It felt like rain on the skin; cold and driving rain, sluicing down, plastering hair to foreheads and running down collars in an icy stream, like the worst kind of early spring day, but no worse than that. It patters harmlessly off the broad blue-green leaves of the trees, too, and puddles on the ground in muddy cold puddles like any rain.

But their clothes look as though the raindrops were made of knives and sharp rocks. Enjolras's coat is in shreds. He might as well take it off, he thinks, irritated; he'd be at least as decent in shirtsleeves and (only slightly less abused) waistcoat. Clearly there's no rain protection to be gained from this coat right now, or possibly ever again. His shirtsleeves are tattered now too, but at least they're better.

He casts a look of baffled, annoyed resignation at Bahorel. (Bahorel shed his coat hours ago, and is casting a look of gleeful bafflement down at himself, in contrast. Then he pulls out his camera and demands a selfie of the two of them, for no reason Enjolras can discern.)

The rain ends just as suddenly as it began. They wait a little while just to make sure of it, but the sky stays resolutely blue. Fine. They'll carry on.

But it's not long before there are hoofbeats -- several horses, around a curve of the muddy road but getting rapidly closer.