pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

[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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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.