Laigle de Meaux

Joly makes some sound of comfort or protest when Lesgle goes on past Prouvaire's last words; unplanned noise, meaningless even to him. He'd had nothing to say then, he has nothing to say now.

Instead he settles himself between Lesgle and Bahorel,with one arm around each of them,as close as either will allow, and looks over to Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Joly's still certain, absolutely certain, that Prouvaire will join them. That helps less than it should; less than the sight and weight of friends around him. But that helps enough for him to smile a little, in sympathy, and with fond pride over those who aren't here yet.

Edited Date: 2014-11-22 06:40 pm (UTC)

From:

le_centre

It's the bitterness in Bossuet's voice that brings a lump to his throat; that vitriol at a hopeless situation that is all that is left. And Jehan was as stoic as any of them in the face of death - more so, because he had to simply stand and be shot, and he still did not break.

Courfeyrac swallows hard and looks to the corner of the room, eyes turned away from the others. He is a cheerful fellow, and there is little reason for sadness - they tried their best, and at least he is joined with his friends in death. But there are still some missing, and they deserve to be here.

From:

No apology is warranted. None at all.

Enjolras nods at Bossuet's account of Jean Prouvaire's last shouted words: yes, it was the same. He doesn't move otherwise, except that in the brief silence he leans just a little of his weight against Courfeyrac's shoulder, where it rests against his.

He resumes. He names the others killed or wounded to incapacity in the attack: a few names known, a few others unknown, a young man Gavroche identified as his sister in men's garb. "Marius sent Gavroche away on some errand -- he wouldn't go no matter who told him, but he'd take a note; it was a good thought, but he came back later. For the rest of us, the night to prepare. We reinforced the barricade, added two feet, iron bars planted among the stones, reinforced the redoubt, put everything in order, cast bullets, made cartridges. We put the dead in the little Rue Mondétour, and set aside four uniforms of National Guardsmen."

Putting the dead in the alley was an awful necessity. Bodies deserve more respect than they could spare; even the enemy, and some of these were friends. Bahorel's body had been among them, his strong limbs limp and heavy, his face bloodless and blanked of all its vitality. What else could they do? Nothing.

"We suggested the men sleep an hour or two as they could, but of course few did. The women of the Corinthe left with nightfall." They were willing helpers despite their terror, these steadfast cooks and servers of the café, but not fighters; they made lint for bandages, made cartridges, and slipped away when night brought a respite to the fighting. No one there blamed them for that. "By then there was no more food, so we'd rationed the brandy, forbidden wine. Everyone heeded that, despite grumbling. They were orderly men. They respected the business they were about. At two o'clock there were thirty-seven left. We were all still hopeful then. We had done well, our barricade was strong, we could hear Saint-Merry's tocsin ringing still. A little while later, I made a reconnaissance."

There was a peculiar, silent awfulness to that stealthy trip through the night streets. First the horror of the little Rue Mondétour, and then worse, the streets quiet except for the boots and guns of the army and Guard, and the growing certainty of just how alone their thirty-seven brave souls had become.

"The National Guard did not turn in any great numbers. The army neither. The people's fever had broken before the chill of fear; most of Paris hid in their homes. Against the republicans, the whole of the army. Against our barricade, not only the Guard, but the Fifth of the line and the Sixth Legion."

"When I brought that news back, the men cried out for the protest of corpses. The general will was unanimous. 'Let's show that if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people' -- that's what they said."

His heart still swells at that memory: in grief, in pride, in fierce honor.

From:

Lesgle catches his eye, and some of his brief bitterness dissolves into a soft smile. "Yes. That's what we said."

It could be troubling, that so little changed with Lesgle's slight intervention from his 1830 experience. But this is a proud thing: men were as brave, and as united, both times.

From:

Of course; this part could never be changed. It's the very reason that their France was always going to be a republic, however long it may have taken-- because the true nature of men is to unite in brotherhood, and fraternity will always stand against tyranny. He doesn't say any of this, because everyone here knows it. But he beams, and holds his friends a little tighter for a moment.

