A/N: 1832: Montaigne's toe is a tradition for Sorbonne students. The statue of Montaigne is sitting facing the Sorbonne, and you're supposed to rub his toe to have good luck on your exams (I'm not sure if that statue was even there at that time period, but it was always something I could see Courfeyrac doing…XD). La Mort le roi Artu is the thirteenth-century Old French poem describing the fall of the Arthurian kingdom and the death of all the knights of the Round Table. La Chanson de Roland is a militaristic and very bloody Old French poem written down around 1100 (but intended to be sung aloud), and is a sort of national epic for the French, telling the story of the massacre of Charlemagne's army in the Pyrenées (the main characters being the three best warriors in the rear guard: the proud leader Roland, his more sensible friend Olivier, and the eccentric warrior-bishop Turpin).

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Je t'aime/1832.

Life isn't fair, said Feuilly to me the day before the kalendes of April, around noon, as we were walking past Saint-Merri towards his shop on the rue du Temple. Why's that? said I. Oh, nothing in particular, he said. Just that it's something I found worth pointing out. Very sage of you, I replied, nodding. Very sage, he repeated, then said, Enjolras, d'you think I'd've made a good lawyer? Perhaps a better philosopher, I said. I'll leave that to Combeferre, he said, wiping his palms on his workingman's frock. I'm not much gifted in the ways of the abstract. An engineer, then, I said. Mayh'p, he said. Let me ask you something, Feuilly, I said. What do you plan to do with your son—pardon, what's his name? Jean-Jacques, he said. Pleasant, like Rousseau, I said. Yes, well, what do you plan to do with little Jean-Jacques, once he's old enough to do anything with? How d'you mean? says he. Well, says I, are you going to send him to schooling, or...? How can that be, Enjolras, he said, giving me a reproving look. I just finished telling you that life isn't fair, and some little voice whispering in my ear tells me that little Jean-Jacques won't be found among the ranks of rich little boarding-school boys. No offense, of course. None taken, I said. I wasn't a rich little boarding-school boy anyhow—I had a tutor. All the worse, he said. You can call me a rich brat all you like, I said with some irritation, and you wouldn't be far off, but pray don't. I feel bad enough about it without your saying so. Well then, he said, and he scratched the back of his neck, deep in thought. I suppose I'll just teach him to read and write, same's happened to me, except he's luckier than I was, in having someone who'll be there to teach him these things. Mm, I said. Either way, his mother'll've no less for him, he said. She's intent that he do something with his life. That is best, I said, then added, Do you know that I have never met your wife in all the years that we have known each other? That's no surprise to me, he said, giving me a look. You've never been much interested in women, Enjolras. She's not a woman, though, I said. She's your wife. Eh oh, he said with amusement, am I glad that you never had the intention of getting married someday! Women would flee you. I wish they would, I replied morosely. I imagine Combeferre has rather the same problem, you achingly unavailable bachelors, he said, grinning. Heh! he does have the same problem, I replied, smiling vaguely, but as soon as he pulls out his books on invertebrate anatomy and on the geology of the Loire river valley, the women are gone in a puff of smoke. Would that I had that kind of power over them. He laughed broadly, and said, Oh, women. Hum, women, I replied. I never really knew one, to tell you the truth, apart from my aunt, who belongs more to the breed of harpy than that of woman. We walked for a few moments in silence, then finally I turned to him, seized suddenly with curiosity, and said, Feuilly, do you love your wife? Do you love your lover? he replied. More than my life, I said. More than your revolution? he said. It's cruel to ask that, I replied quietly. Even he never asks that. Because he doesn't want to hear the answer, he said. And you don't want to have to say it aloud. And that's how it is with me and my wife. But your son? I said. No, not my son, he said. My son before everything else—my son before my fatherland. I should be disappointed to hear you say such a thing, I said sternly, but I refuse to think less of you for it. Good, said Feuilly, almost fierce in his pride. Good, because I'm not sorry I said it.

