11
As the sounds of Prouvaire's cautious footsteps died away, so did the lingering anxieties whirring around Enjolras' mind. The thoughts of Éponine that had been clouding his judgment and drawing his attention from France were dimming as the distance between them increased and his confidence in Prouvaire's success continued to build. Enjolras could once again focus on France and her people, his men and their lives, and know that he had successfully fulfilled one promise, no matter the outcome of the next battle. He had saved the child without a friend, and it softened his hardened heart to know that.
A lump was forming in this throat despite his happiness, leaving Enjolras with a bittersweet taste in his mouth. It confused and angered him that he should feel as he did, he who was extremely unpracticed with emotion. I should be happy; she will be safe. He imagined her waking up safe and in the care of a nun, warm, dry, and healing. Enjolras smiled, but his expression was hollow. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself of this, he couldn't quite shake the nagging thought that something would go wrong. He may have seen his new friend, his muse, for the last time.
Enjolras shook his head and swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty, tucking his emotions away as usual. He tore his eyes from where he had watched Prouvaire's retreating back sink into the shadows and glanced around the Café, unseeing. It was back to business and he knew it; Prouvaire would return to tell him that Éponine was safe in an hour or so. There was no use in standing at the window, statue-like and worrying, useless. He stepped back and steeled his nerves to face his men. He would give another speech, both for their benefit as well as his own.
"Combeferre," called Enjolras from his seat on a broken bedframe, "any sign of Jehan?"
Combeferre answered in the negative and Enjolras threw the piece of wood he had been fiddling with against the pavement, anger and concern dictating his reaction. Who was it he was worried most about? Why had he sent Éponine away, could she really mean that much to him? No one knew and they all took care to avoid the subject entirely, even the disrespectful and brash Courfeyrac. Enjolras was certainly a charismatic and charming young man who was capable of glorious and inspiring things, but he was also capable of being terrible.
"If he is not back within the hour, I am sending Gavroche out to look for him."
This precautionary suggestion was an order; any speech at all from Enjolras was an order. His words were punctuated by the ringing of the bells, chiming one o'clock. Time seemed to be dragging by and the national guardsmen had not tried anything in a good amount of time, making all of Les Amis uneasy.
Combeferre switched places with a drowsy Lesgle who had just woken from a nap. He handed him his carbine and made his way down the barricade to take the spot Lesgle had just vacated, hoping for well-deserved rest. Many of the children of the barricade were dosing off and childish snores were occasionally heard, disrupting the eerie silence of the Rue de la Chanverrerie. Grantaire had long ago disappeared – Probably to drink himself to death – and the only men still awake were Enjolras, Lesgle, Pontmercy, and the strange old man who was hovering protectively near where Marius was attempting to sleep beneath the window of the Café.
The soldiers encamped at the opposite end of the street were also sleeping, drinking, and dreaming. Despite their polar ideas and desires, the two groups were very much alike in the end. Some of these men had even grown up with the soldiers that lay dead in the no man's land between the two barricades.
Prouvaire had decided to walk north along the Rue Saint-Denis instead of taking his chances on the Pont Neuf or Pont au Change to get to Notre-Dame. After all, by taking Éponine to the Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles, he would be back to the Rue de la Chanverrerie within the hour.
The girl had insisted quite boldly that she would walk most of the way to the church once they were out of Enjolras' sight. He had not protested very much, as her walking would allow for the pair to better blend in with the shadows of the Parisian night. In the commotion of la revolution the lamplighters had forgotten their jobs entirely, and the city lay in almost total darkness. The gods were smiling down upon Jehan and his precious cargo, so perhaps they would be kind to the men they had left behind as well.
Jehan and Éponine walked slowly and, at some points, unsteadily towards the church. Luckily it came before the barricade that was set up along the Rue Saint-Denis, and Prouvaire had hoped to escape the soldiers' notice entirely. However, they had come upon a group of replacement soldiers headed to the barricade a hundred yards from their destination.
Cursing quietly, Prouvaire covered Éponine's frail form behind his own taller, fuller body. He flattened them out against a dark brick building that was covered in a thick layer of shadow and mystery and held his breath, covering Éponine's mouth with his hand for good measure. Despite the gravity of the situation, Jehan's blood was singing in his veins and adrenaline was making him dizzy – he had only ever written about adventures like this and to experience one was a literal dream come true.
