pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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[Just before: bringing unwelcome news to Valjean.]

It's very warm indoors, after the chill and quiet of the lake and the tension of that conversation. The café hubbub is like a heavy weight in the air. Enjolras stops by Bar to retrieve his note to Valjean. It's irrelevant now.

Then he goes upstairs to room 89.

Combeferre is in the bathroom doing something probably experimental with the still's piping, to judge by the clank of metal and the way the copper boiler is currently gurgling. Good. Enjolras would have gone in search of him or Courfeyrac or Feuilly before long, otherwise. But he doesn't need to disturb his friend immediately. His presence nearby is comfort.

He hangs up overcoat, hat, coat. Removes his gloves, props his walking stick against a table. There's a fire lit; this room is warm too, but it's cozy now rather than oppressive.

He drops into a chair with a weariness he didn't let himself acknowledge around Valjean. The old man's pain and fear and weariness mattered far more, then. Now Enjolras rests his elbows on his knees and, just for a few moments, his forehead on folded hands, and breathes out.

It's done, at least.

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Between clanks, Combeferre hears the door open, the quiet rustle of hat and coats being removed, the soft sound of a chair as someone falls into it.

The boiler will do its work without Combeferre's supervision. He tidies up the bathroom to make it manageable, and then comes out. Enjolras is folded up in the chair, head in his hands.

In three quick steps, Combeferre is at Enjolras's side. He drags the other chair over so it's closer, and sits, taking Enjolras's hand in his. "What's wrong?"

It's extremely obvious that something is. But there is more than one possibility of what that might be.

For a moment, the wave of affection swamps him, a warm swell of fondness in his throat. He presses Combeferre's hand in answer.

My dear friend he thinks, in brief lieu of words.

"I spoke with Fauchelevent. Valjean."

Ah. That would explain it: Enjolras's evident respect and liking for the man would make it especially hard for him to see Valjean's pain. And Valjean has suffered more pain than most men could bear, if one-tenth of Hugo's account is accurate.

"It was as difficult as we expected, I take it."

Enjolras exhales slowly, in silence, which is a confirmation in itself.

"I can't think of any better way to have broken the news to him. But it was awful for him. A terrible shock."

He's wearily heartsick still. But there's nothing to be done: he needed to be told, and there was no way to truly gentle that news.

Combeferre presses his hand.

"He had to be told, of course. I'm deeply sorry that task fell to you." There was no kinder way. Of them all, Enjolras was the one who knew Valjean best, and was therefore the best messenger. But that same acquaintance would only heighten Enjolras's sorrow at having to deliver such news to such a man.

"I suppose it was the prospect of having his daughter know the contents of Hugo's book that wounded him the most." Likelier that than the idea of strangers in the future knowing, anyway. Somehow Combeferre does not think Valjean is concerned much with his legacy. "Though she must know them nonetheless."

Combeferre has read the book. He knows what happens, in Hugo's account at least, to Mlle Fauchelevent, and to Valjean himself, thanks to her enforced ignorance. He knows, too, what information there is on Mlle Fauchelevent: her prostitute mother, her childhood of slavery, her unchaperoned interaction with Marius Pontmercy. And of course, Hugo's thoughts on her beauty.

"Damn Victor Hugo," he says aloud.

Edited 2015-02-06 05:47 (UTC)

The resigned twist of Enjolras's expression should speak eloquently of his agreement. All he says aloud, though, is "It's nothing we can change now."

Well.

He glances at Combeferre, and the austere, glum weariness in his face softens a little further: not quite a smile, but some cousin to one. "Tell me what you were working on?"

It's not that he's unwilling to discuss his conversation with Valjean. Nothing of the sort; he's quite willing, and he'll probably return to the subject himself in a little while if Combeferre doesn't bring it up first. Enjolras has always sorted through his thoughts best with a friend to discuss them with. But he'd like a little more time to let those thoughts settle in his head first, and for the difficulty and secondhand pain of the conversation with Valjean to recede a little further so he can see more clearly which parts ought to be discussed with Combeferre, and which ought to be left to the old man's privacy.

