them to say anything. He said what he needed to say, and as soon as he finished, he looked away from his audience, he gazed silently across the café, lost in his own thoughts, seeming to forget the presence of his friends, and he continued to drink.
It was only minutes later when the young urchin boy arrived with a message for Monsieur Bossuet from "the big blonde man." That was Enjolras. Enjolras, who was small to a man his age but "big" to the little child who had been sent to deliver this message. The message was "A—B—C." After they had paid the child and he went off, happy that he might be able to but himself food that day, Grantaire sighed and took another long sip from his bottle.
"Enjolras sends a message for Bossuet," he said grimly, "because Joly is sick and Grantaire is drunk." He sighed again and, this time, shook his head, as well. "Enjolras despises me," he said aloud, but as if he was talking to himself. "He has good reason to. He is a good man. A righteous man. And I'm not. Because Enjolras is also a wise man, he distances himself from people like me."
Joly was listening to Grantaire, confused and unsure what to say, but Bossuet was too busy thinking about the message that he had received from Enjolras. "A—B—C," he said thoughtfully as he gazed out of the window and down onto the streets. "Meaning, of course, general Lamarque's funeral."
"Yes," Grantaire agreed, "and the 'big blonde man is Enjolras. He sends the message for you, because the ill-man and the drunkard, apparently, cannot be trusted."
"I can be trusted!" Joly protested, but it sounded more like "I dan de dusted!" because of his cold. Grantaire merely waved a hand at him, and Bossuet went on as if he had heard neither Grantaire's nor Joly's comments.
"Shall we go?" Bossuet asked turning to the others.
At once, Grantaire's face changed into a look of disdain and displeasure, he vigorously shook his head, and Joly immediately began to protest, "It's raidig! I swore to go through fire, dot water. I do not wadt to catch cold!"
"I staying here," Grantaire told them. "I prefer breakfast to a hearse."
"You're dot eden eading, Grandaire!" Joly began to complain. "You're only drinkig! You drink doo much, Grandaire. Do you realize how unhealdty that is? It could kill doo!"
"So could going into the streets, hosting a revolution against the King, and fighting in a war a few students against the entire army," Grantaire countered, suddenly irritable. He hated it whenever Joly, or anybody, especially Enjolras, told him to stop drinking. They made it sound so easy, as if he could simply chose to put his bottle down and never pick it up again. They made it sound as if he had a choice.
"Conclusion," Bossuet, who had ignored this last conversation altogether, went on, "we stay here. We can miss the funeral and without missing the rebellion."
So it was decided. But not long later, loud voices could be heard crying out in the distance, echoing down the streets and to the Café Musain. The three young men could not agree on, however, if these were merely the natural sounds of the funeral or if these were the sounds of revolution. Bossuet insisted that it was revolution, Joly swore that it was only the funeral, and Grantaire hardly seemed to care either way. As the minutes passed, the shouts began to grow louder, and revolution seemed to be the heart from which thee cries beat. Much to their displeasure but for their loyalty to the Friends of the ABC, Bossuet and Joly departed into the streets, but Grantaire stayed behind.
Now, he was in this empty room, surrounded by the empty chairs and tables, in the dim and flickering orange light of the candles, and he was all alone. For several minutes, he sat still in his chair, listening to the silence, to the faint echoing in the streets, and to the sound of the falling rain. He was alone. Enjolras, Bossuet, Joly, all of them, were out there fighting for freedom, risking their own freedom and, perhaps, their lives, while Grantaire sat alone in this dark, empty, gloomy café. Enjolras was right. He was a disgrace, a fool, and a coward. He hated being like this. But, again, did he have a choice? Once. But, now, it was too late for that.
Grantaire sighed and looked away from the entrance of the Musain, which he had been staring at ever since his friends have left him. Now, he found himself looking upon the bottle that sat in the center of the table. For several long seconds, Grantaire only stared at it with a stone face, his eyes cold and his heart hard. He could see shining in the black glass of his bottle, the reflection of a man's face staring silently back at him. For a long time, Grantaire remained where he was and only stared silently at the face in the bottle. Then, at length, he opened his lips and whispered into the silence in a soft voice that was bitter like the frost on his heart and cold like the darkness in his soul: "I hate you."
Was he talking to his bottle or to the face that he saw reflected within it—his own face? Who could have told? Not even Grantaire knew for sure whom he had meant to direct his words at. Which did Grantaire hate more: his bottle or himself? He hated them both.
In a strange and terrible way, Grantaire hated and loved his bottle at the same time. He loved it, because the cruel hearts of men love the sweet intoxication of sin, because he could not live without it, and because it was his only escape from the cruelty and pain of the world. Whenever he was in pain, or fear, or torment, or sorrow, or grief, or misery, Grantaire had no one to turn to save for alcohol. While people like Enjolras would only inflict more pain upon him, alcohol could always be trusted to make it go away or, at least, to numb it a bit, or if that was not enough, to drag him under unconsciousness. Then, Grantaire would not have to feel the pain again until he woke up the next morning hung-over and sick.
