Voir


Nicolas stands, quietly, within the completed barricades, and Feuilly stands beside him, holding one of his hands in the manner of one of Hephaestus' golden maidens. Nicolas looks at last like a man who could command men. His long, golden hair is tied back discreetly, his overlong greatcoat is unbuttoned, and his chin is tipped up a little. He is shaking just the slightest bit, but it's unnoticeable, and Feuilly's holding his hand looks like more like a respectful gesture than a supporting one.

No one save Feuilly knows, but in the pockets of the coat is every speech Combeferre ever copied down, folded very small and placed inside. The fan is also there, and the little book of poetry that Prouvaire gave to him.

"You seem ready now. There won't be fighting for a while."

"I need to be ready. I need to be believed."

"Come now. You mustn't worry. In all likelihood, we'll have the full night before anyone comes. You must sleep if you want to oversee things properly."

Nicolas doesn't answer. He's noticed - had noticed for some time, really - that Feuilly is the only person who doesn't mind using the words 'see' or 'look' around him. He's often wished more people would realise it didn't matter. It's odd. Men are odd. What they are and why they do things have never truly made sense to him ever. He tells himself he understands children, rather than men, but in reality he doesn't understand any of them. He would imagine they don't understand him either, and yet they must, or they wouldn't be here now.

"I mean it. Come with me. You shall listen to them. Why would you ever need to see their faces if you could hear their voices? You shall know them all to-night better than you have in the number of months they've come to you."

Nicolas obeys, quietly, allowing Feuilly to pull him gently along, too lost in his own thoughts to hear exactly what Feuilly has told him. In the walk to the part of the barricade where Les Amis are gathered, he manages to lose his look of command. Once again, he is little Nicolas Enjolras, the blind boy. But already it is growing dark, and no one sees except Feuilly.

"Here. --Combeferre, Prouvaire! Joly! Bonsoir, mes amis."

They laugh, the others, and Nicolas lifts his head. Feuilly sits on the ground, and Nicolas sits beside him, struggling to make it dignified. It doesn't matter, however, for no one is looking.

"Well, then, Bahorel," Courfeyrac offers, "what grand, profound recollections have you about this past year? What is the first thing you'll do in Utopia?"

"Go to the theatre," Bahorel says, quite unafraid of how it will be received.

"The theatre! Oh, dear. You never told me you liked the theatre."

Bahorel laughs. "Does anyone tell you anything? What is the first thing you'll do, rogue?"

"Write a letter to my family." Courfeyrac laughs as well. "Ask them if they'll take back their renegade son. Ask them if they'll put me back in their wills. Ask them if they'll permit me to come home. They disowned me, you see, because Bohemia is disgusting thing to waste a young man on. Monsieur d'Courfeyrac, they'd have liked to call me. I don't want it. I'm a good Republican."

"They disowned you?" Prouvaire asks sadly. "Isn't it a terrible loss, a son?"

"Of course not! They can always find a suitable stable boy and give him my name. I assume, then, that yours kept you?"

"They do." Prouvaire smiles a little. "They send me beautiful blue ink on holidays. For Christmas."

Nicolas listens to them, in a way, taking in tone more than words. He supposes that they really are very good men. Even Courfeyrac, perhaps. He pauses. Not Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is a horrid man, clearly, and doesn't even appreciate his parents. Nicolas sighs. He understands better than any of them, he thinks, that parents are devoted and that they'd do better not to disregard them. In that, he favours Prouvaire. And then there are men like dear Feuilly, who don't have any parents at all. He is an orphan, like all of Nicolas' children; a child without any parents at all except the revolution.

The conversation has by now moved to Combeferre.

"But do you have any regrets?" Courfeyrac asks him. "Did you lose anything? Will you get it back now?"

"I lost my freedom the day I was born, and I will have that back now. I lost my brother, and I will never have him back if this succeeds."

"Is he a royalist?" Courfeyrac speaks curiously, with the voice of a man not asking a question so much as trying to clarify a statement. He isn't aware Combeferre had a brother, and if it turns out that the brother is indeed a royalist, everything will make sense.

"No," says Combeferre, shaking his head with half a smile. "He's not."

"You make no sense, man. Is he dead?"

"Not at all."

"Then I give up. Who is your brother?"

"You needn't know, monsieur d'Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac pouts a moment, standing out severely from the other men around him. Then he tilts his head to one side. "Well, I shall be your brother to make up for him."

"Thank you." Combeferre laughs.

Nicolas bites his lip. Combeferre never had a brother. From beside him, Feuilly says, "Come now, Courfeyrac, you're tiresome. Jehan, Jehan, recite us a poem."

"I can't just... say poems."

"Of course you can. Tell us anything."

"I can't think up rhymes quickly enough."

"Jehan," Courfeyrac protests.

"All right." He clears his throat, and sings, nervously. His voice is sweet in the almost-dark around them.

"'Where are we now before the sun?
Where are we now beneath the sky?
Before a last day tells the future
Beneath a thousand dreams we lie--'"

"Jehan. Not to-night." It's Courfeyrac speaking, frowning. "No. To-night we need a love song. You can't sing us this to-night."

"All right." Prouvaire shivers. "All right.

'Do you recall how life was kind
When youth and hope still filled our breast,
And we'd no other thought in mind
Than to be lovers and well-dressed?'"

"Better. Good man. Go on."

Nicolas rests his head on Feuilly's shoulder without thinking. They are strange, these men, all of them. Why is Prouvaire sad to hear Courfeyrac's family disowned him? Why did Combeferre say he had a brother? Why did Courfeyrac tell Prouvaire 'not to-night'? Why does Bahorel like the theatre? Why did Feuilly ask him to come hear this? Why, why, why? He imagines he hears the voice of that little girl saying, 'merci, monsieur!'. He imagines he is holding the blind gamine who really was his daughter. He imagines he speaks with the blind gamine who was so much not his daughter.

He imagines that all his children are happy. He imagines that they are all fed, and clothed, and that they all have homes. But he imagines they still have cold hands.

Impulsively, he takes Feuilly's hands in his. Cold hands.

"Enjolras, are you listening?" Feuilly asks in a whisper.

"Yes..."

"Good."

Nicolas feels cold air blow on his face, feels a little light wind. He puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out the fan, spreading it wide in both his hands. "Je t'aime," he tells the fan, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

To-morrow, everything will change. He folds the fan away, and this time, he listens to his Amis.

Fin


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