Combeferre sees Enjolras's expression change. He wants nothing more than to say something, anything, that might console. But he also knows exactly what consolation Enjolras is asking for.

"Catalytic distillation," Combeferre says. "Specifically, to purify gasoline."

He explains the chemical process, watching Enjolras's face carefully all the while. He will wait for Enjolras to bring the conversation back to Valjean. Combeferre's more than happy to provide a distraction until then, if that's what Enjolras wants.

Enjolras listens, interested despite his limited comprehension. He's heard of gasoline, a little. Something to do with future vehicles, and something to do with future conflicts over resources; important to both. More to the point, it fascinates Combeferre.

He settles back, relaxing gradually into the familiar conversation and the wash of a dear friend's enthusiasm. Relaxing for Enjolras means sitting quite straight, of course. But straighter than he was when the conversation began, and some of the tension has leached slowly from his shoulders.

He tries to ask intelligent questions. As usual, he suspects his success is somewhat mixed, on such a subject. (Combeferre's occasional expressions of stifled amusement are unmistakable.)

But there does come at length a lull in the explanation. Enjolras doesn't try to fill it.

Combeferre finds Enjolras's earnest attempts at questions (which are intelligent, but also betray his utter ignorance) highly endearing, of course. Still, he grows animated, gesticulating wildly with both hands as he explains the chemical reactions involved.

When the lull comes, he hesitates, and notes Enjolras's silence. He lets a hand come to rest on Enjolras's shoulder. "Is Valjean still at Milliways, or has he left?"

It's as good an opening question as any, Combeferre feels.

The small smile that had grown while Combeferre gesticulated fades away. But Enjolras covers Combeferre's hand briefly with his own in reassurance, and if his answer is somber it also comes readily.

"He was still outside when we parted ways. I'm not certain, but I think he planned to stay there a while."

Combeferre had known that returning to the subject would cause Enjolras pain, but it still makes him wince.

"Did you have a chance to ask him about keeping the information in the book from the spy?" He asks this as gently as he can. If Enjolras didn't get to that issue with Valjean, Combeferre will not press him on it.

It's more careful gentleness than Enjolras had quite expected. Yes, it's a distressing subject; still, he's not certain why Combeferre is quite as distressed as he seems to be. Something in this book of Hugo's, or another matter?

"I did."

He breathes out.

"I asked him to keep silent about the book and its contents, or at the least to say nothing that might possibly induce him to read it. He feels it's unjust to keep such a secret from a man featured in the book -- well, it is, of course -- but he also sees the justice of our position. He asked for time to think about it."

"That is a fair response," says Combeferre. No different than he'd expect from Valjean, based on Hugo's book. "But we will need to discuss what to do should Valjean decide to tell the spy."

"Yes."

"Do you have ideas? I confess I have very few."

"The extreme solution is difficult to justify at this point." Combeferre, he knows, recoils from such tactics even more than he does. Still, it's an option. It must be mentioned even to discard it. "Beyond that... I suppose we could ask Bar to provide him only with some kind of abridged version, with redaction. I don't know if she's capable, or willing, and he might in any case realize there were sections missing."

"Bar may be willing," says Combeferre. He is thinking of some examples of her mischievous sense of humor. The fleur de lis room, just for instance.

"Other than that, the only idea I have--besides the extreme solution, which I agree is not to be contemplated yet--"

(Yet. Even for Combeferre, it's a 'yet,' and not a 'never.')

"--the only idea I have is to appeal yet again to Valjean, and try to persuade him. And I know you would be grieved to place him under any more strain. So perhaps that idea should be rejected as well."

Combeferre is being gentle with him. He's still not sure precisely why.

"That wouldn't matter, if it were the right or the necessary thing to do."

Right and necessary are not at all the same thing, to his mind. They may coincide -- ideally they do -- but something necessary may still be morally wrong.

"But I don't think pushing him further is a useful course of action, at least at the moment. It might be unjust or merely unproductive, but not likely useful. We'll give him time to mull it over."

"It would matter," Combeferre says quietly. "But if it's unlikely to be useful, that settles the point."

Enjolras grants the point with a tilt of his head.

It would matter, but not enough to weigh as an argument against doing it anyway. Not if it were needed.