Yet, even more, Grantaire hated it. Long ago, Grantaire had turned to alcohol, and he had struck a lethal bargain with the Devil. If he turned away from holiness and to drinking, to darkness, and to sin, then these things would make some of his pain would go away. But a bargain such as this has a terrible price. Satan had ensnared Grantaire in his trap long ago when he was weak and vulnerable, and sin had ruined him. It had turned him into the disgraceful man that he was today. Today, Grantaire was a slave to his bottle, a slave to his sin, and a slave to the darkness that he had chosen over the light. Now, he was trapped. Even as he hated the darkness so much, he could not turn away from it. He was a slave, bound by chains that were too strong for him to break. Now, he could not have turned away from darkness, or sin, or drinking even if he tried, even though he wanted to.
"I hate you," Grantaire whispered again, this time speaking to his bottle. Then, he let out a low moan of defeated, slumped over on the table, let his head fall into his hands, buried his face in his palms, and said again in a weak, muffled voice, "I hate you," this time speaking to himself. Even so, only a few minutes later, he was clutching his bottle tightly in his hands, as if he feared someone was going to come take it away from him, and he was drinking, more, faster, and deeper than he had been all morning.
He sat at the table, drowning himself in his liquor, drinking himself deep into drunken intoxication. He had finished his first two bottles and was working on the third, which Joly and Bossuet had been using to fill their glasses, when he heard a soft voice ask him, "Are you alright, monsieur?"
Grantaire lowered his bottle and raised his eyes to look upon the person who had addressed him. Before him stood a young woman. Young, yet by tireless labor, wariness, and poverty she was made old. When the sun rises, it is young, and fresh, and pure, and for that short time, the sky is remarkably beautiful; during the day, the sun is lovely, but not so beautiful as it was in the dawn; then, at last, the sun sets, and that beautiful light fades into the darkness of night. Such is, also, the life of a woman. She is beautiful her early years, when she blooms and blossoms in the fullest radiance of her life; once she is older and has born children, she is still pretty but not as beautiful as she was before; and at last, as her beauty fades, she becomes old, withered, tired, and worn by the trials of the trackless road of life.
The girl who stood before Grantaire now, was young, but it seemed that the night of her life had come too early, and her beauty was already fading away. Trials, hardship, struggle, pain, suffering, misery can do this to a person, and can bring old age upon her when she is still young. Grantaire knew the girl, at once. She was one of the two servants at the café. He did not know her name, but he knew her face and she knew his. Whenever he entered the café, without having to ask, she would bring him two bottles of wine. The boys called her Fricassèe, and the over servant girl they called Chowder, as these two young girls were never known by any other names. Fricassèe was shinny and frail, poorly clothed, dirty, and always so tired and weary, she had pale skin, dark rings under her eyes, and a sickly look about her.
Grantaire looked up at her without smiling. "Splendid, mademoiselle," he said with a heavy sigh and a sip from his bottle. "Absolutely splendid."
Fricassèe remained where she stood for a moment, saying nothing but staring at Grantaire, watching him drain gulp after gulp the liquid in his bottle, with an uncertain and troubled expression on her face. Then, at last, she came to a conclusion, and said in a soft, reluctant, and sky voice, "Perhaps, you should get some rest, monsieur… and stop drinking…"
Grantaire choked on his wine for a moment, before he pulled the bottle away from his lips, scoffing and laughing and shaking his head at the same time. He turned to let to let his eyes rest upon the girl before him. He saw that she was young, yet exhausted and drained like an old woman. He saw that she was very ugly, yet somehow, beneath it all, he could see a faint shadow of a lost beauty. Like Grantaire, himself, there was a time when this girl had once been beautiful, but now only a vague and fading reflection of that could be seen upon her. Perhaps, had her life been kinder to her and had things been different, she still would have been very beautiful today. But her life had not been kind to her. Life was not kind. The world is cruel, and it is not merciful. The poor girl had not had a good life, yet Grantaire could not bring himself to pity her. There were others who suffered far greater than she. "No," he said, at last, his voice quiet and sad. "Drinking is the only thing that can help me."
When he said this, the expression on the tired face of this girl became even more concerned, and she frowned at him. "You do not look well, monsieur," she said at last, as she looked at the redness in Grantaire's eyes, the pallor of his skin, and the sickly shadow that had fallen upon his face, all due to the excessive intake of alcohol.
Before she could go on, Grantaire, made outspoken and quick to speak by his drunkenness, interrupted, "Neither do you. Maybe, you should sleep. When is the last time that you have slept? A few years ago? Every time that I see you, everyday, since as long as I can recall, you have been here working and you have looked exhausted. Why is that? Why don't you rest?"
