Enjolras's eyes are glittering by midway through this recitation. He closes his eyes, listening; his hand loosens, lifts from Combeferre's arm, rises to press his hand where it rests still on Enjolras's shoulder. In his other hand the mug of coffee rests still on his knee, cooling, distant, disregarded.
No rain. Greater numbers of citizens rising, a harder press at the right time; that simple, that providential. And then, a Republic.
What their poor France could have had, so many decades before it did. He doesn't understand the nature of the Labyrinth still, but perhaps -- perhaps, somewhere, another France really did. A free and sovereign people, the agony of poverty relieved, the light of liberty and equality spreading across the world. Feuilly alive, Joly, all of them, alive and doing great work.
The Corinthe, that he can't quite remember without thinking of it in blood and anguish and acid and wreckage -- the Corinthe, clean.
This future, described in Combeferre's wondering, exultant tone, is both a horrible juxtaposition with what was, and a gift beyond price. Enjolras chooses to focus on the latter; they're both true.
no subject
No rain. Greater numbers of citizens rising, a harder press at the right time; that simple, that providential. And then, a Republic.
What their poor France could have had, so many decades before it did. He doesn't understand the nature of the Labyrinth still, but perhaps -- perhaps, somewhere, another France really did. A free and sovereign people, the agony of poverty relieved, the light of liberty and equality spreading across the world. Feuilly alive, Joly, all of them, alive and doing great work.
The Corinthe, that he can't quite remember without thinking of it in blood and anguish and acid and wreckage -- the Corinthe, clean.
This future, described in Combeferre's wondering, exultant tone, is both a horrible juxtaposition with what was, and a gift beyond price. Enjolras chooses to focus on the latter; they're both true.