I came upon Courfeyrac late in the afternoon of the second day of the third week in May. He was rather noticeable, standing with his back to the Sorbonne's façade, rubbing his palm frantically back and forth over the bronze foot of the statue of Montaigne, his lips murmuring soundless prayers. What are you doing, I might ask, I said, coming up behind him. Can't you see? he said. I see that you're rubbing Montaigne's foot as if you would rub it right off, I replied. It'll bring me luck on exams, he said, giving me a scornful look. Didn't you know that Montaigne's foot was good luck? Every wet-nosed first-year student knows that. Oh, I know the tradition, I said curtly, but it's going to take a great deal more than rubbing the toes of a dead monarchist to get you good marks. Well, you might discriminate your lucky statues on the basis of political party, but I'm well past that stage now, he said. Now the situation is desperate. Yes, because you haven't cracked a book all term, I replied haughtily. Eh no, parbleu! he said, horrified. Studying is bad for your health, mamour, didn't anyone ever tell you that? You sound like Joly, but possibly even more pathetic, I said. Ah well, everyone has their own methods of preparation, he replied with a shrug, and returned to his rubbing. It's all right, once these exams are over, I'll be free for another summer. Well, you'll survive, I'm sure, I said. You always manage to do so, somehow. I took him by the arm, and added, Come on, let's go eat. He'll still be here when you get back, he's not going anywhere any time soon.

Funerals always come upon one quickly. It was hardly the fifth of June before I found myself at a funeral. My best black suit was stifling in the muggy heat of the morning, and the rain drizzling on it was probably not the best thing I could have done for the fabric, but Combeferre told me that it looked striking on me, and I had half a mind to believe him. We were standing packed shoulder to shoulder in the crowd when the hearse passed by in a cloud of lilies and black crepe, drawn by four fabulously white horses. I could feel Combeferre's hand gripping mine, and I knew that he could smell the gunpowder that had remained sticking to my skin from the provisioning I had been doing in the early hours of that morning. I myself had the impression that he smelled faintly of sandalwood, but only for a moment, and then it was gone in the heavy summer breeze. It could well have been nothing more than my imagination, or an attack of déjà vu.

The barricade was built by evening.

The torchlight cast an orange glow against Prouvaire's profile as he sat near the crest of the barricade, reciting to an avid audience about an hour after sunset. First it had been Byron, then Hugo, and he was finishing with Ovid. I had just come out of the wineshop with an armful of rifles when he said, What'll I do next, gentlemen? Something in plain French, if you please, said Courfeyrac. My brain can't wrap itself around Latin in such a time and place. Something martial, said Bahorel gruffly from the other side of the barricade where he was sharpening a bayonet. The last thing I want to hear about is happy times past when I'm preparing to ram a blade into a man's stomach. All right, said Prouvaire uncertainly. What did you have in mind? La Mort le roi Artu, said Joly. That would not have a very positive effect on morale, I said, considering the ending. La Chanson de Roland, said Combeferre, glancing up from his book, and he began in a steady sort of chant:

Rollant est proz e Oliver est sage;

Ambedui unt merveillus vassalage:

Puis que il sunt as chevals e as armes,

Ja pur murir n'eschiverunt bataille.

Prouvaire laughed softly, and said, I'm not sure that I could make it through the whole of the poem, but it would certainly be appropriate. He glanced at me, and said, You approve, certainly, Marcelin? Do what you like, I replied. I'm going to do some reconnaissance. Courfeyrac was laughing as I walked away, and he cried after me, Holà, Roland—if Combeferre gets to be your Olivier, I get to be your Turpin! As you will, I called back, adding, You'd be a great help to me if you only knew how to rally troops as well as Turpin could. Prouvaire leapt up onto the topmost reaches of the barricade, terrifying in the ghostly light of the torch, and cried with a fearsome burst of energy:

D'altre part est l'arcevesques Turpin:

Sun cheval broche e muntet un lariz,

Franceis apelat, un sermun lur ad dit:

'Seignurs baruns, Carles nus laissat ci;

Pur nostre rei devum nus ben murir—

No Royalist sentiment in this barricade! cried Courfeyrac with a explosive laugh, flinging his hat at Prouvaire. I just shook my head with a sigh, and slipped out the rue Mondétour.

