pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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[OKAY THEY'RE AT THE MUSAIN]

The society called the Amis de l'ABC is a democracy, as it must and can only be. They cannot strive to create a better world without striving also to make their fraternity a microcosm of that dream. Still, roles must be taken, knowledge divided; equal voice given, but responsibilities assumed on the basis of aptitude; this is a fellowship of equals; they work together, as best suits the needs of the moment. And knowledge must be kept and distributed with equal care, in all organizations working towards the downfall of a government.

Enjolras's role, in the planning of their part in the building insurrection, is that of chief and general. Discontent simmers in Paris and beyond, whispers move, supplies are stockpiled and dozens of small societies like theirs signal their readiness to each other, and to the minds at the movement's heart. Therefore, Enjolras has been directing his friends -- his trusted lieutenants -- to various groups around the city to take stock. Courfeyrac to the Polytechnicians, Feuilly to la Glacière, Joly to the Medical school, himself to the Cougourde d'Aix, and so forth. A place for each.

"Then everything's settled," says Courfeyrac, but Enjolras shakes his head.

"No."

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For all Grantaire's faults, at least, there is one thing he knows of himself: he is what he is. He may wreathe himself in words, he may turn them inside out and upside down, but when the truth is asked --

"I believe in you."

His voice sounds strange without mockery in it.

And that is a thing Enjolras has never asked, nor wanted. He serves a higher cause; he is but one of France's citizens, with the same birthright of rights and duties as all; he's one man, no idol, no cause to believe in. What does believing in one person as a cause result in? Nothing, or tyranny.

Grantaire is drunk, besides; alcohol is the only cause Enjolras can see for such words said with bare honesty, and Grantaire is always at least half-drunk. All the time he's been in the Café Musain tonight, it's been with absinthe and water at his elbow and in his glass. That's no good either.

Wearily: "Grantaire, do you want to do me a favor?"

Grantaire lets out a puff of breath -- a cough, or a laugh -- and takes a gulp of his drink.

Things change for the better, this is inevitable: so say the philosophers; so says Enjolras; but look how they disprove it, every time! The world revolves, and the world returns. And Grantaire revolves and returns, too.

"Anything," he says. The bitter, laughing twist in his lip is back, and in his voice as well; the face reflects the soul. "Polish your boots."

"Well, don't meddle in our affairs." The words are harsh, albeit from frustration; the tone, matter-of-fact. "Sleep off your absinthe."

Come back sober, and perhaps then that vague ambition will be worth something.

Grantaire's hand twitches around his glass, a flinch confined to the wrist.

"You're an ingrate, Enjolras," he blurts out.

If a poor man only has two francs give -- two francs of the old adulterated currency, say, worn and shot through with base metals -- still, should he be scorned for offering it? It's little enough, but it's an earnest offering, all the same.

He's tired of this, and irritated. There's work to be done, important work, urgent work, amongst the men who have devoted their hearts and their time to this, and here he is arguing at length with Grantaire about whether Grantaire is suited to do something he's never had the slightest interest in doing. Grantaire is loyal in his way, very well; it may serve anyone little, but it's true; all the same, he spends his time arguing against all belief and devotion, not bolstering it in others.

"You'd be a fine man to go to the Barrière du Maine," he scoffs. "You'd be capable of that!"

"I'm capable of going down to the Rue des Grès, of crossing the Place Saint-Michel, of striking off through the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, of taking the Rue de Vaugirard, of passing the Carmelites, of turning into the Rue d'Assas, of reaching the Rue du Cherche-Midi, of leaving behind me the War Ministry, of hurrying through the Rue des Vieilles-Tuileries, of striding through the Boulevard, of following the Chaussée du Maine, of crossing over the Barrière, and of entering Richefeu's."

He reels off the directions without a mistake -- a sarcasm designed to irritate, a joke spooling on long after it's funny, as all Grantaire's jokes. But a proof, as well: see! he knows his directions as well as a sober man.

"I am capable of that. My shoes are capable of it."

Edited 2013-05-10 03:14 (UTC)

Enjolras listens to this recitation with the lowered brow and flashing eyes of a man holding to patience, and finding little of it to hold.

Very well, then. If Grantaire refuses to be deterred, and insists on treating this like a serious proposition, let him account for the details.

