The last drinks have been had; Grantaire’s final inebriated elucidation of the night has ended in him stumbling out of the Café Musain, closely followed by Combeferre, who offers a tentative hand of aid as he sways and stumbles. The few weak flames that flicker shakily on the last candles threaten to fade any moment; the heavy footfalls of his comrades, his brothers, as they clap him on the back and step out into the wind-chilled Parisian nighttime die away into soft echoes in the waning light.
The last light is extinguished. Under the cloak of darkness, Enjolras grasps his head in his hands as he wonders at the magnitude of it all. La révolution of 1789 had been a necessity, a part of the grand scheme of things, but the sacrifice, the loss, the price that they would pay! And oh, how dear that price was. He speaks confidently about their place to come in history, about how their lives were insignificant compared to the grandeur, the splendour that they would help accomplish.
Yet- he is frightened. Every day, he looks into the eyes of his brothers, eyes that try their best to conceal worry behind exuberant gazes. He suppresses his own anxiety and pushes them towards the end. Yes, for them, the very end. He grapples with feeling like a liar and the desire to shrink back from the overwhelming picture that’s flooding his mind-
Non.
He sits up, despair and horror swirling within him- an endless vortex. He would not- he could not allow these sudden flights of fancy, momentary negligible fears, to take him and distract him from his self-proclaimed duty to the Republic.
A statue, they call him. Silent, still and stern. Yes, he is a statue- a statue of crumbling marble that grows weaker by the day, a statue of termite-chewed wood that threatens to collapse at the slightest provocation. Their fearless leader. Yes, their leader who seems to fear more frequently and seems to be steadily diminished as the minutes tick away.
A lone tear trickles down his icy cheeks, he makes no move to brush it away.
If he were to defend France against Pontmercy’s comments again, could he possibly speak those words – citoyen, ma mère est la République – with such conviction that he once did? Could he possibly look at Grantaire again without being reminded of his very selfsame cynicism?
Weakness, weakness, all is weakness; he is suddenly furious as he sweeps the papers from the table and tears his mind away from the uncertainty of it all. Watching the parchment sheets fall and flutter around him like mocking confetti, the words seem to rise off the sheets and twirl around him, running their silken black-inky fingers all over him and trailing across his skin as they burn and brand streaks of shame deep in him -
and he wonders how he will look them all in the eye tomorrow.
0 Responses to “Citoyen, ma mere est la République”