PART XXIII

Paris

April is often the dawn of spring, as it was in Paris in the year 1825. At last, after a long and bitter winter, spring had come to revive the earth and give it life anew. The sun shone clearly in a vast blue sky, finally triumphing over the chill of the winter. The cold was gone, and the snow was melting. The streets of the city had become a fountain, a pool, and a shower. As the mounds of snow decreased and faded away, streams of water rushed down the pavement and gathered in shallow pools at the ends of streets and out front of buildings. Paris was bathing in water and sunlight.

The sound of spring sang clearly in the city. It could be heard in the voices of the birds as they soared overhead as well as the sound of was water, which was music as it ran down the streets, dripped off of the roofs of the buildings, and trickled down into the pavement below. It was the sounds of a rain, a river, a waterfall, and most beautifully of spring. Spring could be felt in the warmth of the sun, the gentleness of the breeze, the smell of the fresh air, the faint sent of flowers as new blossoms began to form of the bare arms of the trees. At last, the bleak winter was over and spring was at hand.

Not only were the sun, the birds, and the plants rejoicing at the arrival of spring, but so were the citizens of Paris. The people, who had stayed hidden inside of their warm homes throughout the harsh winter, took to the streets. Amongst them were multitudes of Paris's students. The new generation, the youthful, the reckless, the wild, the free-thinkers, the ambition-seekers, the fresh minds, the stubborn hearts, the daring souls, the strong-willed boys, the courageous men, the rebels. These were the students of Paris.

Today was April 3, 1825. It was Easter Sunday. The arrival of spring was just one more thing to celebrate on this beautiful Easter day, one more reason to look to Heaven and praise God. Every spirit was flying and every soul was soaring. The young people were lost in their joy, as if their hearts were being carried away by this warm breeze of April. Boys smiled at a pretty girl that they had never seen before, and the two of them ran off hand in hand, smiling and laughing. Friends gathered in groups in the parks, in the streets, and even in tavern and pubs so long as the windows were thrown open wind to let in the purity of the spring.

Amongst those in the streets, there were four young men, students, none of them yet past their twentieth year. With them were three young ladies that they had met that same morning. Smiling fondly at their girls—one of the unlucky boys, who was no less attractive than the others, simply less lucky, had been unable to acquire a woman to love that day—they walked through the streets, talking blissfully, chattering in a carefree air, laughing, joking, not having a worry in the world, making promises that they all knew would be broken before the end of tomorrow. Yet, in the moment, in the breath of spring, in the freedom and the joy of this day, that did not seem to matter. All of them, even the girls, knew these things that they said were not true, but they did not care. This moment was beautiful, perfect. They were all content to enjoy it while it lasted.

Yet, these were, as has been said, the students of Paris. They were the youthful, the immature, the ignorant, the playful, the reckless. It was only a matter of time before their wild humors and their rash carelessness brought this peaceful and romantic moment to an end. Four these four lads, it happened when the unlucky fellow, the same who was not lucky enough to get a lady before his friends, slipped in a puddle.

He went straight down. He landed on his rump, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms barely catching him before he sprawled out on his back. Needless to say, slamming down upon the stone pavement was not a particularly enjoyable experience and it hurt his buttocks, which immediately began to ache, but, on top of this, water splashed all over him. It drenched his pants, drenching them until even his undergarments were soaked. His shirt, waistcoat, and overcoat were wet as well. Even his face had been splashed, and there was water dripping off of his hair.

He sat there in the middle of the street for a moment, too stunned and too embarrassed to get up. He was unsure which had been hurt worse: his body or his pride… Probably his pride. Defiantly his pride. At once, the three girls were bending down beside him, asking him if he was alright, trying to help him up. As for his friends, however, as was only natural and expected of a man's three best friends, they did not ask him if he was alright. They did not help him up. They were not worried about him in the least. Naturally, they were laughing at him. They were not just laughing, in fact. They went bent over laughing, clutching at their sides, struggling to breath, because they found this so humorous. Then, when they found the breath to speak between laughs, they started mimicking his facial expression during the event, and informing him how he squeaked when he fell, and jesting and jeering at, and mocking him. That could only be expected from dear friends like these.