From:

le_centre

Courfeyrac continues to say nothing, because mentioning Gavroche reminds him of that particular ending and it is perhaps his least favourite part of the whole affair.

He glances over at Bahorel to see how he is taking all this, but looks away quickly. A man has the right to remain unscrutinised when hearing such things as this, even though none of them would think less of, or judge, a display of emotion. He merely leans back into Enjolras's weight on his shoulder, just for a moment.

From:

Bahorel presses Lesgle's hand in acknowledgement, and in thanks. It's good to know Prouvaire had his last words, that he made himself heard one more time-- but he understands the bitterness in that memory too.

He follows along when Enjolras continues, asking questions as he had before-- how many guns left, we had more of this, less of that, names of this or that resident of the street or this or that friend of the group-- hadn't they been there, when...He breathes in relief at the mention of the Corinth staff's escape. Bahorel is less troubled than many of his friends by the thought of a woman, of anyone, choosing to fight, but those weren't fighters. He has a low whistle for the news of the Guard's reinforcements; that certainly explains the apparently total fall of the barricade.

He can only share a small measure of their pride at the barricade's defiance. He wasn't there; however much he agrees, he can't claim any part of that moment.

But he can be, he is, fiercely proud of his friends and their choice. He returns Joly's hug and nods again, when Enjolras seems ready. Go on.

From:

"Everyone there," Enjolras says quietly, with utter certainty, "was a hero. As brave souls as any. The protest of corpses, our deaths for posterity and the people, very well, but France didn't need so many patriots' deaths when thirty or twenty would do. We tried to convince the others to leave -- Combeferre spoke, I spoke, even Marius Pontmercy. No one wanted to go. They resisted every argument. In the end, the men chose amongst themselves those whose families and dependents needed them most." He names those who were chosen: a few known to the Amis de l'ABC, and others not until that day. "They took the uniforms we had. Four, and a fifth from an old volunteer who arrived just then, and began immediately to shed his coat."

Ready to go on isn't a consideration to him right now, not really. He's watching them all, for reactions and comments and any distress enough greater than the inevitable that it ought to be addressed. Enjolras himself is still and contained and remote, save only for his shoulder pressed close against Courfeyrac's, and the depth of emotion like a boiling well beneath his marble control.

This story needs to be told, and for several reasons Enjolras is the best one to tell it. He'll tell it through to the end, in as much detail as his friends need.

"That volunteer comes here too, though he survived. Jean Valjean is his name, but he goes by Ultime Fauchelevent -- the reasons are his business. We didn't know his name then, nor anything about him but that Marius spoke for him, and his actions spoke clearly for themselves. Not a political man, but a good one. He never shot a man, he never killed, and yet a savior of the barricade more than once. He won't say as much, but it's clear that he's the reason Marius did survive. He brought him away somehow at the end. He and Fauchelevent's daughter are to be married."

Enjolras doesn't care about their betrothal, except for a vague desire for a friend to be happy. But he does care about the survival of any man who fought with republicans that day.

"So. The end of our strategies was altered. Now: to fight as long as possible, and to die memorably. To earn for all those brave patriots a death worthy of their great hearts."

He'll pass over the tactics and details more swiftly from now on, unless there's anything Bahorel wants to know more about.

Before, he was explaining how it had come to the point that it did. Now, the end is certain. Their presence here, the very fact of this conversation, proves that no unexpected reprieve came. The only thing left to explain is how that end came to pass. Bahorel should know everything the rest of them do; nothing else is fair to any of them.

"We barricaded the little Rue Mondétour then, and piled up spare stones. A little while after dawn they attacked again, with cannons. Then a second cannon and grapeshot." Two killed, three badly wounded, with the first round: he names the ones he knows. Bahorel will know -- all of them know -- how dangerous grapeshot is to a barricade, how it can batter at defenses and pierce defenders. "I shot the sergeant of artillery to slow them. Then the old volunteer, Fauchelevent, shot down a mattress that had been hung to protect a window, and we reinforced the barricade with that where the soldiers couldn't see. Saint-Merry was getting the same treatment, we could hear, but they held out at least as long."

