the first drops of a storm
Enjolras had left the barricade half an hour ago—more or less, time seemed to move differently between these walls, Combeferre thought.
He’d slipped out quietly after whispering to him and Courfeyrac that he intended to survey the area, assess the present situation. He had promised to return within half an hour. “Be careful,” Combeferre had murmured, but Enjolras had already disappeared, catlike, into the shadows.
Thinking about Enjolras, how he could be captured or shot and them never even knowing left an anxious pang in his chest, so Combeferre returned to tending to the wounded. There were no very serious injuries, and the wounded men were adamant about being well enough for the next fight.
“I would not miss it for the world,” a young Southerner insisted, gritting his teeth from the pain. “This will be a history-making battle, the whole of the city is alight. By this time tomorrow we shall have a Republic and I will not miss my chance to be a part of it by sitting around in here.”
Combeferre could not help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Then at least rest for now, the bleeding is not heavy but you may aggravate it if you move too much. There’s still time before the next fight.”
The boy conceded this, and Combeferre left the wine-shop to ask Joly for more bandages. The sky was lightening. It was difficult not to share in their high spirits; the situation was hopeful. The fortification was good, they had ammunition. Above all, the bell of Saint-Merry rang out, reminding them that they were not alone.
As he passed the rue Mondétour, a figure appeared from the darkness, and he started.
A glimpse of blond hair, and the figure gestured for him to come closer—it was Enjolras, evidently back from his reconnaissance. Combeferre ran into the rue Mondétour, and Enjolras pulled him back into the shadows. He was uninjured, he noted with relief.
“Well? What news?" Combeferre said, wiping his hands on his apron. "The men are in high spirits, the Saint-Merry tocsin has not ceased for a moment. They are saying by sunset it will be a revolution. And by daybreak tomorrow—" he broke off, but could not repress a small smile. "But first tell me what you've seen."
Enjolras held his gaze steadily for a moment, then lowered his eyes. He shook his head.
Combeferre’s smile faded.
“A full third of the army is headed in this direction. They are bringing cannons.”
Combeferre began to feel the heavy weight of dread sinking in his chest. But there were other barricades remaining, surely.
“And the National Guard,” Enjolras added.
This was a blow. “They will not join us?”
“No.” Enjolras raised his eyes in meditation. “We have, perhaps, an hour before the attack, by my estimation.”
“But the faubourg,” Combeferre said, grasping.
“—is silent. Windows and doors shuttered. Nothing.” He exhaled, and Combeferre heard the smallest quaver in his breath. “There is no one coming. By daybreak tomorrow we will be dead.”
Combeferre found it necessary to lean against the wall for support. His head felt light, and a terrible numbness began to spread throughout his body. He turned to look past the intersection where the insurgents were engaged in preparation for the coming fight. The light of the torches and the joyful chatter of the men lent the scene almost the air of a street carnival, and he shuddered to picture the horrors that would befall them in such a short time.
“I will need to tell them,” Enjolras said softly. “I—”
Combeferre turned to look at him again, and for a moment Enjolras seemed to falter under the weight of the grief and exhaustion.
To know their fate, and then to deliver that fatal blow to hope. It was an unspeakable burden. “You are the bravest man I will ever know,” Combeferre finished for him. He took his hands. “What you have done—you could not ask more from any man.” He pulled him into an embrace, and Enjolras lay his head against his shoulder wearily.
“In the rue du Cygne I saw a window with a light in it on the fifth floor,” Enjolras murmured. “It was an old woman with a candle. I thought to myself, she may have spent the night in waiting.”
It struck Combeferre peculiarly that this was something that Enjolras had noticed, that was not something Enjolras would have noticed years before.
He drew him close and pressed their foreheads together. A lifetime of dreams had passed through them. There was a certain finality to this gesture, as he knew he would likely not have another chance to speak to Enjolras in confidence before the end came. For the last time he traced the features he knew so intimately with his thumb: the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the softness of his cheek. Enjolras clung to him tightly, as though he feared falling.
“It will come,” Combeferre said, his voice tight, but it was a promise.
“Yes,” Enjolras breathed. He pulled away, and drew himself upright once more.
The sky was now painted with broad swaths of color, fresh and resplendent. Their last sunrise, Combeferre thought. Yet there would be many more sunrises.
He turned, and was surprised to see Enjolras also gazing upwards. “It is beautiful,” he commented, but Combeferre knew he was not seeing the sky.
Enjolras stepped back towards the barricade, but Combeferre grabbed his wrist. One moment more, he pleaded.
“You know I would not be parted from you,” he said, “in life or in death.”
Enjolras smiled. “Yes,” he said. He stopped, then closed his eyes, as though readying himself.
They walked back into the rue de la Chanvrerie, towards the abyss, towards the dawn.