The patrol passed by quickly, their swift and booming steps matching the fugitives' beating hearts. Éponine watched their movements with wide and fearful eyes without making a sound. Her father had taught her to hate the law and be wary of soldiers, but she had also taught herself to be quiet when she was afraid. The less noise she made, the less she was beaten.
Prouvaire, when satisfied that the coast was sufficiently clear, steered Éponine lightly by her right elbow in the direction of the Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles. The last hundred yards was difficult, causing the pair to cross a vast expanse of open street that was bathed in the bright light of the moon. The night was unbelievably clear, a shocking change so soon after the rain earlier in the evening. Nonetheless, Prouvaire and his charge made it to the large oaken doors of the ancient church.
Taking the giant iron knocker in both hands, Prouvaire lifted it and let it fall against the thick wood. The noise of it made him cringe and Éponine, slightly delirious from the efforts of walking and the stress of hiding, let out a quiet yelp of fear. Jehan looked at her pityingly, rubbing her shoulder reassuringly and whispering a gentle "Shh."
The kindly monseigneur, his nightcap askew and his cloudy blue eyes bleary from sleep, answered their call within a few minutes. He held a flickering candle in his right hand, the look on his face a mixture of confusion, distrust, and feigned benevolence. It was evident that this man had not wished to be disturbed from his slumber. His annoyance was forgiven quickly by Prouvaire when he realized that the priest was just in time. The group could hear the ferocious echoing of soldiers' boots coming up the street.
"Pardon me, Father, but could you help us?" Jehan asked, his tone urgent and his words hushed despite being within reach of safety. He was afraid of failure and uncertain of what he would do if the priest denied his request.
The priest made no response. He rubbed his eyes as a small child might and held up his little candle but took notice of the blood on Éponine's clothes and the deathly pale that had once again settled on her face. His questions died on his lips and, in a trembling voice, permitted Jehan to take the girl inside. The monseigneur had acquiesced to the unasked plea for sanctuary.
When Éponine was situated comfortably on one of the sickbeds that were kept in the oldest part of the church, off of the left side of the altar, she fell into a dead sleep almost immediately, the scratchy blanket pulled all the way up to her chin. The efforts of walking had exhausted her. Prouvaire thanked the priest profusely for his kindness. He saluted Éponine's sleeping form and took his leave, eager to be back with his friends and to tell Enjolras of his success and the whereabouts of the precious package.
The priest, before returning to bed, sat beside the wounded girl and studied her. He looked down at the girl's sleeping face and smiled gently, noticing the magic which sleep was working on Éponine's usually miserable expression. The beautiful delicacy of her childhood returned to her face when she was dreaming. He fancied her to be in love with one of these rebellious youths and that is what put her in such a predicament. Perhaps it was that man who brought her here, he thought with a chuckle. The idea of love and happiness in such tumultuous times overpowered his feeling of aggravation at being awoken, and he prayed to God for that man to be saved and for this girl to survive. Upon standing he made the sign of the cross on the girl's forehead and, with this done, retreated to his lonely little room in the back of the church and fell asleep. His old heart was warmed by the young girl and her dedication for he, like Prouvaire, was addicted to love.
"Ah, this is all so promising," mused Prouvaire. He was slipping quietly through the shadows along the Rue Saint-Denis, making good time and paying little attention to where he was going. He was confident of his knowledge of this part of Paris and his mind began to wander.
He was certain that there was love beginning to blossom for Éponine within Enjolras, and the possibility of love was exciting. Jehan made up an epic story for the couple in his writer's mind – one of passion, struggle, and sweet affection. Even without a fantastical backstory the idea that Enjolras, the marble lover of liberty and France alone, could finally feel something for a woman was epic enough for an opera.
"Mayhap it will break the stone of his heart, and Enjolras will be a man once more!" The thought brought a boyish smile to Prouvaire's lips and he shook his head in disbelief. He amused himself with these thoughts, paying little attention to his surroundings.
His attention was recaptured when he heard the stomping sounds of soldiers floating to his ears. Another patrol was approaching from where Prouvaire was headed towards. The breath caught in his throat in fear and surprise, but he quickly relaxed when he realized that they could not see him. As he made his way down the deserted street Prouvaire made sure to thank Providence for the lamplighters' oversight and the blessed shadows which surrounded him.