Enjolras plants his hands on the table, and returns Grantaire's gaze with a steady stare: annoyed, assessing, a demand. "Do you know anything about those comrades at Richefeu's?"

As always, the achievement of Enjolras' attention -- a rare achievement for Grantaire, indeed! -- brings with it a mixture of triumph and terror. He wavers for a second, his eyes dropping before they rise again to meet Enjolras.'

"Not much. We're on good terms, though."

Grantaire is on good terms with the world. He expects nothing of it, it expects nothing of him, which makes for an equitable relationship; and explains, also, why Enjolras is the sole exception.

"What will you say to them?"

"I'll talk about Robespierre, by God. About Danton, about principles."

Robespierre! Danton! The lowest common denominator of revolution, indeed; anybody can spit out names, anybody can make them sound glorious, he as well as any -- but he doesn't drop his gaze.

"You!"

Holy names, sacred abstractions -- to be called upon by the tongue of one who scoffs at the very notion?

"Me!" Grantaire echoes. The tone of mockery rings out again in his voice.

"When I get going, I'm formidable. I've read Prudhomme, I know the Contrat Social, I know my constitution of the year Two by heart. 'The Liberty of the citizen ends where the Liberty of another citizen begins.' Do you take me for a brute? I have an old assignat in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people, ye gods! I'm even a bit of a Hébertist. I can repeat," he says, self-derisively -- it is the truth, after all, and Enjolras knows it well -- "for six hours at a time, watch in hand, superb things."

They are only words. Words are easy. Enjolras, with his shining passion, does not know how easy words are.

"Be serious."

A Hébertist, by heaven! Only so far as he's an exaggerator -- and insofar as he cares to ensure a plentiful supply of wine.

It's true: Grantaire can speak, and speak with erudition, at length. But his words are only words. He never bothers with conviction.

Serious! Enjolras wants serious; that Grantaire can't give.

He leans forward over his table, and responds, instead, with what he can: "I am wild."

There's no one else to send, in any case. It's Grantaire now, or no one now and another tomorrow; if Grantaire fails, well then, another tomorrow.

What is there to lose? Only time, and enough of that has been spent already in this matter.

And perhaps this is Grantaire's moment; he may discover his convictions, or at least the satisfaction of a good end achieved, a fraternity of effort as well as of good humor. Enjolras doubts the likelihood, but he has hope. Grantaire, too, is a citizen of France. And he has skills -- his words, his learning, his honesty, even his raucous good humor -- if only he would apply them to any useful purpose.

Enjolras weighs these thoughts in his mind: then he gestures, small and decisive.

"Grantaire, I agree to try you."

What is there to lose, after all?

"You'll go to the Barrière du Maine."

And the rest of them will be able to get back to work.

Grantaire's stare lingers on Enjolras for a long moment, as if he hasn't quite heard the words; or, as if hearing them, cannot quite believe them.

Then he jerks his gaze away, and uses his hands, planted on the table, to push himself to his feet. Animated by a sudden of nervous energy, he walks straight for the door, placing his feet with a kind of exaggerated care.

Enjolras is no longer watching.

His decision is made and announced, and the rest is in Grantaire's hands; he has turned back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Combeferre touches his arm lightly, and they trade a look: resigned on Combeferre's part, still exasperated on Enjolras's.

"Well!" says Courfeyrac in a lowered voice, with a glance at the door and a hasty glance away, "we shall see if that was well chosen or ill, but it cannot be too bad; at the worst, he will fail to persuade them, and the next person will have a slightly harder job of it. Easily enough managed. Although I had meant to tell you, Enjolras, you ought not to hope for much from Marius; he has been ridiculous even by his standards recently, and I have barely seen him. I suspect him of being in love, but I asked him and he gave me a calf-eyed look and wandered out of the room. I cannot say whether that means yes or no, but if he is in love it's certainly not with republicanism, so you will have no interest."

"Indeed," returns Enjolras drily. "That established, may we return to the matter of Picpus?"

Grantaire's apartment is dark, and largely decorated with various items of his wardrobe scattered around various places they ought not to be -- some old and in good taste, some new and hideous; a few new and tasteful both.

