Patria

The shadow

It would probably be better to start their story with classical "he met her then and there and so on", but the thing is, their story began long before he actually met her. He didn’t know her name, he was not introduced to her, they were not even acquaintances. He just kept noticing her — again and again — and it seemed like she never appeared for the first time, she just was there. Always. His name was Enjolras. He was to a lesser extent a student and a future lawyer, to a slightly greater extent — the leader of the revolutionary organization "Les Amis de l'Abc", and to the greatest extent — a citizen and a Republican. She was a shadow. Marius' shadow, to be precise. She just followed him like a lost puppy, sometimes came with him to Les Amis meetings and listened to his every word. Enjolras later found this stupid, at least because Marius was a Bonapartist and a dreamer, and for these two reasons one could rarely expect to hear anything worthwhile from him. But that was later. At first, he just noticed her out of the corner of his eye, wondering every time if she could have been a police spy. Highly unlikely. She was too ragged for a bloodhound. Others — Courfeyrac, Joly, Prouvaire — usually called her a Shadow. Well, let there be a shadow. The revolution was getting closer, and Enjolras had no time for shadows. ***

The gamine

The revolution was getting closer, and this meant a lot of problems that needed to be prevented, decisions that needed to be made, orders that needed to be given. Enjolras prepared action plans with Combeferre, worked on speeches with Courfeyrac, kept Grantaire in a relatively sober state, searched for guns, gunpowder and fabrics for flags, and tried vainly to calm Marius, who managed to fall in love at such a moment and distracted all the Les Amis with his stories about a certain beautiful Mademoiselle. And on top of that all Enjolras still noticed this silent shadow, finding her small frame in the dark corners of Musain again and again. Oh, and it should be noted here that the “Marble man” Enjolras never found anything attractive in female company. In fact, his mother's attempts to make him marry to some empty-headed bourgeois girl became an important factor in his leaving home. And the grisettes who tried to have an affair with him caused in him nothing but disgust and righteous anger. Accordingly, his friends were strictly forbidden to bring their mistresses to meetings (Enjolras never believed in women’s ability to keep their mouths shut), and the Parisian women themselves were not too interested in protecting their rights, more occupied with issues of daily survival. That's why there were never any women at their meetings, and that was right. Enjolras already had to suppress his anger when his friends began endless conversations of their love adventures. If any woman had dared to distract them from the Revolution, he would have thrown her out with his own hands. However, Marius' shadow did not do this, and Enjolras gradually came to terms with her presence. She still came with Marius or a little later than him and sat in her dark corner, quiet as a mouse. Courfeyrac was the first to identify her as a gamine, and that explained a lot. A hard life left its mark on the girl: dirty rags, a thin, malnourished body with protruding bones, a bunch of bruises on her bare arms and shoulders — all this indicated not slight poverty, not need, but real destitution. Enjolras did not even condemn the gamine (seeing her as just another manifestation of social injustice), noticing her at the same table with Grantaire, downing one glass after another. He was much more annoyed by R himself with his bubbling like: "this girl curses like the workers never dreamed of, I swear by the whole Greek pantheon, sometimes I want to write down after her!" Enjolras could only shrug his shoulders and recommend him to go and sleep it off. ***