He sat on the ground a moment longer, unsure how to react to this humiliating situation. He stared ahead of him, a glum expression on his face, and he felt the cold water soaking deeper into his underwear, soaking him to the skin. Their laughter and teasing only made him more embarrassed. And the girls saw that too. Even they were trying to suppress their giggles now. In the next few moments, they were laughing too, unable to resist the humor of his friends' merciless comments. They were not even kneeling beside him any more but standing and laughing with the others. So here he was, sitting on his butt on the middle of the street, soaking wet, attracting the attention of everyone on the road, in the center of his three best friends and three very pretty ladies who were all laughing at him. Geez, he just had the worst luck. He could never get a break, could he? With this kind of luck, he would probably start balding in the next year.

There are plenty of men who would have gotten angry at this time, cussed at their friends, got up, and stormed off. This young student, however, found it easier to, rather than get angry about his bad luck, join in the fun and laugh at it. That is what he did now. A smile spread across his wet face, and he started laughing with the others. However, this was not over yet. His friends had embarrassed him, but it all turned out merry. It seemed to him that it would be cruel, selfish even, of him not to let his friends join in this fun; it would be wrong of him not to return the favor.

Finally, when the laughter died down, one of the students—a charming boy with curly brown hair, warm brown eyes to match, a handsome face, and a striking smile—reached out his hand to help up his friend who was still sitting in a puddle on the pavement. An immature, wild, and spirited boy as he was, instead of letting his friend help him up, he took this opportunity to pull his friend down with him.

He let out a sudden cry, which was muddled with surprise but also laughter, as he fell forward. He tried to throw out his hands to catch himself, but one of his hands was still being gripped by his vengeful friend and his other arm was still draped around the woman who had been standing next to him. She too let out a panicked yelp as she stumbled forward and water splashed the bottom of her expensive dress. The second student splashed into the puddle beside the first, at the last moment he managed to catch himself on his hands and knees.

A new burst of laughter erupted from the students, and this time the unlucky fellow was amongst those who were laughing. This moment did not last long however. A grin spreading across the fallen student's face. He rose up on his knees, cupped as much water as he could in his hands, and threw it at the two boys who had been fortunate enough not to get wet thus far.

As one can imagine, only chaos and imprudent games can be reported after this. In sort time, the three girls was shrieking and trying to protect their dresses and their hairdos as the four students jumped about the street splashing, throwing, kicking water at each other, pushing each other into puddles, tripping each other whenever they got a chance, laughing and joking, shamelessly making children and idiots of themselves.

"Stop this!" one of the girl finally cried. She began yanking on the arm of the student with her. "Enough of this! I am getting wet!" Earlier that day the young man, a roguish fellow with a mischievous air and a gipsy heart that could not stay in one place for more than a few days, had promised her that he would give anything and everything for her, that he would give her whatever she wanted, that he would do whatever she asked him. Now, he turned to her, smirked, and splashed her with water. The girl screamed as if she had been brutally injured, as if he had broken her arm. A moment later, the students watched her slap him across the face, yell something at him that they could not understand through her sobs, and stalk off, glaring at him over her shoulder. To this, they all laughed… even the man who had been slapped.

It was not much longer before the other two girls fled as well, and the four students were left idling in the road. Their game was all fun for perhaps a minute longer. Then someone—it is hard to say exactly which of them—accidently splashed an old, rich, well dressed, and well esteemed man who was passing by with his wife. The woman gasped as her new gown, an Easter gift bought for her by her husband, was drenched from the knees down, and her husband turned furiously to the foolish boys who were responsible for this.

"God help us," one of the students muttered, trying to stifle his laughter, as he watched the man, whose face was red and crumpling in rage, begin to storm toward them. "I say we run for it."

"Agreed!" cried another, and in the instant they were all turning on their heels and tearing off in the other direction, splashing through puddles and streams, getting people wet and angry, maneuvering through the crowds, pushing people out of the way, laughing as they ran for their lives.

They continued down Rue Saint-Denis, turned left down Rue de la Chanvrerie, and did not stop until they reached the end of the road, where it intersected with Rue Mondétour. There was a café there, which by this point they had all become quite familiar with, called the Café Musain. This was their sanctuary. As if thinking with one mind, they headed for the café, ran through the door, hurried inside, and slammed the door shut behind them.