"In any case, we have at least a little while to think of options. Though I hope they won't be needed."

It's impossible to plan for everything. Sometimes, a leap of faith is the only reasonable course. But when it's possible to plan for the alternatives, Enjolras prefers to do so.

Combeferre nods. "In the book, the spy commits suicide, after betraying his own code of obedience to authority," he says, after a moment. "Perhaps Valjean could be persuaded that it would only harm the spy to be told of that. Although I myself would hold that Javert has the right to know regardless, and could only be denied it because his knowledge would put others in immediate danger--but Valjean does not share my view of most things."

He slips into calling Javert by his name, although he mostly does not think of the spy that way. It's hard to connect the Javert in Hugo's work, seen first as a policeman and finally as a suicide, with the man Combeferre knew only as an unrepentant spy at the barricade.

Edited 2015-02-11 04:33 (UTC)

Enjolras's brows lift. That's news to him.

He's not sure what to make of it, quite. There are aspects of Javert he's sure of, and other details that it's hard to make resolve into a clear whole. And the question of how accurately Hugo represented him and his actions is, of course, an entirely separate matter.

"Valjean said he planned to read it. If he does, he'll learn that himself."

Enjolras isn't quite sure whether Valjean genuinely means to follow through on that plan, or was only reacting in the moment. He was quite obviously too upset to think clearly for at least some of the time.

"The suicide happens near the end. And the book is--you've seen it. It's long." Hugo lacked restraint in that regard, as in so many others. "Valjean won't learn of it until he reaches that part. At which point, he will have read information much more important to himself and his daughter than Javert's suicide."

"I suppose there's nothing we can do to save Javert's life, even if we would," Combeferre adds, looking down at his knees.

The man had been condemned to death on the barricade. He knows things that could still doom their comrades, even without the book. Still--to know of a man's impending suicide and do nothing to stop it, well. It sits ill with a physician.

But Combeferre cannot and would not imprison Javert, and Javert would never listen to a word Combeferre could say. Except perhaps to contradict it.

This thought makes Combeferre give a mordant almost-smile. "Though perhaps if we all told him we badly wanted him to commit suicide, he might refrain, simply to spite us."

Edited 2015-02-11 05:36 (UTC)

Enjolras snorts quietly, amused despite the subject matter.

Combeferre is, perhaps, not wrong.

More seriously, he says, "It's difficult for me to be certain what's accurate and what isn't, for the spy. He's alive, I know that; he says that he is no longer an inspector of the police, but seems in no way to have changed his allegiances; he has at times seemed under strain. He has little interest in telling me anything of substance. No surprise there. Valjean may know more, but whether he'll think it fair to tell any of us, I don't know. Certainly the spy would not wish him to."

Not that Enjolras cares especially what Javert wants, but Valjean may. For the man's own sake, or for his own moral scruples, or even out of some kind of self-protection.

Combeferre hesitates before speaking. It's an awful thought, one that betrays so much of what he holds dear. But it may be a necessary one.

"If Valjean does not wish to help us, there's another possibility. Only a theoretical one as yet, and it would need serious practical consideration if we were to do it. Which I hope we won't need to. But if the spy is mentally...unstable...well, in the future, the science of psychology will refine the art of tormenting and manipulating one's enemies."

Combeferre has read about this, thanks to Hannibal Lecter. Both Lecter's book recommendation and Lecter's own manipulations were informative on the subject.

And what has he come to, that he is taking lessons from Hannibal Lecter.

"If Hugo's book is accurate--it may not be--then it's possible we may be able to say, or do, something to Javert, that will weaken his resolve, and put him in too much emotional turmoil to act swiftly."

It's less terrible than other solutions might be. But it disgusts Combeferre the most: to take a science meant for healing, and turn it to destruction.

Enjolras regards him silently, listening, as he speaks.

Then he reaches out to grasp Combeferre's hand in both of his.

"No."

"It may be possible. But we won't do that."

It's more extreme than the other, in its way. If it's a choice between those two sins, Enjolras will make that choice without blinking.