"Some of those soldiers had sense. Others less. A little later in the morning there was a foot charge -- we repulsed it, but it got plenty of them killed to no good purpose and used up our ammunition. Between that and the need to beat back the cannoneers with a concentrated volley, and the rain that got into the powder earlier, we were down to very few cartridges."

This part, now. This part is hard to say, and harder to tell to Bahorel. Enjolras continues on, ruthless with himself, his voice steady.

"Gavroche had come back by this point. He took it upon himself to go out beyond the redoubt to gather up cartridges from the fallen Guard. A basket full -- he gave us that. He slipped out before anyone could stop him, brave as anything you've seen, and sang insults through the smoke until they shot him. We brought him back, Combeferre and Marius did, but it was instant."

The second bullet was, anyway. Near enough.

Edited Date: 2014-11-24 04:15 am (UTC)

From:

"Yes- Gavroche said." Bahorel smiles bitterly."He remembers." And isn't that a fine thing for a youth to know. But there's no end to what he'll say about that if he starts, so he doesn't. Instead he reaches a hand out to one of the kittens, awake again and wandering about the room. It grabs onto his hand in a confused attack. He smiles more easily. "Did you tell him about the basket? He should know he had some success at least."

From:

"Yes. He knows."

It's something, at least.

From:

Lesgle looks away from Enjolras at the slight omission. He's right. Knowing Prouvaire's last words is one thing; right now Bahorel doesn't need to imagine with them the way they held their breaths, not daring to alert the Guard. And he doesn't need to hear the Guard's laughter as they shot and shot again, missing the boy.

Anyway, it's Gavroche's story to tell.

But he scoops up the other kitten and taps it on the nose until it wraps itself around his wrist. "La faute à Voltaire," he says under his breath. "--I can take a turn if you want, Enjolras. We laid him on a table with the old man; it was large enough. Things were peaceful then, for a moment. We had some time for treating the wounded, making cartridges. I was with Feuilly. Courfeyrac, you still had your sword-cane--"

Lesgle leans against Joly. "A clock struck noon, and we saw a new column arrive, with axes for the barricade. We piled the stones up in the Corinth, walling the windows; we nailed the kitchen door to protect the wounded." Barricades inside of barricades. It's Lesgle's turn for an omission; but he does remember the brief conversation with Enjolras. The bottles under the table.

He goes quickly over the final preparations, and Feuilly's work. "--And then we had that spy Javert left. We did not want his body mixed with ours. Fauchelevent volunteered to take him over the little Mondétour barricade and shoot him. We heard the shot." Here Lesgle glances again at Enjolras. Javert is not dead.

"So then, the attack." Here Lesgle retreats into details of combat for a little while. He pauses to do justice to the sight of Marius, standing bravely to be shot at, covered in blood. If he survived, it wasn't out of any cowardice. "And Courfeyrac, you lost your hat. Poor timing, as it looked like a blizzard in there. The torn cartridges, you know? Sometimes they would fly up in a swirl, just as snow does. Well. -- They came in waves; Joly and I, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Combeferre, we were in the center of the barricade, what remained. I think I saw Feuilly fall." And Joly. "I caught a bayonet to the throat, and that's as far as I can tell."

From:

Joly tucks his head along the curve of Lesgle's neck and squeezes his shoulder. He knows Lesgle didn't see only Feuilly die; he arrived in Milliways wrapped in that old coat.

But there's surely no point in saying that. Lesgle's memory for those wider details are certainly better than his in any case.

From:

Enjolras will mention the bottles later, if it comes to that. The spy's fate he would likely have explained now, if he were the one telling, but he won't interrupt this to do it. Later. Later will do.