They stood beyond the entrance, exhausted, panting, soaking wet in rainwater and sweat now as well. They stood there, clutching the cramps in their sides or bending over so they could rest their hands on their knees. Only their heavy breathing and their pounding hearts made noise. At last, they raised their faces to look at each other. Vast smiles spread across their lips. They laughed.

"Jesus!" the young rogue grumbled, straightening up and heaving a great sigh. He rubbed his face, where a red imprint of a hand could be seen swelling across his cheek. "That girl can hit! She hits better than you do, Courfeyrac!"

"Oh no!" one of the student, who was not Courfeyrac, anxiously exclaimed. He looked around suddenly and frantically. He yanked the door open once more, stuck his head out, and squinted to see down the street. "We lost Bossuet!" he unhappily informed the others. Indeed, there was only three of them present now when there should have been four, and Bossuet was no where to be found. "That old maniac must have caught him!"

"Are you kidding?" said the brown-eyed boy, Courfeyrac. He snorted and laughed. "There is no way that miser could have caught him, he was at least sixty years old! Bossuet probably just got lost or something. Probably took a wrong turn… even though we were running right next to him."

"Yes," agreed his friend, who was trying to be inconspicuous as he rubbed his throbbing cheek and tried to sooth the sting and the ache. He grinned and added with a chuckle, "Or he might have slipped again." He shook his head and laughed just thinking about it. "Bossuet is an idiot."

"He's just unlucky," disagreed the boy who was still looking out the door, hoping that he might be able to spot their lost friend amongst the crowd. At this point, it seemed unlikely.

"Indeed, and consequently we are all soaking wet because of his bad luck. Now!" He removed his hand from his cheek and clasped them both together. Clearly pleased with the current situation, he went on, "Since we are here, I say we sit down, have a drink, play a round or two…"

"Sounds good to me!" agreed Courfeyrac.

"But, friends! Don't you think we should go look for Bossuet? He could have gotten hurt. If he tripped, the old man might have caught him, and he could be seriously in need of assistance right now!"

"He'll be fine," the other dismissed the suggestion with a wave of the hand. He was already approaching the woman who owned the pub and purchasing four bottles of liquor. Courfeyrac sat himself down at one of the tables and made himself comfortable while one of his friends stood helplessly by the door, looking vainly out into the street as if this could somehow help Bossuet, and while his other friend hurried toward him with four bottles in his arms. He set them down noisily upon the table. He collapsed down into the chair across from Courfeyrac, muttering something unhappily under his breath about being soaking wet. "You got a deck of cards, Courf?" he asked, already opening a bottle and raising it to his lips.

"Naturally."

He swallowed his drink. "Good." Not bothering to look over his shoulder he raised his voice and shouted, "Hey, Joly, get over here! Bossuet will be fine. I just bought you a drink, now come on!"

"I feel bad leaving him out there."

"Then get over it. He will… sooner or later."

"Come on, Joly," Courfeyrac joined in. "Bossuet will probably show up here soon anyway. If we go looking for him, we will just miss him when he comes."

"I guess…" Joly finally muttered in reluctance, but he was still very unhappy about the idea of leaving his best friend by himself. Glumly, he let the door close, and he joined his friends at the table. "Four bottles," he observed as he sat down and took one for himself. "One for Bossuet as well?"

"No," his friend replied with a scoff, as if it were obvious, as he shuffled and dealt out the cards. "One for each of you and two for me."

Joly rolled his eyes. "You drink too much, Grantaire."

"Maybe, but that's another matter entirely and none of your concern. I've already got a headache—"

"Probably from hangover," interjected Joly, but Grantaire went on as if he had not heard this.

"—and I really do not need you making it worse."

"I'm serious, Grantaire, it's not healthy. You could get so many health problems from that. Besides drunkenness and witlessness, there's addiction, alcohol poisoning, cirrhosis of the liver, clogged arteries, heart failure, death—"

"For Heaven's sake, Joly," he grumbled rolling his eyes. "You are ridiculous."

"I am, serious, Grantaire! This is true! I learned about it in my medical classes! Drinking can kill you! If you do not clean up your act, I swear you will regret it one day."

