Enjolras nods: yes, he saw the mask, though he didn't get the full story. (Most of the story he got was along the lines of ...Well, Bahorel. Admittedly, that does explain plenty.)
At the question, he grimaces wryly. The Paris they saw wasn't a bad place, but it was -- well. It was different, and his feelings about that are both strong and complicated. Homesickness is a powerful one of those feelings, the peculiarly aching, dislocated homesickness of briefly visiting your heart's home to find it utterly changed; but there are other feelings too, especially with the Labyrinth's circumstances.
All the same, when Combeferre breaks off happily with Prouvaire's name, Enjolras grasps his hand for a moment, his heart full of shared joy.
"It was -- I don't know if it was our world or not. The year was 1885. If it wasn't our world, it was extremely similar. We found ourselves there," he says, delicately dry, "on the day of Victor Hugo's funeral procession."
He's not entirely sure how to feel about that, either.
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At the question, he grimaces wryly. The Paris they saw wasn't a bad place, but it was -- well. It was different, and his feelings about that are both strong and complicated. Homesickness is a powerful one of those feelings, the peculiarly aching, dislocated homesickness of briefly visiting your heart's home to find it utterly changed; but there are other feelings too, especially with the Labyrinth's circumstances.
All the same, when Combeferre breaks off happily with Prouvaire's name, Enjolras grasps his hand for a moment, his heart full of shared joy.
"It was -- I don't know if it was our world or not. The year was 1885. If it wasn't our world, it was extremely similar. We found ourselves there," he says, delicately dry, "on the day of Victor Hugo's funeral procession."
He's not entirely sure how to feel about that, either.