Paris, 5th June 1832
Combeferre counts six letters, his own included, and the familiar
sigils stare up at him as if to mock their cause with the eloborated
crests stamped onto them.
It almost hurts to look and to think of those who have abandoned aristocracy in favour of a cause they do not fully understand, and in the interval between two heartbeats, Combeferre senses the fear in the pit of his stomach again and he wants to burn the letters and tell his friends to run.
“You lost this.”
Combeferre looks up at Enjolras who has come out of the post office and he looks like Combeferre feels. There are dark circles under his eyes, his hair is dishevelled and to protect himself from the chilly morning breeze, he pulls Bahorel’s too wide red waist coat tightly around his shoulders which he still holds up with determination, passion and fire.
The letter in Enjolras’ hand is plain without even a wax seal, instead the writer has bound it together with a rough thread that is fraying at its edges and Combeferre takes it carefully.
“It will be a long day,” says Enjolras, “Rest until the time comes.” Then he turns and leaves the place.
Combeferre shakes his head and he looks down at the letters in his
hands. There are seven now and the plain letter is Feuilly’s.
This letter doesn’t fit in, Combeferre thinks and frowns.
Then he thinks of Feuilly.
Feuilly who doesn’t have a family crest to stamp onto his letters, who never used sealing wax, and who still writes like a child because writing was a skill he only developed in the last years.
Combeferre looks at this plain letter that was tied with the rough wool addressed to an orphanage in shaky handwriting. He turns it and looks again and suddenly he is laughing.
Yes, he thinks, I fight for people less fortunate than Feuilly, for the children and for the women, for equality.
When he opens the door to the post office with the bells chiming softly in the morning breeze, he wonders why he even started doubting.