"And I swear," said Grantaire, dramatically mimicking Joly's tone, "you will be diagnosed with hypochondria one day."

Now Joly rolled his eyes. "Do not be foolish." But the more he thought about it, it did not seem such a fanciful idea…

Almost three hours passed, afternoon was growing old, and sunset was drawling near when Bossuet finally found his way to the café. The three friends were in the middle of a game or cards when he appeared beside them at the table. "It was so nice of you to wait for me, to worry about me!" he cried sarcastically, but not angrily, as he popped down in a chair beside Joly and helped himself to Courfeyrac's half-drunken bottle. "It's such a blessing to know that I have friends as kind as all of you."

"Bossuet!" Joly exclaimed. "What happened to you!? I told them that we should go look for you, but they wouldn't listen!"

"Hello, Bossuet!" said Courfeyrac happily and casually, not at all surprised to see him. "Glad you could join us."

"And just in time," agreed Grantaire. "I just finished beating Joly and Courfeyrac; I'll deal you into the next round and beat you as well."

"Sure, and with my luck, yes, you probably will beat me."

"Bossuet, where were you?" inquired Joly, who of them all seemed to be the only one who was a little bit concerned about his friend and his disappearance.

"Well," began Bossuet, a grin spreading across his face, "believe it or not, I actually had a bit of good luck for once."

"You're right, I cannot believe it," said Grantaire, greatly surprised by this unusual news. "What happened?"

Bossuet smiled like a king and, not paying any attention whatsoever to the cards in his hands, already starting to lose this game, went on to tell his story. "When we were in the streets, I ended up running into this girl—"

"Literally running into her?" asked Courfeyrac with a smirk, recalling that they were all sprinting like madmen through the city when Bossuet disappeared.

"Well, yes, but that's beside the point. Anyway, she was a really pretty girl, beautiful! Like a goddess!"

Courfeyrac grinned at the cards in his hands. Amongst them were three kings. Not bad. Grantaire did not have this round in his pocket yet. "Sounds promising."

"Indeed! I helped her up—"

Grantaire snorted. Courfeyrac laughed. Joly grinned.

Ignoring them, he went on, "—and we ended up going on a walk together." He sighed blissfully as he relived the memory. "Today truly is a day of God… God and angels."

"What was her name?" ask Grantaire, wondering if he knew the girl—he knew a lot of girls.

He spoke her name as if it were made of gold. "Musichetta."

Grantaire grunted. "Never heard of her… Oh, and by the way, Bossuet, you lose."

Bossuet seemed to awe-struck and in love even to hear this last comment, much less to care. "Guess what, Jollly!"

"What?" Joly asked oblivious and ignorantly, as he peeked over the fan of cards in his hands.

"I did manage to convince her to come to my flat on Friday evening!"

He frowned in bewilderment. "…You don't have a flat… You didn't pay the rent, and then…"

"Yes, but she does not know that. Thus, she will be coming over your flat on Friday evening, and she will think it is mine, and you will be my dear friend who happened to be visiting at the same time. You will get to meet her, Joly. Trust me, she is a gem more precious than a diamond. You will not be disappointed! She is a magnificent woman!"

"Joly, you lose," said Grantaire. He took another long drink from his bottle as Joly noticed that he had indeed lost, which left only Grantaire and Courfeyrac in this competition, huffed, and threw down his cards.

Sighing as the alcohol burned his throat on the way down, struggled to get through his chest, and settled in his stomach, Grantaire turned to Bossuet. Very flatly and emotionlessly he informed him, as if to say, Do not get your hopes up, "Every woman is the same, Bossuet. You meet her, she smiles at you, you smile at her, you have a nice word, you have a few drinks, you have a few kisses, you have a fun night, and all of the fun ends in the morning with a brokenhearted girl and a very hung-over man. Hearts are broken, promises broken, lives broken, life goes on. Thus the cycle goes on. The ending is always the same. There is never an ending. It is a circle like the earth than never stops turning. It is only this endless struggle of hopeless hoping that goes on forever. That is all."

Joly sent a displeased look at Grantaire and grumbled, "And do you never feel bad for all of those women whose hearts you break, Grantaire?"

