Enjolras's biggest regret was that they cut him short during the trial. The judge deemed his impassioned defence of liberty irrelevant and proceeded with the sentence which did not surprise Enjolras in the slightest.

His execution was set for the 14th of January.

On the last night, Enjolras couldn't sleep. Following in the footsteps of Robespierre and Saint-Just was not what he had foreseen for himself, expecting to die fighting on a barricade, yet it would do almost as well. If this was what the Republic wanted of him, this is what he would submit himself to.

What bothered him most was that his body would never be reunited with those that lay in the June 1832 public grave in the Montmartre cemetery, by now probably overgrown in the half a year he could not visit it.

For the first time in three and a half years Enjolras was glad that they were dead. Combeferre would not have borne it. Courfeyrac would have thrown the crumpled execution notice into the fire in the Musain, then called the rest together to concoct some mad plot. It was better that he was the last. It was fitting.

They came for him sooner than he expected. A whole group of men entered the cell. One man reached to tap him on the shoulder and was surprised to see his eyes already open.

"Stand up," another man instructed. "Prepare yourself."

The room was very cold. His fingers were too numb for the few buttons on his shirt and Enjolras had to breathe on them, demonstratively lest they think that he was afraid.

"Have you any last wishes?"

The answer suggested itself from the deepest recesses of his memory. Être libre.

"None."

"Would you like to spend several minutes in the company of the priest?"

"No."

They proceeded to cut his hair at the back, roughly tugging at the locks, then cut off also the collar, leaving the neck exposed. Enjolras caught himself thinking that Courfeyrac would have protested.

"Will you write a letter to your family?"

He could, though he would have to address it Montmartre.

"No."

They led him out into the prison court, just in front of the gates, where another man was waiting. Enjolras stood patiently as they tied him up, the rope biting into his shoulders, wrists and ankles.

Then the prison gates opened and a pale light spilt into the gloomy court. They led him out, slowly since he could only take small steps. It was just dawning and the sky was a beautiful mixture of blues and pinks, lit up by the golden rays of the rising sun. Enjolras was content. There could hardly be a better day to die on.

Then he saw the guillotine, throwing an immense shadow on the frost-covered cobbles, the blade glittering cheerfully in the growing light. It seemed dreadfully ironic that one of the few reforms the monarchist government allowed the people to retain was the way they were to die.

"May God give you courage to behave valiantly," the priest said, approaching him. He made the sign of the cross and tried to kiss Enjolras on the forehead, which he avoided by tilting his head just in time.

There was no scaffold to mount, only a few final steps to make across the courtyard, taking a few final breaths of air. Some people were gathering around the plane trees at a distance.

Suddenly, Enjolras thought he heard a painfully familiar voice.

"It will only hurt a little."

He looked up and saw Combeferre.

"Combeferre? What - "

"Hush," Combeferre said, with a finger on his lips. He was standing there beside the guillotine, a little faded around the edges but otherwise as solid as he had always been. "You mustn't let them realise we are here."

"I am not afraid," Enjolras whispered. "Neither of the pain nor of death."

"I know you aren't," Combeferre smiled. "When have you ever been afraid? It is for my own comfort that I was saying that."

There was movement around the plane trees. Enjolras looked and saw something that suddenly made him feel lighter than air, as if an enormous weight had been removed and a weeping wound in his heart had been healed.

Seven people were walking - or rather gliding - across the square. Soon they were thronging around him, obscuring the guillotine and the little crowd in the distance.

"We thought we must come," Combeferre said. "Support our leader through this ordeal."

Courfeyrac was examining him from head to toe. "It pains me to look at you," he sighed. "You are so pale and thin you may as well be transparent. I should plague those bastards until their deaths for those bruises. Though somehow, you still manage to look the part. See how those ladies over there are staring?"

"You will make a beautiful angel," Prouvaire said, "with perfectly terrific scars. I think I envy you a little. My bullet holes cannot compare with the necklace they are going to give you."

"I'm surprised that you didn't die in prison," Joly called out. "The conditions are atrocious. It couldn't be easier to catch a malignant fever."

"Be glad that you aren't me," Bossuet laughed. "A thousand and one mishaps would have happened. The blade would slip, the woodwork collapse - "

"Don't," Bahorel said, patting him on the back. "He needs to be brave."

And from the smile and the glint in his eyes, Enjolras knew immediately that unlike the priest Bahorel had no doubts that he will be brave.

"You were right about the plot," Feuilly said. "The people must uplift themselves."

Grantaire, standing at the very back, was silent. Instead his eyes were fixed on Enjolras, tender and admiring.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Enjolras turned and saw the executioner that he forgot was even there.

"Kneel," he commanded.

With a triumphant smile Enjolras knelt, or rather threw himself into a kneeling position, impeded by the rope around his ankles. The morning air felt almost warm now.

"Take my hand," Combeferre said quietly. "It'll be easier."

And although in the back of his mind Enjolras knew that his hands were tied, it still felt as if Combeferre's warm fingers closed around his own.

From then on, all that they did to him melted away. The whooshing sound of the blade being pulled up merged with the rustling of leaves in the distance. All that Enjolras could see were the figures in a circle around him and a golden dawn breaking out above.

The officials of the prison and the executioner himself were haunted for a long time by that particular young man, executed for high treason at 7.45 in the morning of the 14th of January 1836. The execution did not spoil the unearthly beauty of that face, neither could the men ever forget the serene, contented smile on those lips.