Snowstorm


Feuilly stood by the single window in the back room of Musain, and peered through the freezing glass. "It's snowing heavily."

"We'll be fine," laughed Courfeyrac. "Supposing we should be snowed in and unable to escape? Well, it's a cafe. We've wine and food, albeit dangerous."

"Really?" Enjolras eyed him calculatingly, and Grantaire caught it:

"We'll burn revolutionary papers if it's too cold."

"Or poems," Bahorel muttered. Jehan blushed.

"Oh-"

Combeferre patted his shoulder. "It's all right."

"If we become ill, there's Joly," Bossuet suggested. Joly smiled.

"But I will likely be the ill one."

Pontmercy said not a word.


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