"If a man does not leave a woman first," said Grantaire indifferently, "it is only a matter of time before she will leave him. Either way, the end is the same. The only difference is if you allow yourself to really love a girl then, in the end, the joke is on you." He was quiet for a moment before he added as if as an afterthought, "Trust me, Joly. I've been around enough to know. …God knows it."

A quizzical look came into Joly's eye. He turned to Grantaire very seriously for the first time. He looked at his friend in confusion and concern. Grantaire was not looking at him. "What do you mean by that?" he questioned quietly, but Grantaire was too intently engaged in the final rounds of their card game now to answer such a question. He did not act as if he had heard this. He did not answer.

Yet, despite how engrossed he seemed in the game, he also seemed distracted, and he must have been, because Courfeyrac won that round. Grantaire swore and immediately demanded a rematch between just him and Courfeyrac. "Fine," agreed Courfeyrac with a chuckle. "I have to say that I am proud of you, Grantaire. You never give up, even when you know that you have been bested!" Bossuet and Joly laughed while Grantaire rolled his eyes. Courfeyrac's words, however, seemed to be revealing themselves, as false as the game progressed and Grantaire was clearly winning.

It was dark now. The sky was clear, and multitudes of stars twinkled and glittered in that endless mystery, as if every angel in Heaven was holding a candle as they watched over and protected the people. The Café Musain was filling up with people and with noise. This noise was happy chatter and jubilant laughter. Just as it had been all day, Paris was gleeful and blissful. It went about without a care in the world. It celebrated life with joy, and elation, and love. Yet, in a lonely corner of this café, garbed in all black, dressed in mourning, staring silently out the window into the darkness as if in sorrow, all alone and by himself, was a young boy.

Courfeyrac stilled just as he was lying down a card. His eyes were fixed past Grantaire, who was sitting across from him, and he stared at the back of the café.

"What is it?" Grantaire asked, noticing this peculiar behavior. He looked over his shoulder, trying to discover what Courfeyrac was looking at, but he was unable to do so. Frowning, he turned back to his friend. "Courf…. Hello… Courfeyrac… Courf, wake up! What are you goggling at!? Is there a pretty girl back there? I think not!"

Courfeyrac, suddenly forgetting all about the game they were amid, returned his attention to his circle of friends, leaned closer to them, and interrogated quietly like one in the midst of conspiracy, "Who is that young fellow in the corner over there?"

They all three turned their heads to stare, making no effort to be discreet about it, at the boy Courfeyrac was referring to. Because the young man was gazing outside—although his eyes were glass, seeing-less, and perceived not the world beyond the window but another world entirely—he did not see the students staring at him. They took him in.

He was a sad and a wondrous sight. He wore, as has been said, all black; he had pale skin, the grayish look about it that declared him to be sickly and unhealthy; he had a nasty cut on one cheek, an ugly bruise on more than one spot of the other, and a black eye. His face was that of a soldier on a field of battle just after the guns have stopped: grave, cold, empty, joyless. His face, his eyes, his heart, and his soul are empty. He was young, barely old enough to begin studying at university by the look of him. However, despite his youth, his handsomeness, he was as an old man who has witnessed and survived all of the terrors, griefs, and miseries of the world. In his cold eyes could be seen reflected the struggles and hardships that no man should know of, least of all a boy so young. His eyes were the kind that looked ceaselessly back upon the past, with solemnity, sorrow, and a hard heat. He weeps in his heart but sheds not a tear from his eye. He whales in his soul but makes for a sound from his lips. He has not the desire to live another day, but he is strong and he is courageous. He keeps going. He keeps fighting. Even though he has nothing left to fight for.

After getting a good look at him, the boys turned around again and condensed back into their huddle around the table. "I don't know," said Grantaire in indifference. "I've never seen him before. Why do you ask?"

"He must be a student," said Courfeyrac.

"I haven't seen him at school," said Joly.

"Neither have I… but of course I have not exactly been in school for a while," remarked Bossuet.

"He might be a new student," suggested Courfeyrac. "A lot of them come in the spring."

"Hm. Maybe," said Grantaire with a grunt, returning his attention to their card game, clearly not interested in the current discussion. "Now let's continue—"

"He looks depressed," said Courfeyrac.

"That is not our concern," said Grantaire.