Mademoiselle Jondrette

Once the girl disappeared and did not show up at the meetings for about two weeks, and then suddenly came again. It was the day Marius was not there — Enjolras was ready to bet his beloved red waistcoat that Pontmercy had run away to his precious Cosette again. Enjolras himself was late that day — the meeting with the workers took longer than he had planned — and therefore grimaced with annoyance when, having just entered, heard Grantaire calling him. Nevertheless, Enjolras approached and was surprised to see a girl standing next to R. "Here, the citizenness has come. Asks for help," said Grantaire and, hiccupping, swayed. He was holding a bottle in his hand, probably for a balance. "How can I help you?" asked Enjolras coldly, keeping in mind that this could be another attempt of his friends to arrange him a date with a woman. The girl raised her head resentfully, obviously correctly interpreting his tone. "I'm looking for my brother, monsieur." "And who is your brother, mademoiselle?" A smile flickered on gamine's tanned, dirt- and soot-covered face. "You know him, monsieur. Gavroche. He comes here quite often, monsieur." "Is Gavroche your brother?" At first, Enjolras did not believe her, but, thinking about the mischievous and fearless boy, he suddenly saw something in common, sly, reckless in them. The girl eagerly waited for an answer. Enjolras forced himself to smile politely. "Mademoiselle..." he hesitated. "Jondrette," she prompted, "But you don't need to call me mademoiselle, I'm no lady, you'd better call me Épo..." "We are all equal, mademoiselle Jondrette," he interrupted, and then, without listening to her, turned around and shouted for Courfeyrac. The latter moved towards them with an expression of the greatest triumph, half with mocking surprise, and for a moment Enjolras felt tempted to hit him. He already knew that neither Grantaire nor Courfeyrac would leave him alone, making jokes like "oh, the marble cracked, didn’t it? so you're not allergic to women, who would have thought?.." Therefore, wishing to minimize these ridicules, he curtly ordered Courfeyrac: "Mademoiselle Jondrette, Gavroche's sister, is looking for him. Assist her," and retreated. But as he was leaving, he heard Courfeyrac talking about his complicated attitude towards women, and this made him turn red with anger. He had to remind himself several times that the girl had nothing to do with his friends being idiots. ***

Mademoiselle Thénardier

That evening, he was very late at Musain, repeatedly rereading the speech he was supposed to deliver the next day, and due to his concentration on the subject, missed the beginning of the discussion. His ear was attracted by a familiar surname loudly pronounced by someone. This surname was Thénardier, and it belonged to a thief, a swindler and an inveterate scoundrel, the head of the famous Patron-Minette gang, whose victims Les Amis sometimes had happened to be. Enjolras frowned and, putting down the sheets, quickly went to the disputants. He did not have to pave the way — people quickly stepped aside for him — and he saw in the corner Combeferre with his arms crossed on his chest, Courfeyrac shaking Gavroche by the shoulder, and the girl Jondrette, who had both an embarrassed and defiant look. At the sight of him, the girl tried to slip away, but Combeferre held her back. That evening Enjolras found out a lot. He was told about the fact that, having learned about the impending uprising, Thénardier was preparing to steal valuables from the dead, and the fact that Montparnasse often intercepted arms supplies, and the fact that the real name of Gavroche and his sister was Thénardier. "Dad is very angry. He got mad at me when I interrupted him with a little business," the girl stated hoarsely with her usual mock-mad look. Her torn shirt did not hide the dark bruises on her shoulders and neck. While Combeferre was shouting out Joly, who to some extent was the doctor of all Les Amis, Enjolras collated the girl's story with the fact that she had often come beaten before, and anger slowly but surely began to flare up inside him. Another victim of social arbitrariness and human cruelty, another innocent soul doomed to a life of humiliation and suffering, another unfortunate creature who faced vice and violence so early. The girl touched his elbow reassuringly. "Monsieur, it's all right. This is the life of people like me." "That's exactly why it's not all right," he said through clenched teeth. Gamine smiled sadly. "I'm sorry for hiding all of this, monsieur. Goodbye." "Why goodbye?" Courfeyrac immediately interjected. The girl shrugged her shoulders, as if it was something obvious. "You'll kick me out of here. I'm a Thénardier. I know what you're talking about my father, and I can assure you, he's even worse!" Enjolras put his hand on her shoulder. (That was the first time he ever touched a woman.) "Mademoiselle Thénardier, or mademoiselle Jondrette, whatever you prefer. We are fighting against our government in the name of people like you. The humiliated, the destitute, the miserables. We are fighting for a free France, for a republic, for a world where every person will be judged based on who he is, and not on who his parents were. You do not need to be afraid of prejudice, because there will come a day and an hour when these prejudices will be scattered to the wind, like the ashes of those who planted them, and when the kingdom of truth and justice will come. We are all equal, mademoiselle, and sooner or later they will have to admit it." And Enjolras saw a spark of hope flash in the girl's huge eyes. ***