At exactly 23h43, Joly glanced up at me in my redoubt, and said, for perhaps the third time that evening: Enjolras, aren't you afraid of catching cold sitting up there unprotected in the rain? It's the least of my concerns at the moment, I assure you, I replied dryly. You're sure you don't want a coat, or something? he persisted. Ah, let him alone, won't you, said Lesgle. The man's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Just making sure, said Joly defensively. He's not annoyed—are you annoyed, Enjolras? No, I said, becoming more and more annoyed with each passing second. Feuilly yelled to me from the doorway of Corinthe, Holà, Enjolras, where're the cartridges I brought in this afternoon? On the table in the kitchen, I yelled back. That's cheating, Courfeyrac said suddenly. He was sitting in a circle of students from the Polytechnique, and they had been dividing their attention between managing their hand of cards and cleaning the barrels of their muskets. I glanced over just in time to see my cousin throw his cards in disgust and repeat, Cheating, pardieu! Courfeyrac, I called down to him, would you be so kind as to go and make sure Combeferre doesn't need any help with the bandages? You're putting me on bandage duty? Courfeyrac replied incredulously. I promise to behave, I swear, just anything but bandages. What's wrong with bandages? I said. You could well be benefiting from one of them if you keep irritating me down there with your little card games. Yes, certainly, my lord, he said, just sit up there in your high pulpit and deliver your orders. I obey. Citizen, I said with an icy ferocity, either do your duty or get out. All right, all right, he grumbled as he stood and headed towards the wineshop, but, halfway there, he stopped suddenly and, out of some sort of esprit d'escalier, he added slowly, But you know, mamour, I'm not Grantaire. You can't crush me under your iron fist the way you do him.

The death of J. Prouvaire put Combeferre into an odd mood.

A half-hour after the old man had taken the spy away, I passed through the gutted wineshop and caught sight of Combeferre bending over the table of corpses, in the same posture as he might have used with the wounded lying in the kitchen. Combeferre, there you are, I said, coming up behind him. I glanced over his shoulder and saw that he was gently folding Gavroche's fragile hands across his chest. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his little wooden rosary, the one he had once told me had been given to him at his first communion, and wrapped the child's stiff fingers around it. Gazing down at his work, he said softly, I'm always the one who has to pick up the bodies of dead children—close their tired eyes, arrange their mangled little limbs, send them off to sleep. It's a rotten lot, but it's got to be someone's. They'll pay for this, I replied. They won't, he said wearily. They won't, because there is no 'they.' There is only 'us,' all of us, mon cher, on both sides of that infernal pile of secondhand furniture that you call a barricade, and we are responsible, all of us. I just stared at him, and he turned slowly and walked to the exit of the wineshop, pausing for a moment in the doorway, framed in the early morning light, leaning against the bullet-riddled doorpost. He looked frail, ten years older than he was, slumped there gazing out at a group of young workers having an animated discussion in the shadow of the barricade. Combeferre, I said. He turned his head halfway, enough to indicate that he was listening. You should have left, I said, back when you still could. How can you say that, he replied in an extraordinarily odd voice, half magnanimous martyr, half shipwrecked soul. This place doesn't suit you, I said. I knew it would not—it's why I didn't ask you to come with me in 1830. And see how successful you were in 1830 without me, he said dully. Death for the Republic, and almost death for you, too. This time, the defeat will be decisive, I replied quietly. Which is why I need to be here, he said, and he turned back to watching the workers' conversation. You won't die without me, I forbid it. I examined him carefully, expecting him to say more, to cry, to explode, but he had fallen into a profound silence, one would almost say a reverie, or a coma. Those had been the last words we would ever exchange.

At quarter past eleven hours, Combeferre fell.

Pardieu, this story has rambled on quite long enough. Twenty-five years is an awkward period, for narrative purposes. It's not long enough to be epic, and not brief enough to be abruptly touching. Moreover, I can't help but feel that I've made a mess of its narration. After all, it's not enough, I should say, to recall the ridiculously affective things that I've spent the last three-quarters of a second recalling. It's childish to think of such petty things, of galettes des rois, of gypsy embroideries and New Year's Eve parties and poor Latin grammar, and I think that if anything could ever be considered a monumental waste of time, it would be these twenty-five years that were given to me. But then again, the view from behind a billiards table, beside a shameless drunkard, staring down the barrels of royalist rifles, is not exactly the view from the top of a barricade. It's inevitable that I should be a touch disillusioned, it's well within my rights. And yet...There's almost something to be said for galettes des rois. Not that I would advocate building my life around such a meaningless object, if I were given another twenty-five years to build, but, well, how to explain it? I suppose it should suffice to say that, even if I have always had trouble understanding how such a clutter of little details can, over time, coagulate into the highly coherent abstraction we call a life, there's still some beauty to be had in those details, in a galette des rois, in Montaigne's toe, a Latin accusative, a second-rate theatre production in a seedy establishment in a sweltering heat wave, even a God-forsaken typographer.

Bah, philosophy of life be damned. Combeferre would have said it better anyway.

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