Courfeyrac, as charming, lighthearted, and humorous as he was, was also a young man with a kind heart. He had a good heart of compassion, kindness, and love. He looked at this stranger, a student and a boy like himself, and he felt pity for him. He felt compassion for him. "I think we should ask him to play with us."

Grantaire looked up at Courfeyrac suddenly. He frowned at him as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. "What? You are serious? …Why?"

"Because," said Courfeyrac immediately, "everyone is having a great time, and he is over there all alone."

"Maybe, he wants to be alone. Ever think of that, Courfeyrac?"

"Yes, that is why I will ask him if he wants to play with us. If he wants to be alone, then he will say no."

"I agree," Joly finally joined in. "There is no harm in asking him. He looks like he has had a rough night."

"Indeed," said Bossuet with a faint chuckle, imagining all of the unlucky ways the young man could have acquired all of those bruises.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and huffed in frustration. "This is insane," he grumbled as he took a drink, as if his bottle was the only thing that could rescue his sanity before Courfeyrac drove him mad. "We do not even know this boy!"

Courfeyrac answered without hesitation, "Neither did we know you, Grantaire, when we found you passed out on the ground outside of the café one morning with black eyes, bruised knuckles, and a dreadful hangover." He smirked. "We could have very well left you alone. We could have gone right past you, because your problems clearly were none of our concern. But we didn't. And now look at us all! Had we left you alone, Grantaire, we would not all be sitting here together right now. So, in the end, it turned out immensely for the better."

Grantaire let out a heavy and irritated sigh. Yet, what could he say to that? It was not as if he could deny it. Very frustrated, and considerably embarrassed, he took another sip from his bottle. His friends laughed at him. "Can we at least finish this round first?"

"No," said Courfeyrac, briskly rising from his seat. The others remained seated and watched him without moving.

"Courfeyrac!"

"Quiet, Grantaire. If you wish, then you can stay here, but I am going to talk to him."

"Fine," groaned Grantaire. "Go. I will stay here."

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Very well. I will be back." He turned his back to his friends and fearlessly strode across the café. He went into the dark corner where the young boy was sitting alone and, without bothering to ask, took a seat across from him.

The boy, who had been gazing out the window as if in a trance, turned his head suddenly, and his bruised eyes came to rest on the smiling face before him. His own expression was cold, solemn, grave. He was not smiling.

"Hello!" said Courfeyrac brightly, speaking to this stranger like a friend, like a good friend that he had known for many years. Friendlily, he went on, "Can I buy you a drink?"

The boy frowned. In a voice like the breath of winter, lingering still and piercing its chill through the warmth of the young spring, a quiet rasp, he said flatly, "I do not drink."

"Oh." Courfeyrac was taken aback by this reply. "I uh… Alright then." A grin spread across his face, and he muttered teasingly, "You look awful. What happened, did you do something to anger your mistress? What did you do to her? What did she do to you?"

It was supposed to be a joke, but it was evident at once that this boy did not find it amusing. He frowned at Courfeyrac. He did not respond. In his eyes, it could be seen that this comment, even if it was only a joke, angered and upset him. Within seconds, Courfeyrac regretted having said it. Not only did this stranger not find it funny, but it was clear that however he really obtained these wounds was a private matter that he did not intend to share.

The smirk dropped off of his face. He cleared his throat. He glanced away and met the boy's eyes once more. He resumed his amiable air—which was natural and genuine in Courfeyrac—a smile returned to his lips, and he tried a new approached. "My name is Courfeyrac," he said cordially. "I am a student here. I just began attending university this year." He lowered his voice and muttered, as if it were a secret, "I am not actually supposed to be here yet, since I am only fifteen. But, you know, my father is in politics. He wants me to study law, like he did. It is not the most interesting activity I have ever experienced, but the parents expect it… and they are paying for it. So I am doing what I must."

Courfeyrac finished, and the stranger stared at him without replying. He looked confused, suspicious. He looked almost as if he could not figure out what this ignorant fifteen-year-old thought he was doing, why he was sitting with him, what he was talking about, why he was talking to him. He did not appear as if he knew how to, or if he even should, respond. For the first time, Courfeyrac began to have doubts. He felt uncomfortable sitting so out of place and uninvited in front of this stranger. Perhaps, Grantaire was right…

"Enjolras."