The fellow

Since then, the girl began to appear at meetings even when Marius was not at them. Enjolras noticed her a couple of times at the rally, among the crowd, while he and Marius were delivering speeches to the people. It was good: women willingly picked up her Vive la France, seeing something of their own in her. After all, she and Gavroche were closer to the people than bourgeois students, and therefore they were treated with greater trust than any of Les Amis. Sometimes the girl had the audacity — or the courage — to give him advice. "Ordinary people will not understand these words, monsieur", "None of the folks speak Latin, monsieur", "Leave these beautiful expressions to the authors of these books of yours, monsieur". But more often she was delighted and was not afraid to admit it in her simple-minded manner. "Well, you’ve been pretty convincing today, monsieur," she said to Enjolras, once again leading him out by some narrow and dirty streets to Musain after the rally. Or: "Oh, you really pissed off the police today, monsieur." Or: "You are already recognized by the people, monsieur." For the first time, her good knowledge of Parisian streets was put to good use by Combeferre. Enjolras, entering Musain's back room that evening, was surprised to see the girl not in her dark corner, but at a table with maps spread out. "Enjolras, we’re saved and the help came from where we did not expect," Combeferre said with smile. "Mademoiselle Jondrette knows all the streets where you can run into the police or Patron-Minette." Enjolras looked at the girl, appreciating her shabby appearance. He had great doubts that she could at least read, let alone navigate by maps. Marius coughed guiltily. "She was educated," he whispered. Enjolras had no reason not to trust his friends in that regard. "Then show us, mademoiselle," he nodded. The girl scowled at him, but obediently stepped to the map and, occasionally resorting to argot, briskly told them about Paris twice as much as they knew, even though they had lived here almost all their lives. Enjolras barely had time to put notes on the map. By the end of this chaotic lecture, Combeferre, smiling, quietly whispered him: "See?", Courfeyrac kissed mademoiselle's hand, and Grantaire raised a glass to her. But the girl was looking only at Marius, who was rereading a note by the window. Her inspired face (which could be even called beautiful) faded, and Enjolras suddenly felt a sharp pity for her, the same as he felt at the sight of beggars, sick, or in any way affected by injustice people. He, a convinced teetotaler, poured her wine himself. "On behalf of all Les Amis de l'Abc, thank you, mademoiselle," he said softly, but solemnly. "It was an invaluable help. You have brought us one step closer to the Victory of the Republic." The girl drank the glass in one gulp. ***

Éponine

In the evenings, when most of the Les Amis went home — to themselves or to their mistresses — they often stayed in the Musin together. He — because he always had something to do, she — because she usually didn’t have to di anything. Sometimes she warmed herself by the fire with a dreamy look, sometimes she asked the innkeeper to let her sweep for a crust of bread, and sometimes she just wandered around the cafe, looking at maps and books with awe and murmuring something ecstatically in her hoarse yet at the same time melodious voice. Enjolras, used to working with the loud drunken chatter of Grantaire, did not mind. A couple of times she timidly approached him and asked to explain her something like: who is Lamarque, what does progress mean and what are dogmas. "To understand what you're all talking about and not look so stupid in front of monsieur Marius," she said sheepishly, and he explained, although, of course, didn’t approve the reason behind her curiosity. He dreamed of liberating France, making it a Republic, building a new, fair society based on equality and fraternity, and this girl only cared about her Pontmercy. It would be much better for her were she interested in the revolution for the sake of her own future, and not to show off her knowledge in front of a moron who would never pay attention to her. Enjolras was surprised that Éponine — she insisted to be called like this — was proud, especially for her status, but at the same time all her pride disappeared somewhere, as soon as Pontmercy was around. Enjolras, of course, knew that it was none of his business, and yet one day he could not hold back. "You are absolutely fine with the fact you are being used as an errand girl, mademoiselle, aren’t you?" he asked, looking at how she was examining Marius’ envelope in her hand. Éponine tossed her head. "Have you ever fallen in love, monsieur?" she asked suddenly. It didn't take him a second to think. "No," he met her gaze. “If you mean a romantic love. My only mistress is France." "And you live for her?" "Yes." "And you're willing to do anything for her, even knowing that she can't reciprocate?" "Yes." "And you're willing to die for her?" "Yes." "In that case, monsieur, it's strange to me why you don't understand me. I am driven by love for Monsieur Marius, and you, as you said there, for your Patria," Éponine emphasized that word especially mockingly. She always talked about it with some disdain, and it always infuriated him. Her cynical remarks caused heated arguments between then more than once. By that time Enjolras had noticed that Éponine was observant, sharp-tongued and even smart in her own way. She liked to call them all bourgeois, to say that their protests wouldn’t lead to anything, that the rich always talk a lot and do little. That they can say anything, but people will still see them as rich boys playing their games. That they don't know anything about the lives of people like her. "Then tell me", he once said. And Éponine, relishing the way his face flushed (sometimes from embarrassment, sometimes from rage), told. About how she and her sister used to guess their father’s mood by the sound of his footsteps, about her mother's newborn babies disappearing to no one knows where, about the glitter of knives, about obscene swearing, about feeling stranger's grip on her shoulders, about the creaks of the bed, about bedbugs in mattresses, about a series of bodies, hands and faces, about pain, about beatings, about one crust of bread for four days, about water in the Seine, so cold that you want to drown yourself and change your mind, about theft, about the coldness, about hunger and the relentless fight for survival. "But you want it to end, don't you?” He grabbed her wrist, peering into her eyes. “So that there would be no poverty, no violence, no oppression?" "I do," she said. "So you're with us." ***

