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He couldn't see them when he first arrived in Paris.

Soon after, though, he could hear them, and feel them, and smell them. The heavy odour of the street hung about him, and the pleadings for spare sous surrounded him, always coupled with the feel of hands pulling on his coat.

He might be blind, but he knows all about them. Now he can see them, for all the other senses he possesses show him in terrifying detail their plight. It makes him ache with anger.

He might be blind, but he would die for them. Nicolas Enjolras, the revolutionary.


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