Combeferre is voicing it for the same reason as always: an option, once thought of, must be mentioned, argued out, examined under the clean bright light of day, even if it will inevitably be rejected. Intellectual honesty demands no less. But sometimes that examination can be done very swiftly.

It's a relief to hear Enjolras say it, to affirm what Combeferre already knows but must question nonetheless, like worrying at a wound.

He feels sick about even giving voice to the thought. Though he would have felt like he was shirking by keeping silent. He can't bring himself to say anything more than, "I agree, but considered it a duty to point out the option."

"I know."

He does; he agrees.

And he isn't only addressing what Combeferre's said aloud, which is why his friend's hand is still clasped in his.

"You're right to mention the thought, of course. But we won't do that. If it comes to that point, we'll see if we can still kill him. It's more honest."

There's no virtue in torture. Not of the body, not of the soul.

The sunlight of this winter afternoon slants pallid through the room's one window; it turns each dust mote to a miniature spark, and bleaches the stones of the floor and walls to a paler, clouded grey. But the fireplace throws a golden glow of its own, gleaming off Enjolras's hair, his grave and delicate face, their joined hands.

Combeferre doesn't notice Enjolras's golden halo. He's grown accustomed to such things. But he, too, looks into the fireplace, finding some comfort in its warmth and light.

At Enjolras's declaration that killing is more honest, Combeferre winces. He can't truly argue; nevertheless, there's something cruelly absurd about such a statement.

"Let us hope it will not come to that point," he says. "When do you expect to hear from Valjean on this subject, distressed as he is?"

Enjolras lifts a hand to gesture ignorance as if displaying it upon spread fingers.

"He didn't say; I didn't ask. And there's the question of his leaving Milliways to consider as well."

"He was distressed. About something else as well, even before, though I'm not certain what. His daughter has just married Marius." Which one would think would be a happy occasion, and certainly Valjean never said otherwise, though for a man with a daughter he seemed very nearly as vague on the subject as Enjolras. "I think he'll take some time in reflection."

"Ah, yes, Marius. It's good to know he will be happy. But perhaps Valjean is distressed at the thought of his daughter being grown, and living apart from him. Fathers can be, I'm told." Combeferre doesn't know how his own father felt when his sister married. His parents were proud of him, he knew, but his sojourn in Paris had left him removed from things in the family home.

"Perhaps," Enjolras agrees.

He has no idea. Nor even what little personal experience of such things Combeferre has; Enjolras has no sisters, and his few cousins were distant in age from him and male as well.

His father missed him when he left for Paris, he's aware, but he was proud as well, and so far as Enjolras knows not distressed. But Enjolras was a son, and carrying out the ideals his father first taught him. It's different, no doubt.

Jean Valjean, according to Hugo, had grown particularly attached to the idea of keeping his daughter with him always. And he was particularly grieved and angered by the prospect of losing her. But Combeferre will not say that. A man's most private and tangled feelings were not to be aired against his will, whether Hugo described them accurately or not.

"Will the spy leave Milliways with Valjean?"

With Valjean? It's an interesting question.

"I don't know."

They're from roughly the same time, as far as he can tell, but he hadn't thought they'd be coming and going together. Unless Combeferre knows more about this...?

"I heard about them working on the church together," Combeferre says, sensing that an explanation is needed.

He pauses. "But I don't know if they're from the same time--indeed, I don't see how they can be, if Hugo's account is accurate. The spy commits suicide sometime before Mlle Fauchelevent's marriage to Marius."

Of course, Hugo may have embroidered the truth, or altered it to suit his literary vision.

"It's been my impression that they are. But I don't know for certain."

He hasn't asked in so many words. Perhaps he should.

At a later point, anyway.

"Hugo's accuracy, of course, is entirely up for question. I gather from Bahorel that what he wrote of our experiences is at least largely accurate, and M. Valjean seemed to recognize many of the points I could mention."

His anguish at every one of them was awful to behold. Mentioning it brings a shadow to Enjolras's face again, though he doesn't pause.

"But for the rest...? It's hard to say. He must have altered some things. If nothing else, there must be matters he couldn't know."

"He clearly had a source close to the barricade," Combeferre says. "And in some ways--he seems as though he's more informed than we are, about some things."