Patria

The fact that the uprising was approaching was obvious. The air was filled with the menacing spirit of 1789 and 1792, the discontent of the people was growing, every day the situation was heating up more and more. Enjolras was looking forward to the revolt — this was what he had been preparing himself for, what he had been striving for — but this did not prevent him from realizing how his responsibility was increasing, responsibility for the fate of France, the fate of the people, the fate of the people entrusted to him. Enjolras planned, mulled, decided, ordered, negotiated, settled, checked. He did not doubt the loyalty of his friends, but it was necessary to get the support of the people. It was essential to attract people to their ranks, explain what they are fighting for, convince them to rise up. That was undoubtedly the most important thing. Enjolras took it upon himself. Each of his new speeches was stronger and brighter and more convincing than the previous one. The chant of Vive la France, raised by him, resounded far along the streets, people eagerly listened to simple and understandable truths: citizens should be free, laws should be fair, tyranny should be destroyed. There was no doubt: the grain was falling on fertile ground. “Mon ami, you have surpassed yourself today!" Courfeyrac told him in the evenings, but Enjolras always brushed it off. What are beautiful words if they don't lead to any goal? Who needs a separate, self-taken eloquence, devoid of any meaning? What’s the worth of the ideas if they are not backed up by a willingness to fight for them? Enjolras had goals, meaning, and a willingness to fight. He had his love, his France, his Patria. Patria, embodied in a thin girl with shining eyes and a hoarse voice. Éponine inspired Enjolras — not as a woman, but as a human being in need of protection. One look at her skinny figure in dirty rags was enough for him to remember what they were fighting for. Looking at her, Enjolras saw hundreds and thousands of destitute people who were deprived of everything, driven into slums, into an environment where diseases, lechery and crime thrived. He saw her as his Motherland. Pathetic, experienced a lot of grief, exhausted by constant violence. Once prosperous, chaste and beautiful, now forced to lead a vicious and sinful life, fallen, but unbroken. And he, one of the most brilliant students of the Sorbonne, well educated, who knew five European languages, called by friends a "Marble Man", devoid of weaknesses and having never known a love for a woman — he adored this living embodiment of a reborn France. France, for which he lived and for which he was ready to die. His France. ***

A martyr

He watched her dying. He saw Marius bending over her body, dismayed, apparently for the first time in his life really noticing his shadow. He saw a frail figure in men's clothes and long hair escaping from under the cap. He saw a pool of blood running under her. And he also saw her face — serene, beautiful, happy. How terrible must this girl's life have been for Death to seem like a bliss to her? Enjolras stood and looked at her, unable to take his eyes off and not noticing the rain pouring over him. And the people didn’t come. She knew this would happen. She had told him about it the day before, unusually serious, silent, submissive. Sad — as if she had already foreseen she would die. "They won't come, monsieur," she said softly. Without any desire to start an argument, offend or tease. Just as a fact. Enjolras set his teeth. "They must come," he replied with emphasis. Éponine smiled sadly, clearly unconvinced. "You know, I actually feel sorry for you," she suddenly said. “It's a pity that you're all going to die. You could be happy rich bourgeois and..." "We couldn't." "That's why it's a pity. That you voluntarily gave up such a life for the sake of... for people like me. I don't believe in your Revolution, monsieur, but I believe in you." And now she was dying. She, who did not believe in their cause and came here only for Marius, became the first victim. Enjolras saw her body going limp and Marius gently brushing her forehead with his lips. "She would probably be happy," flashed through Enjolras's mind, but all his irritation with Pontmercy was gone. Marius was the hero of the barricade, Marius had saved them all, Marius had chosen to fight and die with them, and, finally, Marius was genuinely heartbroken over Éponine. Together with Combeferre, Enjolras took the girl from the hands of Marius. He should have carried her body himself, as a commander, as a leader, as a faithful servant of his Patria — but he could not. Éponine was very light, almost weightless, but her death suddenly fell on him like a heavy burden, as soon as he touched her still warm body. He had to hand her over to Combeferre and silently watched him leave. He knew, he was ready, he was waiting for this, he was warned many times — and still it hurt him. The first death on his conscience. The first innocent soul to suffer because of his Revolution. Revolution, which was supposed to save his fellow citizens. "We will avenge her!" said Lesgle. "We will fight in her name! She will be our Jeanne d'Arc", added Prouvaire. And they fought. And they fell — one after another. The people didn’t come. Seeing dozens of guns pointed at himself and clutching a red flag in his hand, Enjolras thought about France. Death did not frighten him. He did everything he could. At the moment when the volley burst, he heard a vaguely familiar female voice. Vive la France! ***