"What?" Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows and leaned closer across the table. The boy had spoken so suddenly, so quickly, and so quietly—Courfeyrac never expected it—and Courfeyrac did not understand what he had said.

"Enjolras," he said again, slower and clearer this time. "I am Enjolras."

"Ah!" A wide smile spread across Courfeyrac's face as gladness and relief filled his heart. "Glad to meet you, Enjolras! Will you be studying in university as well?"

Enjolras answered with a brief nod. "Yes."

"Really!" Courfeyrac piped brightly. "First year?"

He nodded.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Only one year older than myself."

"I only turned sixteen yesterday."

"Then not even half a year older than myself! Do you know how to read and write?"

"Yes."

"Me as well," he said as if it were obvious. "My father would be ashamed of me if I didn't."

To this, Enjolras responded very oddly. Courfeyrac could not quite fathom a reason for this stranger's response. As if at the mention of a father, at the suggestion of a father who was ashamed of his son, the boy's entire demeanor changed. He seemed to recoil inside of himself; his soul retreated and hid; his heart was once more behind a mask of stone; it was as if he wanted to conceal from Courfeyrac who he truly was. It was as if he were afraid to let the world see him. He became cold again. Closed off. Distant.

Courfeyrac frowned for a moment, confused by this. Deciding it best not to linger on such an incident, he swiftly changed the subject. "Perhaps we will be in the same classes."

"Perhaps," Enjolras agreed after a brief moment of hesitating. Courfeyrac was glad that the boy was still talking to him and seemed to be generally alright with his presence.

Courfeyrac smiled. "Enjolras," he began eagerly, "let me introduce you to my friends." He rose from his chair and started quickly across the tavern. Hesitantly, reluctantly, Enjolras rose from his chair and followed behind him. "Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire!" he called clapping his hands to get their attention as he neared the table. All of the young men seated at the table, with the exception of Grantaire who remained seated, rose anxiously to their feet and turned to meet the newcomer. "This is Enjolras." Courfeyrac stepped out of the way and turned almost completely around to introduce Enjolras, who stood uncertainly several steps behind him. Courfeyrac gestured for him to come forward, and slowly Enjolras obeyed.

"Hello," he said rather stiffly.

At once, Joly and Bossuet were returning this greeting, introducing themselves, shaking his hand, and, just like Courfeyrac, acting as if they had been friends with him for their entire life. Grantaire, however, remained seated. He remained silent. He looked the stranger up and down, sizing him up, figuring him out, trying to decide if he was someone to be trusted, befriended… or if he was someone to be disliked and avoided. Was this man to be a friend, or an enemy?

He looked young enough, innocent enough—beside the fact that he appeared as if he had just survived reckless combat, a drunken brawl even more vicious than the ones Grantaire commonly found himself in. Yet, there was something… off about him. He looked as if he was perhaps fifteen years old, a boy who had not yet stepped foot into a university, and yet there was something about him that suggested otherwise. Perhaps it was his eyes… He seemed as if he had already seen and survived countless years, that he had watched the earth grown old, that he had seen misery, that he endured suffering, that he, himself, knew death. Grantaire looked at this child, and he saw a man. He looked at this student, and he was a warrior. He looked at this stranger, and he saw something dark. There was coldness, bleakness, in his eye that should not be found in the eyes of a boy so young. There was anger, there was bitterness, there was hatred. This boy seemed blameless enough. Yet, it is those who seem most trustworthy that often stab their friends in the back. Grantaire did not smile at him. He did not trust him.

"And this," Courfeyrac finally said when it became apparent to him that Grantaire was not going to introduce himself, "is Grantaire." Had he been closer to him, he would have elbowed Grantaire in the ribs. Unfortunately he was not, so a threatening glare had to do.

Giving in, forcing a faint—a fake—smile to appear on his lips, Grantaire turned to the stranger. "Hey there," he grunted obviously halfheartedly, not trying to hide his not-so-welcoming spirits. Before Enjolras could reply, Grantaire took threw back his head and took a long drink from his bottle of liquor.

Now it was Enjolras's turn to behold the drunkard Grantaire for the first time.