Jehan decided to take this opportunity to make his leave of the Rue Saint-Denis. However, when he looked around to find a familiar alleyway that would take him back to the barricade on the Rue de la Chanverrerie, Prouvaire heard a soldier calling to him, "You! State your name and business!" He broke out in a run, flinging himself down a dark side street in hopes of losing the patrol.
The footfalls of the soldiers at his heels matched his pulse and their shouts seemed to be getting closer. He took sharp turns, stumbled, twisted his ankle, and tore the knee of his grey trousers on the rough pavement of the little used alleyways. Prouvaire knew not what turns he was taking or which street he was parallel with anymore; he only knew that he would be shot if he were to get caught by the soldiers who were following uncomfortably close. He almost felt as though he could feel their breath on the back of his neck.
He made another turn, uncertain of where it would take him. Prouvaire was suddenly thrown into the middle of a camp of men with guns and bottles of wine. For one brief, beautiful moment he thought himself to be amongst his friends at the barricade in front of the Café Musain, but his hopes were soon blasted to pieces. There was an army officer, a man who could be no older than himself, with his pistol loaded and aimed at his forehead. Prouvaire had run directly into the nest of vipers at the opposite end of the Rue de la Chanverrerie.
A soft whimper of fear passed through the cornered man's lips but he put on a brave face. Pulling his floppy felt hat tighter around his ears, Prouvaire puffed out his chest and squared his jaw. In his mind's eye he saw Enjolras and tried to do as he would. His voice was shaky when he spoke, but his words inspired respect from the officer.
"You've caught me, boys."
There was commotion at the other end of the street. The sound of yelling, stomping, and the dull thudding of fists making contact with a human face bounced angrily from the dark facades of the surrounding buildings.
Enjolras was on the verge of sleep when the sounds began. He leapt to his feet from his spot against the Café, popping a few of his stitches. All traces of exhaustion were gone: the fire within him was blazing and he was ready for a fight, to protect his men and France. Hope flared up to meet this desire for battle and a small voice at the back of his mind was suggesting that it may just be Prouvaire returning with good news.
"Enjolras!" called Courfeyrac from where he and Gavroche were on watch. They had taken over for Combeferre when Grantaire had failed to show up for his turn.
"Is it Jehan?" Enjolras asked, taking a few cautious steps towards the wall of furniture. He was gazing intently into Courfeyrac's face, scanning it, searching for anything to keep his hope alive. Enjolras made no move to climb the barricade, uncertain of whether or not his stitches would last the ascent.
Before Courfeyrac could make a response, a piercing scream flew at Les Amis from the darkness. Joly looked up from where he had been attempting to sanitize his hands in the doorway of the Café, his eyes wild and fearful. He recognized Prouvaire's voice.
"Enjolras, it's Jehan!"
He dropped his last clean scrap of material on the dirty pavement and hurtled across the square. Joly scrambled up the barricade and leaned out, squinting into the shadows. His movements were frantic and he looked as though he was preparing to leap down from the mountain of wood and run to his friend. Gavroche grabbed onto his coat sleeve, tugging insistently. Joly turned his wide eyes on Enjolras, his look asking his leader to do something for Prouvaire. Enjolras shook his head faintly.
Before Joly could make any pleas, there was another call from Prouvaire.
"Long live the Republic!"
There was the sound of gunfire, and then silence. No one dared breathe. The silence was screaming at Enjolras, it was blaming him for this incident, that it was his fault that Prouvaire had gone out in the first place. He may have won the battle and Éponine may be safe, but he was losing this fight – losing his friends – and Enjolras began to wonder, what exactly would they lose in this war?
The sound of Joly's muffled sobs broke the awful silence. Enjolras could not bring himself to look anywhere but the cobblestones, afraid that he would be met with looks of accusation. The bells rang out two o'clock.
A/N: Hey! So, again, this chapter didn't quite make it to where I wanted it to but I hadto include Prouvaire's death. It's also not exactly E/E heavy, but I tried to include hints of it. After all, it can't be super fluffy just yet - he's still in love with France and she's still mooning over Marius. Anyway! Next chapter's the Final Battle. Enjoy, review, all that jazz. I love it when people give me tough criticism, so go right ahead. Have a great day!