The chaperone

He woke up — and she was there. He woke up in the same place, in Corinth, among the pieces of furniture and glass. She was looking at him curiously from a little distance, leaning against the door frame. "Good morning, monsieur", Éponine said. She stepped out of the darkness and held out her hand to him. Her palm was clean, without a trace of blood, dirt or soot. "I'll lead you, monsieur." "Where to?" he asked hoarsely. Her dark eyes flashed. "Further". Enjolras frowned, piecing together the fragments of memories into a single picture. "You died". "Yes". "Me too?" "Turn around". He obeyed. And saw his body hanging out of the window. His corpse was still clutching the flag, as if fused into one with it. There were half a dozen bullet holes on the shirt. Enjolras touched his chest incredulously. There were no wounds. Éponine imperceptibly approached and pulled him by the hand. "Come on, monsieur. The others have already passed. I saw them". He squeezed her hand. "The others... did everyone die?" "Monsieur Marius is alive." Enjolras closed his eyes. The guilt fell on him again, this time with renewed force. So many people died because of him, because of his revolution, which he wanted to be the salvation of France... Fool, presumptuous fool! He could not bear even one victim, shifting it to the Combeferre, and there were several dozens of them on their barricade alone, and... "It's not your fault, monsieur," sounded nearby. Éponine was looking at him, serious, and at the same time some kind of spiritual, light, which she had never been during her lifetime. "I gave my life not for the sake of your Revolution, but for the sake of Marius. Wash my blood off your hands, monsieur". Enjolras stayed silent, listening to her words, to her sympathetic tone, and desperately despised himself. Not only did he fail the uprising, not only caused so many people to die, but even now the fragile girl turned out to be stronger than him. Who should comfort whom, a bourgeois who did not justify the trust of people, or a gamine who suffered so much during her lifetime?.. "Listen to me, monsieur," Éponine gently took his hands in hers. They were surprisingly hot. "Nobody died because of you, monsieur. We chose our paths ourselves. I came because I wanted to die, because I wanted to die with Marius, because no death could be worse than my life. Your friends came because they believed in the Republic, in free France and everything you spoke about. They did not have to come, but they chose to fight and die with you. They knew what was waiting for them. Don’t blame yourself for their choice, monsieur." Enjolras remained silent. The words of the Éponine penetrated his soul, healing the wounds that were bleeding inside. Neither of them said anything for a while. Soldiers of the National Guard passed by them and, crossing themselves, removed his body from the window. They clearly did not see Éponine and Enjolras standing in the middle of the room. When the soldiers left, she gently pulled him towards the exit, and he followed her. Together they went down the stairs and out into the Rue Saint-Denis. Then Enjolras thought for the first time about what was waiting for him. "Why you?" he asked hoarsely, and only then realized that it could sound insulting. But Éponine understood him. "I don't know, monsieur. Maybe because there is no one to meet you here — I mean, from the family. Maybe because your friends... in short, they were able to leave because nothing holds them, and your soul is still restless. Or maybe because I volunteered. "You?" "I. I myself was welcomed by... you probably don't even know her, monsieur. That woman, Cosette's mother... You probably don't know Cosette either, though, monsieur Marius probably told you..." Éponine was clearly embarrassed by her confused speech and cut herself off. "She said that no one should be alone here. And I volunteered to be your chaperone, monsieur. Your friends are waiting for you. They have already found their salvation, and you will come to them as soon as you... let yourself go, monsieur". Smiling softly, Éponine stepped forward, took his face in her hands and bend his head down to her. She kissed him on the forehead, and nothing in his soul rebelled against this chaste kiss. "Follow me, monsieur". And Enjolras did. ***