He's silent while Lègle speaks. The final preparations were the same, or close enough; a few cartridges more or less, one wave of attack more or fewer, doesn't matter now. He's sat back a fraction, ceding the tale for the moment, and one hand is lifted to curl in front of his mouth. He watches his friends; he listens.

He didn't see Lesgle's death. He doesn't know if it's a change. For the others -- some he can speak to, some he can't, but he won't say how anyone died unless anyone needs him to.

From:

le_centre

Courfeyrac has no particular interest in talking of his death - he was shot, he is sure, though strikes from a bayonet were just as possible - but he rather thinks it makes no difference at all. They all knew they were dead long before the actual moment came; how it happened means nothing. Seeing his friends fall was far worse, or would have been if there was time to think of anything.

'I still lament that hat,' he mutters, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the tale too much. But it is a valid point! It was a decent hat that did not deserve the fate which befell it.

From:

It was a good hat. Laigle catches Courfeyrac's murmur, and when he looks up he can't help smiling a little. "Heroic haberdashery."

He's rubbing Joly's back in small circles, kittens abandoned just for the moment.

Well. Enjolras?

From:

Lesgle tells a story much differently than Enjolras, to be sure. For one thing- Lesgle tells a story. Without thinking about it, Lesgle remembers colors, asides, small jokes... which makes the flatness of the deaths stand out.

Still, Bahorel joins the others in smiling about the hat; clearly, the true tragedy of the barricade. But there is, clearly, more.

From:

More, yes. Well.

Enjolras lowers his hand; folds it again with the other on his knee; takes up the thread of the tale again.

"At that point it was Marius and I and a few others left on our feet. Some tried to get away then, but every door was closed fast. This may have been different for you -- Bossuet and I spoke of befriending the neighbors, winning them to sympathy with us, and perhaps it worked. I don't know. We fell back into the Corinthe, and got the door shut and bolted. That retreat was when Marius fell -- I thought him dead or captured, and I gather it was a near thing. We made our last stand in the wineshop."

All along he's watched his friends' faces, monitored them for commentary or reactions, but his gaze has dropped, though his voice remains quiet and measured. It's nothing in this room he's looking at now.

"We hacked down the stairs. We had enough cartridges for a final volley. Then swords, carbines, Pépin's vitriol. Of course the outcome was never in doubt, but we sold ourselves as dearly as we could."

He doesn't say, now, that those men were heroes. They were, every one of them, and he would defend that with all the force in him -- but this battle, necessary as it was, sacred as its principles were, was nothing but monstrous in its deeds.

There's no need, perhaps, for even this much detail. No one has asked. He's been glad, in an awful way, that his friends were spared these last horrors, and there are things about it he still won't speak of; the sights, the sounds, the shrieks and blood and smoke, their dear wineshop turned to a splintered charnel house. But he's been speaking all along, and he'll tell this to the end -- and there's a kind of relief, almost, in baring these last minutes, like turning one's face to winter sunlight. He's glad they were spared, but fighting on after their fall felt even then as if he'd already died, and was only waiting for his body to catch up. His soul was already in the dawn of another world, with his friends.

And Grantaire deserves the telling of their deaths. Maybe he's told Bossuet and Joly already his own side, but his deed, his gift, should not be omitted; it shouldn't be kept silent like a shame or an irrelevance. It was anything but.

"When they gained the second floor, I was the last man on his feet. They wanted to shoot me." He shrugs, a very little. "I had no desire to be taken prisoner, my carbine was a stump -- I told them to shoot."

"That was when Grantaire stood up. He hadn't moved through everything; I thought him dead of a stray bullet. I suppose he'd been asleep all that time. He cried out, Vive la République! I'm one of them. He pushed through to stand next to me before the guns. To die as one of us."

Well. So, then.

He lifts his eyes; he looks once more at his friends, clustered about him in this ridiculous blue room beyond death, in this place that began to become a home when these men stepped one by one through the door.