"Costumes-mistress," he murmurs distractedly to himself, as he picks up first one item, then another, "you must ensure that the clothes fit the understudy -- well, but the melodrama is simple, Pixerecourt himself might have written it; Le Chien d'Enjolras, ou Le Cafe de Paris, mélodrame historique en trois actes et à grand spectacle - ah, so!"

Finding what he's looking for, he shrugs it on and hastens out again.

In the meantime, Courfeyrac and Bossuet have left; Feuilly has left; Joly has gotten so far as putting on his coat, but has been diverted into an argument about the Opera with Bahorel. Jean Prouvaire is listening, contributing rarely, mostly attempting to write a poem in a small notebook.

Enjolras and Combeferre, from discussing the revolutionary society of Picpus, have moved to the question of the ideal speed of revolution itself; familiar philosophical ground, but engrossing nonetheless.

A few minutes later, Grantaire returns the Cafe Musain. His waistcoat is, to say the least, striking, though it clashes in itself with his ruddy coloring.

"Red," he declares, looking straight at Enjolras -- as if it were possible to overlook it -- and smooths the points over his breast.

(In Bahorel, this might be called peacocking. In Grantaire, intentional or no, it is a parody.)

None of this is necessary.

If he wished to make an earnest political statement with his clothing, well enough; he doesn't, and Enjolras knows it, since Grantaire has no earnest political sentiments to lay claim to; nor does he have any need to dress the part to talk some fire into the workers of the Barrière du Maine. The greater mystery is why Grantaire even has such a waistcoat to make a display of, but Enjolras has better questions to occupy his mind and his time.

He acknowledges Grantaire's presence and appearance with a glance, and turns back to Combeferre. "Yes, I grant you that. But the question now is of Paris today, Combeferre -- you know that as well as I; the question is when the embers that smolder under their blanket of old ashes will burst forth in flame."

Ah! now that's not fair; to be summoned to trial, then ignored before the argument has had a chance to be made? It's clear enough how little Enjolras attends his lectures in law.

Ignored, Grantaire approaches, the scarlet of his waistcoat a bright, baleful portent. It's cleaner than the rest of him, at any rate.

Combeferre, instead of answering immediately, looks sideways at the approaching Grantaire. It's a mild, patient glance -- of the particular sort which means Combeferre is suppressing exasperation of his own, but Combeferre's supply of patience and self-restraint is one of his many admirable traits.

Enjolras, who is significantly less patient by nature, finds his jaw tightening slightly in renewed irritation. Must Grantaire make such a senseless production of this?

But he glances over as well. If he has consented to give Grantaire an assignment, he must also endeavor to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps then Grantaire will get on with it.

Grantaire leans over towards Enjolras.

In the other man's ear, he says, low, almost gentle, "Don't worry."

Then, confident his point has been made, he straightens, jams down his hat, and turns on his heel to go.

Enjolras isn't certain what response Grantaire expects from him. Fortunately, the answer seems to be 'none.' Grantaire is already turning to go.

All of this -- the pointless show, the alcohol fumes and drunken ebullience, the frequent outpouring of empty words -- would be mere foibles, easily tolerated, if only Grantaire would balance them by turning his talents to any good use, or finding in himself a conviction for something greater. He may yet.

It would be a welcome change.

Enjolras watches him leave; then he turns his attention back to his conversation with Combeferre, and the luncheon he has mostly forgotten in favor of more important matters.

Grantaire, meanwhile, weaves his way along the route he had described to Enjolras.

Well! He is a jug, to be filled, with wine or with purpose, either one. Though he has no convictions, still he can speak; there exist convictions enough in the world, without him adding to their number. Quotes, endless quotes, inutterable declamations, he has them stored up in his mind: "The Author of Nature has bound all mortals by a boundless chain of love and happiness; perish the tyrants who have dared to break it!" This, declaimed in the Rue de Vaugirard; then, as he passes the Carmelites, in a sing-song, "We must dare, dare again, always dare, and France is saved!" -- and then a policeman in the Rue d'Assas, and he swerves hastily away, a harmless drunkard once more, until he is safely in the Rue de Cherche-Midi, and free to announce again to the air, "Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable!"

Thus armed with a red waistcoat and a sense of purpose, he approaches the Barrière du Maine.

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