Mistress

Enjolras could not tell how long they had been walking. Maybe an hour, maybe a day, maybe a week. Geography, time, and distance didn't matter here. As for rest and food, neither Enjolras nor Éponine needed them in their ghostly state. However, he almost didn't care where they were going. He thought about his friends who trusted him and died because of him. Enjolras was thinking about Combeferre, his best friend. Combeferre was a man and a citizen, a philosopher and a scientist. He did not tolerate violence, was gentle and noble, saw the future in the hands of a school teacher and insisted on the importance of education. He was the wisest and most patient of them all. He was thinking of Courfeyrac with his kind heart and sharp tongue. And where Courfeyrac was, there was Gavroche, witty and dexterous, mocking and fearless. Enjolras recalled Joly with his eternal sores, astute, always carrying a stack of medical textbooks with him. He remembered Lesgle with his chronic bad luck, which did not affect his cheerfulness in any way. Feuilly, a poor worker, who learned to read and write without help and wanted to fight for justice not only in France, but all over the world. Prouvaire, romantic, dreamy, shy — and at the same time exceptionally fearless. Bahorel with his scarlet views, desperate and determined. Grantaire, who turned out to be a hundred times more courageous and honest man than Enjolras ever thought of him. Finally, Enjolras also felt guilty about Marius, despite the fact that Pontmercy had survived. Enjolras again and again came back to thought that Marius was ready to fight and die with them, while he treated him as a worthless dreamer. His conscience tormented him; by no means he could let go of himself. And yet their path allowed him to calm down, and his thoughts, still mournful, to get organized. Éponine did not stop him from thinking, silently leading him through the deserted streets of ghostly Paris. She walked a little ahead, light, noiseless, wrapped in a silvery haze. This mild glow was enough to light up the road. Once she was a shadow, now she has become a light. "We have come, monsieur", she said, and Enjolras raised his head, waking up from his melancholy. "Are we back in Corinth? We... have been just walking around?" Éponine glanced at him, catching the disappointment in his voice. "You needed time to get over your grief, monsieur. And now you have to see something." They climbed the familiar stairs again. Marius was sitting alone at the only remaining table. Enjolras froze at the foot of the stairs. Then rushed to Marius — and forced himself to stop. Even though Marius couldn't see him, it felt wrong to approach, as if he was breaking into something too personal. It was painful to look at Marius. Thin, pale, with his arm in a sling, he looked deathly tired. His bent figure, despite Marius was only twenty years old, resembled a very old man. But his eyes experienced the most drastic change, as if the horror of that night left its indelible mark on them. And Marius was crying. Enjolras heard him call names — the same names that he sometimes muttered to himself. Courfeyrac. Joly. Gavroche. But in addition to them, Marius called two more: Enjolras and Éponine. Marius was addressing them. Marius begged them to forgive him. Marius smiled, remembering their meetings, and cried again. Enjolras exchanged glances with Éponine. If he, the dead, could not forgive himself for the death of his friends, then what was it like for Marius? Enjolras approached cautiously and put his hand on Marius' shoulder. He could have sworn that he flinched and murmured something like "faces" and "shadows". "Marius, it's not your fault. You did everything you could," Enjolras stopped. Words that always came easily to mind, now had to be chosen with difficulty. "No one blames you. You... You're a hero, Marius. Just live. Just live and be happy for all of us. Be happy with your Cosette and forgive me for not understanding you. I'm really glad for you... We are all glad. We're with you, Marius". Éponine soundlessly appeared next to him and put her hand on Marius' other shoulder, silently giving her blessing as well. There was no resentment or jealousy on her face. Only quiet and calm joy. And for some reason, Enjolras liked the feeling of her being so close. "Do you understand now, monsieur?" Éponine asked when they went outside. Her small palm was in his again. "Yes". "Have you forgiven yourself, monsieur?" Without any reason, he looked at her and immediately regretted it. In her huge eyes he saw genuine concern. In addition, he suddenly noticed how pure and fresh her face became after death. Her hair, carelessly spread over her shoulders, also looked cleaner and softer. "Enjolras," he corrected before he had time to think. "I beg your pardon?" "Just Enjolras," he repeated. Éponine's