pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

[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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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.