He pauses, and curses himself. What he's about to say, he should have told Enjolras much sooner. What was he thinking? How could he be so unfeeling, to delay telling Enjolras this for even one moment? Not that the information truly changes anything, but--

"Everything Hugo says about Le Cabuc's execution, for instance. How it happened. What you said. It's all accurate, as far as I know." And described with an excessive amount of poetic drivel about the executioner's beauty, in Combeferre's opinion, but he does not say this aloud.

"But it goes further than what I know. It says Le Cabuc was a police spy."

Again, it changes nothing, not truly--except to cast into sharper relief that which they already knew. That killing Le Cabuc was necessary. That he was no innocent. That Le Cabuc's actions, whatever motivated them, were evil, and could only hurt their cause. That their enemy was cruel and utterly without regard for the people's lives. That it was still killing, nevertheless.

"Bahorel said as much."

Enjolras is grave; calm, as well, but on this subject he will never be anything but melancholy and sober.

"It changes nothing, at the root. But I suppose it's good to know that none of our men were such hotheaded scoundrels."

Killing him was a moral wrong, a betrayal of principles. And it was necessary. That would be true whether this was his only crime or, as it seems it was, the last of a lifetime of atrocities.

"Yes."

Combeferre is equally melancholy, though much less calm. He turns back to the leaping flames in fireplace and lets his gaze settle there. His eyes are still but unfocused.

Enjolras follows his gaze to the fire.

The metaphor is an old one, well-worn. Nonetheless, compelling. The conflagration, cousin to the volcano, which purifies as it consumes, and leaves behind ashes and the rise of a phoenix; the warmth which maintains and brightens life, the light which beats back darkness. Life's preservation, and its ending.

He says nothing, for the moment.

The knock on the door is loud and perfunctory, an announcement rather than a request. Bahorel carries his second knock through to push the door open and strolls in, grinning with amusement. "There you are! I have been deployed in the interest of science--"

The mood of the room is obvious. Obvious, and familiar, and potentially aggravating. He raises an eyebrow. "What dire calamity has come on us now?"

Ah. Hello, Bahorel.

"No calamity," says Enjolras. Still gravely, it must be admitted, but Bahorel's entrance does lighten his sober expression with a greeting hint of a smile.

"No," says Combeferre gloomily, still staring into the fire. "There's no calamity."

In a moment, he'll rouse himself to ask what precisely Bahorel was doing in the interests of science. For now, he keeps silent.

"And yet here you both sit in mourning. Or is the fire revealing grim portents?" Bahorel leans between Enjolras and Combeferre with an arm around each of them, very pointedly trying to look into the fire. There's probably at least a chance that the fire really is showing dramatic portents. But it is, sadly, not the most likely reason for the current mood in the room. "Or are you determined to argue with it until it does?"

Enjolras accepts the arm and the mild teasing placidly. (He reached over to press Combeferre's hand at his gloomy tone a moment ago. The sudden acquisition of a Bahorel between them in no way prevents this gesture.)

"I spoke with Valjean."

This has the air of less a direct answer than a partial subject change. If Bahorel wants to know what exactly they were discussing, he's welcome to ask directly.

"A little while ago."

Combeferre scowls perfunctorily at the teasing. He's not actually irritated and can't muster up the energy for a proper scowl. But it's the principle of the thing.

At Enjolras's gesture of comfort, Combeferre attempts a smile.

"Enjolras told him about Hugo's book," he says, to Bahorel. "It seems Valjean didn't react well."

That is news, a matter of practical and perhaps immediate concern. There's no obvious change in posture, but Bahorel's attitude shifts. "Not well--how? Do we need to do anything about it?"

Heavily, "His pain, primarily."

So: only if they see a remedy for that. It seems unlikely.

"As for the question of the spy, he feels it's unjust to keep such a thing secret from him, but also sees the justice of our position, and the reasons for it. He asked for time to think about it."

"Valjean helped us save an extra man at the barricade, and fought without killing--hopefully he won't wish to endanger the survivors' lives and their families. Even though he has no political opinions. Otherwise..."

Combeferre trails off.

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