Enjolras shakes his head slightly with the smallest of smiles, spurred by both comment and touch. No, Haussmann couldn't. Wide boulevards and utterly changed shopfronts and all, it was still Paris, and its crowds still Parisian.

"In passing. Enough to learn the day, the event -- little more. Then we realized where we were. The rue de la Chanvrerie was the rue Rambuteau, the buildings all changed, but -- Combeferre, listen." He turns a little, pressing a hand to Combeferre's arm in turn. "Do you know what someone had scratched into a plaster wall? Vivent les peuples."

Enjolras doesn't care if he himself is recognized, by name or by Hugo's florid descriptions. But that Feuilly's remembered -- that matters.