The girl had not been expecting this. A slight look of embarrassment came over her face, she dropped her eyes to the floor, she did not reply, and she let out a soft sigh. Grantaire sighed loudly in return, annoyed with the girl but even more annoyed with himself. Then, he lifted his bottle to his lips, and Fricassèe glanced up to watch him take another long drink. When he lowered his drink, letting the battle hit loudly against the wooden surface of the table, he turned back to look at her and said in random, "You look tired, and sickly, and homely, but you still look beautiful."
Not even Grantaire quite knew from where this comment had surfaced in his drunken mind. Fricassèe was, most certainly, caught off guard by this remark, and she did not know how to respond. But this was, no matter how muddled or disfigured, the only complement that she could remember ever receiving. This was the only time in her life that a man had told her that she was beautiful. At last, she blushed slightly and offered Grantaire a soft smile. Grantaire gazed tenderly upon the girl for a moment longer, before a gentle smile spread across his lips. This girl had never been loved by a man before, and she did not know what love was. On this raining morning in the CaféMusain with this drunken charmer, she thought, that perhaps, she had finally found it.
Only a short time later, Grantaire was in his usual position, the girl sitting upon his lap, one of her arms around his shoulders, one of his hands resting upon her waist, and his other hand tightly grasping a bottle of liquor. Now, Grantaire was only playing his usual game, performing his usual act, wielding his usual lies. He told the girl that she was beautiful, that she was special to his heart, that he wanted to be with her, that he loved her. She believed him. When he spoke to her in that charming whisper and smiled at her with that intoxicating smile, she felt her body warm and her heart flutter. She thought that he loved her. She thought that she would not be alone anymore. She thought that, at last, the misery of her life would come to an end.
As for Grantaire, what did he think? What did he get out of this? Why was he doing this? For a long time, he did not know, himself. He did not know why he used women like this. He knew in his own conscience that the things that Enjolras said were true: that what he did was disgusting, disgraceful, despicable, terrible, hideous, selfish, and cowardly. He knew this before Enjolras confirmed it, yet he ignored his own conscience, denied his own judgment, and betrayed the virtues that he once held so long ago. Why? Of course, he got pleasure out of the lust that led to the sin, which is pleasing to the corrupted hearts of man, but that was not why Grantaire did this. It was because, when he was with a woman, he could pretend that things were different, he could pretend to forget about his past, he could pretend that he was moving on, and he could pretend that he did not care. He liked the way that it felt when he touched a young woman's hand, or when he held her in his arms, or when he felt her body against his own. It reminded him something so precious that he had lost so long ago. But even if he tried to pretend, what had been lost would never return to him. What was lost was gone, the past was done, and Grantaire was a different man.
"I love you," Grantaire was saying softly to the young woman in his arms, and a look of joy, a light of hope, and a life of youthfulness that had never been seen on Fricassèe's face in all of the years that anyone could remember of her came upon her as she heard him say this.
"You love me?" she repeated, a warm smile lighting up her tired face. Yes, Grantaire had been right. This girl really was beautiful. When she smiled, he could see that. When this light of joy came upon her face, she almost looked as beautiful as she had been before her life destroyed her.
"Of course, I do," Grantaire replied with a charming smile. "I will always love you."
A look of happiness and of love that had never and would never again come upon this woman's face in all of her life came upon her face now. Tears of joy surfaced in her eyes, and she leaned forward toward Grantaire, wrapped both of her arms around his body, pulled him close to her, and rested her head upon his shoulder, hugging him tightly as never to lose him.
Grantaire wrapped his arms around her, as well, and he held her tight and close to him. As he held her against him, as he felt her warmth in his arms, as he felt her body against is own, his heart began to stir. Not because he loved this woman, but because when he was holding her like this, he could pretend and he could almost forget.
Then a sudden pain stabbed his chest, his stomach twisted into a knot, dread and guilt came flooding into his heart, as the memories returned into his mind. The memories that would always haunt him, that would never let him alone, that would never let him be free, came back to torment him now. At once, he was afraid. He was terrified, and he tried to flee away from these thoughts as quickly as he could, like a frightened animal fleeing from the danger that would kill him. Doing what only he could think to do, Grantaire suddenly pulled the girl away from him, she looked up at him, and then, he leaned forward to kiss her. Their lips had barely met, however, when a loud cry was heard and a man came rushing into the café.
Startled, they broke apart and turned their heads as the young man came running toward them. The man was clearly in a desperate hurry and in a panic. His face was pale, his eyes were wide and wild, he was running, he was panting, and he out of breath. Grantaire immediately forgot about the girl he was with as he took in the form of his friend. "Marius?" he cried out in confusion. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Marius eyes shifted and he saw Grantaire sitting in the chair, the girl on his lap, a bottle in his hand, heedless and drunk. Marius's face changed slightly in displeasure, and he did not waste time with words. Rushing into the café past Grantaire, he declared, "Get off your ass, it has begun!"