eyes widened, ostensibly in astonishment, but the sly sparkles in them showed quite the opposite. Enjolras suddenly realized how much he missed her mocking smile. He also acknowledged she was standing too close, closer than he'd ever let women get to him. "Enjolras..." she drawled thoughtfully, as if tasting the sound of his name. "So you will no longer blame yourself for your friends’ choice?" Enjolras shook his head. Éponine beamed. He had only seen her smiling like this before with Pontmercy, whom she loved... but now Marius wasn't around, which meant that... No, it couldn't be... She would never… He would never… Marius had said it’s like being struck to the bone, that if Enjolras had ever been in his place, he would have known how the world can be changed in one burst of light... Wait, is he really comparing himself to a Pontmercy?.. he never fell in love with a woman... it's stupid... It's not for him, he had larger goals... Rebellion... he failed it, and Éponine helped him let go of his grief... Patria... she was his loyal fellow... He fought for people like her... for her... she was on the barricades... selfless, brave, proud… and so smart… so unlike all that bourgeois girls... Pontmercy was really blind… Yes, she was his Patria, but she was also a human, not a country, he could actually see her, talk with her, touch her, embrace her… and she volunteered to welcome him... and this mocking smile… damn, he needed it so much… and these incredible eyes, and... And the marble cracked. Enjolras leaned forward. Éponine's lips were suddenly very close. Before he could stop himself, he was already kissing her with a passion that he had never gave to any human being before. All his life Enjolras loved France alone, loved unconditionally, passionately, selflessly, chastely lowering his eyes in front of everything that was not a Republic. He was ready to give his life for France — and he did it. His conscience was clear. He knew that others would rise and take his place until France became free. He did the best he could. And now the new world was waiting for him, so he needed a new goal to strive for. His earthy life had consisted of fighting, now it was time for creation. He could walk behind the plough shed, he could will put away the sword. He could no longer do anything for France, but helping other people, serving justice and building a new, beautiful world was no less worthy task. And he could, no, he had to protect this girl, take care of her and give her everything she had been deprived of during her lifetime. After all, this would also be the restoration of justice, if he returned to her the love, respect and care that she previously had lavished on Marius, but had never received herself. All these thoughts flashed through Enjolras' mind in an instant. And then a hundred of feelings and sensations washed over him, making it impossible to think about anything, and the only thing he could do was to kiss Éponine. To kiss her from his heart, with all his passion, pulling her as close to him as possible. There was one thought that made him pull away. Did she really need him, or — he flushed with shame and anger— did he just take advantage of her weakness, acting no better than any docks’ customer? Enjolras opened his eyes and looked at Éponine. Her eyelids were also half-closed, and her lips were breaking into a smile. "Mademoiselle Thénardier, I'm sorry, I..." He didn't finish. Éponine opened her eyes, and her vague tender gaze silenced him. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Their lips met again. "Look," she breathed when he finally released her from his embrace. Enjolras turned around. The sun was rising — for the first time during his stay here. Its rays slid across the roofs, flooding them with golden light. The pre-dawn haze was dissipating, shadows were disappearing, ghostly houses were on his eyes becoming physical. The world was coming to life, filling with colors, sounds, smells. Enjolras looked at Éponine and saw that her ethereal radiance had also vanished. Éponine stood before him, bright, alive, real. "Welcome home, Enjolras," she said and smiled. And then Enjolras heard the people sing. The first person Enjolras actually saw was Gavroche, who rushed towards them with such impetuosity, as if wings had grown behind his back. He threw himself on Éponine's neck. Next came Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, Prouvaire, Feuille, Joly, Lesgle and Bahorel. Handshakes, hugs, laughter, jokes, exclamations — the usual joyful bustle of their meetings finally displaced the pain from Enjolras' heart. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, feeling the weight of guilt fall from his soul. And then the people came. People were free. The night ended and the sun finally rosed. Enjolras squeezed Éponine's hand and smiled. Tomorrow came.