"Then they fired, and I was here. Anything I know after that comes from newspapers and history books, or old citizen Fauchelevent."

From:

"Grantaire--"

Grantaire did that. No, Laigle hadn't known. He'd thought probably some stray shot had caught Grantaire, or worse, some casually murderous guard.

It's been on his conscience. Grantaire didn't need to be there; the barricade could have been built somewhere else, or he and Joly could have walked Grantaire safely to his lodgings before the fighting broke out, or--well. That's the point in his thoughts where Lesgle generally tells himself or anything might have happened, don't give yourself more credit or more blame than you're due, and that's what he tells himself now. But it's been on his conscience, that Grantaire was in the fighting.

Edited Date: 2014-11-25 01:35 pm (UTC)

From:

Joly blinks. Grantaire's said nothing of any of this. Joly hadn't tried to guess whether Grantaire just hadn't remembered, or hadn't wanted to speak of it.
He's not sure what to think of it now- but he smiles a little, glad at least that neither of his friends had died alone, proud of them both.

Edited Date: 2014-11-25 04:45 pm (UTC)

From:

le_centre

Courfeyrac makes no comment on this at first - he has known for a while, of course, and was just as surprised as the others are now. It seems heartless to say he is glad things ended as they did for Grantaire, because surely it would have been far better for the man to be far away. If it were any other man, he would say so. But Grantaire...Grantaire without his closest friends and more importantly, without Enjolras - no, he cannot find it in himself to wish things different.

As soon as he ever has this thought, he reminds himself that if Grantaire had lived and everyone else died, then perhaps he would have been happier eventually. But there is no way to know. Things transpired as they did - his only wish is that now they have happened this way, that Grantaire would have some peace. But no, he is much as he ever was; in death, as in life, he seems doomed to remain in shadow.

He puts his hand on Enjolras' shoulder, and squeezes lightly.

'I am glad you were not alone.'

From:

Enjolras leans very slightly, and unconsciously, into the touch. What's conscious is that his hand rises to cover Courfeyrac's, and to clasp it; what's conscious is that he gives them all a small smile, and if it's touched with melancholy it remains genuine, and warm with love.

"I have never felt myself alone since I met you all," he says. This isn't entirely accurate -- there's Milliways, except that at least he had Grantaire and Gavroche -- but Milliways is not what he's speaking of right now. Besides, the four of them are here. "No man could ask for better brothers."

"But I will never forget what Grantaire did."

Never.

From:

Joly's up and crossing the room without thinking, throwing one arm around Courfeyrac and putting his other hand on Enjolras' free shoulder.

"Of course." He means it for agreement as much as acknowledgment.Of course none of them will forget any of it, of course these are the finest friends anyone could have. And of course Enjolras knows they stand with him, in friendship as much as ideals. Which is good, because Joly's fairly sure he can't say as much clearly, right now.

From:

Bahorel listens to the last act quietly, eyes open but looking somewhere else. He knew the Corinthe; he can see most of what his friends leave out. (Things he wouldn't leave out, some of it-- but that would be for talking to a different audience, one that didn't already know.)

It's a good story as it is, but even these friends wouldn't understand everything he would mean if he said so, so instead he laughs and joins the others, throwing one arm over Joly and one over Courfeyrac to tousle Enjolras' hair.

"People do have their surprises." He's grinning when he says it, and crying- and he's not just talking about Grantaire. He drops his hand to grip Enjolras' shoulder.

From:

It leaves Laigle perched by himself on the bed, his arms draped loosely around his knees. They're long arms, at least. He unfolds himself and leans forward to pat whatever shoulder or back might be in reach.

He's moved, but nothing particularly surprises him about Enjolras's death: he's seen the flag that Enjolras brought with him into death, and known it was a relic of heroism. But Grantaire's presence is news. He's still thinking that over.

Edited Date: 2014-11-29 01:50 pm (UTC)

From: