Work Text:
Upon the turn of September, Enjolras resumed his former habit of walking the streets just before dusk, a way to take the measure of the whole of the city for himself: a snapshot of a moment. And though it was in almost every physical sense the same city it had been in July, the Paris before his eyes now could not have seemed more different to the one he’d last examined in this way. The appetite for politics had not been lost after their having gained some little progress—quite the contrary. There were now a hundred little secret societies scattered in various corners of the city, a hotbed of discussion on a thousand different topics. Enjolras found himself reflecting with satisfaction upon the state he was presented with.
True, the intense and unified fire of revolution that had briefly ignited the city had been smothered, but it had not extinguished itself. It had only split into innumerable little coals of republican institution, not set ablaze but still warm—still sparking little flames here and there that the National Guard was unable or unwilling to permanently douse. Yes, it would take some time, and the addition of more fuel, before the fire blazed again. But when it did, it would burn longer and hotter.
From his sickbed, the disappointment of the Orléanist coronation had hurt more bitterly than his injuries. Now Enjolras perceived in an evening, from his lofty vantage-point, the synthesis of these ideas, brilliant in their potential, which he found mirrored within himself as a brightness of spirit: hope.
It was while occupying himself in these thoughts that he noted a familiar face, perhaps engaged in similar reflection. Marius seemed to be leaning against a fence post and gazing intently at some little garden full of lettuces. Enjolras paused a moment. “Marius Pontmercy?”
Marius’s back straightened as if startled, and he turned around, eyes wide.
He looked worse for wear than he had the last time Enjolras had met him—certainly he was thinner. Marius appeared to relax a little after registering his presence, so Enjolras offered him a gentle smile and approached. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you last, Marius.” He’d heard from Courfeyrac that Marius was now living in some run-down little house; Courfeyrac had appeared rather distressed when telling him so.
For his part, Marius just blinked at him. “…Yes,” he said after a moment, and that was all. Enjolras was not offended. After all, he appeared to be waking from a dream.
“It is a shame. France could have used more young men of conviction during the Three Glorious Days.”
Marius’s brow furrowed in confusion, but then he looked Enjolras up and down, gaze lingering on the cane he was currently leaning on, and startled into action. “Oh! but you were injured, Enjolras!” He offered his arm without reservation, which Enjolras accepted. “You look well. I’m relieved. How have you been doing? May I help you with anything?” He appeared perfectly earnest, and Enjolras felt a little surprised by the warmth of his concern.
“Thank you.” He looked Marius in the eye, curious. “In fact, this is the first time since July that I’ve gone further than the bakery unaccompanied. Truly, I feel fine, but I have nearly reached the limits of my current strength.”
“We must find a place to sit, then,” said Marius, and turned at once from the garden to begin searching.
“Are you not waiting here for someone or something?”
“What?” Marius did not appear to understand the question. “Here? No.”
He had been lost in thought, then; the location itself did not matter. Enjolras smiled a little to himself. “Very well. There is a café a little way down the street, there.” He nodded his head to indicate the spot, and Marius hesitated only briefly before agreeing and leading the way. He even assisted Enjolras with his seat, an act which was wholly unnecessary but not unappreciated.
There was a brief onset of silence before them, before Enjolras spoke again. “Did you hear about what had happened from Courfeyrac?”
“Yes. I met him only once last month, and not for very long, since he was in poor spirits. I should have come to see you, to thank and congratulate you. Instead, please accept my apology.”
“To thank me?” Was there a touch of color in Marius’s cheeks? “I’m not sure I understand precisely what you mean.”
Marius regarded Enjolras with a certain spark in his eyes—one that Enjolras had seen before. “To fight valiantly against the enemy, to risk one’s life in service to the nation, is the highest possible glory. All of France owes you a debt of gratitude for ousting the tyrant Bourbon. As for me, I admire and respect you for it.”
One of the things that Enjolras appreciated about Marius was that his sincerity was never in question. He smiled. “You admire the revolution, then.”
“Of course.”
“And you admire its result?”
“Naturally. Do you not?”
Enjolras paused, considering; Marius had been thrown off balance. “The revolution, yes. And because I admire it, the result is distasteful to me. We did not fight against the Bourbons—” Here, Marius made an indignant sound. “—But against the tyranny of all kingship. For the free press. The abolition of the death penalty. Universal suffrage. The ten-hour workday. The liberation of all peoples. To have that squandered in order to put the crown on the head of another man is a betrayal of the valor of all those men who you have praised not a moment ago.”
“But we have won the free press, after all.” Enjolras dipped his head in acknowledgement. “And the people have accepted the Charter and the King.”
“For the moment, that is true.” He did not speak to Marius about the unrest and disorder that continued, or the tentative, temporary nature of the city’s peace. It would not prove convincing. “Have you, also?”
It was not the response Marius had expected. “It is a victory that should be celebrated.”
Enjolras noted he had avoided saying ‘yes’, and pressed the advantage. “Have your opinions changed so much in these past few months that you are now a monarchist?”
“No! It isn’t that.”
“Then, in the absence of another Buonaparte, it is merely the next best thing?”
“No. Enjolras, that is not what I mean to say.” Marius’s shoulders had stiffened in a defensive posture, and he was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable.
Enjolras noted that he had seen this expression before as well and realized his error. “I beg your pardon, friend,” he said, reaching across their little table to grasp his hand and give him a gentle look. “You’ve been exceedingly kind to me, and I am repaying you with impertinence. Thank you. I am honored that you think so much of me.” Marius’s shoulders relaxed and his expression softened, gaze falling after a moment to their hands without apparent discomfort. Without his saying anything, Enjolras understood his appreciation for the gesture.
In order to clear the air, Enjolras sat up a little straighter, released Marius’s hand, and inclined his head towards the kitchen. “Have you eaten already? I think a good meal will help me to regain my fortitude.”
Marius appeared to squirm a bit. “I haven’t, but…”
“Lend me your company for supper, then. Please permit me to repay your consideration.”
Slowly, Marius nodded. As soon as Enjolras could be sure of his consent, he stood, making his way to the counter of the café and inquiring after a meal for the two of them. If it was nothing very special, the stew and baguette that was prepared would prove filling and energizing for both. Enjolras wondered, considering again how thin Marius appeared, how long it had been since he’d been eating well. His principled nature was something else that Enjolras admired, yet he pitied Marius a little, too, knowing his friends—Courfeyrac, especially—would delight in assisting him if only his pride would permit it.
Indeed, Enjolras could tell that, though he was clearly doing his best to conceal it, Marius had been terribly hungry. They ate in silence for a little while, long enough for the pace of the meal to slow, the urgency lessened. Then, just as Enjolras opened his mouth to speak again, Marius broke the silence himself, instead.
“It is not that my sympathies are not with you,” he said, and their eyes locked. Neither felt the urge to look away.
“No?”
“No. They are noble ideas that you have spoken of. To those add the cause of free education for all—men and women alike. In fact, the elevation of woman generally: the restoration of her civic rights, that she may not be defenseless against a wicked husband; the protection of her property and her economic interests. There are corrections demanded of the Emperor in some of these important matters, just as there are in your Republic. On these things, Enjolras, you and I agree.” Enjolras felt himself rather astonished. “And, too, I understand your anger at the new king. It’s not the monarch which is evil, but the monarchy. Therefore, no matter how good, or noble, or virtuous the man himself may be, it is unimportant. Yes?”
Enjolras regarded Marius with wide-eyed delight. “Just as you say.” Whether or not Louis-Philippe himself was at all virtuous was, as Marius described, not a point worth disagreeing upon.
Marius nodded, evidently satisfied himself. “Then we are not in opposition to each other. We share the same sympathies. Let us talk no more, rightly or wrongly, about the Republic or the Empire. Let us talk instead of the Nation, the People.”
It was a proposition that Enjolras was more than happy to accept, at least for the time being. Through the nation and the people, one arrived at the Republic, after all. “Yes, Marius, you’re right.”
They shared a smile, the meeting of two serious minds in friendship and affection, and for a moment there was silence. Then Marius, more confident now, continued. “Very well. Then, the events that have lately come to pass—I admire them. I hold all of you in the highest respect. You have purchased progress by the sword, wrested it from the tyrant’s grasp. And now that you have done so, through your heroism, we have arrived at the age of progress through the word, the idea. It is a thing worth marveling at.”
When Enjolras had first met Marius, he had reminded him of himself at a younger age. Now, he reminded him of Combeferre. Misguided or not, then, Enjolras held only affection for Marius’s ideas. His principles were sound. “Yes,” Enjolras agreed softly. “If you are right, that would indeed be a marvelous thing.”
He felt no need to impress upon Marius that he was not right, after all. Any words that Enjolras might offer him now would not be as instructive as time itself would be.
They passed the rest of the meal in amiable companionship. Enjolras asked after Marius’s studies, his work, his designs for the future, and was answered with enthusiasm. When they had finished eating, and the sky grew dark, Marius walked arm in arm with Enjolras to his apartment, ostensibly to provide him physical support, but a part of Enjolras suspected that he might have done the same even without the excuse of the injury.
“Marius?” he asked, upon reaching the threshold of his building, once Marius had released his arm.
“Hm?”
“I would like very much to see you at our meetings on occasion. We are poorer without you.” He spoke earnestly, but Enjolras could see instantly the slight shake of Marius’s head, the conflicted look on his face, that told him he would not be convinced at least on this occasion. So he continued. “But, if not that… would you call on me next week? I would appreciate your company on another walk.”
Gratifyingly, Marius’s countenance softened. “I will.”
Enjolras touched his hand to Marius’s upper arm, just beneath the shoulder. “It pleases me to hear it.” He perceived, again, a slight darkening of Marius’s cheeks, this time not attributable to the fervor of his ideals, and smiled. “Until then, my friend.”
When Enjolras returned to his room and opened the curtain of his window, that he might begin writing by the little light the sun still cast, Marius still stood in the doorway where he had left him, lost in a different sort of reverie altogether.
Enjolras sat at his desk and took up his pen, entering one of his own.