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5th of June, 1832

“Do you think this is going to be it?”

Jean Prouvaire is sprawled on Bahorel’s oriental settee, his long legs dangling over the edge and his hands crossed on his chest in a manner reminiscent of a revenant taking his rest. Shredded paper litters the floor around him like a summer snow.

It’s little past four in the morning. The smell of hashish has all but dissipated, replaced by the clammy promise of rain to come: the grey stripe of sky visible from the open window is heavy with foreboding. Jean Prouvaire thinks he can smell other things in the rain too. Darker things.

Somewhere, a chorus of birds is greeting the approaching dawn. Summer morning waits on no one.

“Hm?” says Bahorel from somewhere on the floor.

“Tomorrow – or rather today, that is.” Jean Prouvaire turns himself over for a better look at his companion, nearly toppling off the settee in the process. “The funeral that is to be our cradle. The trumpet call of apocalypse to welcome the new world. Can it be that you and I may yet live to see such a thing?”

Bahorel hums again, tapping his fingers against the floor; a sure sign that he is giving the question due consideration. On the settee, Jean Prouvaire smiles to himself. There are few things Bahorel takes so seriously, and he likes being an exception to the rule. He likes that very much.

“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” Bahorel says eventually. “I think there’s always another fight.”

Jean Prouvaire furrows his brows. “You don’t think – another stolen revolution?”

“Maybe, or maybe not.” Bahorel pushes himself up on his elbows, warming to the subject. “Let’s say it shall be a barricade today and hotel de ville tonight. Tomorrow, the messieurs the bankers will corral some fool of a marquis, or some doctrinaire and prop him up as a president, or a consul, whatever you like. Then if they have their way, they’ll spend the next ten years arguing over how to best cheat mademoiselle Liberty out of the rights of a citizen. Mark my words, we will yet need to bash some heads in her honour.”

“And we will,” responds Jean Prouvaire. “It is a mistake to think of the future as a destination where one might arrive and sit down; it can only ever be experienced as a journey. We might yet share the destiny of Sisyphos.”

“That’s right!” says Bahorel. “And all that is assuming that our fledgling Utopia won’t be saddled with another Louis-Philippe in a phrygian cap. No my friend – If we must rest, we will rest in the grave. I don’t think this old world is yet done with revolutions.”

“And thus the struggle continues,” murmurs Jean Prouvaire. There’s something a bit bleak about this prospect and something a bit hopeful too; a burden of immense destiny fully appraised. It makes him think of the revolutionaries past and future, connected by invisible threads, like vast constellations of which no one can see the full extent. He makes a mental note to share that thought with Enjolras, should there be time.

“And what do you think?” Bahorel asks, interrupting his reverie. He has pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the settee and observing Jean Prouvaire with a strangest expression, wild and indescribably gentle. “Shall we become a cautionary tale of moderate journalists and fussy patriarchs? Or is this yet a night of the poets?”

Perhaps it is the lingering influence of hashish, or the sleepless night, or clarity that comes from the proximity of the grave: Jean Prouvaire, gripped by inexplicable understanding, slides down to the floor and clasps his friend’s hands in his own. Presses his forehead against Bahorel’s for a long unsteady moment, before pulling back enough to meet the thoughtful lupine gaze.

Happy(?) Barricade Day everyone!

The First Battle and the Iconic Battlecry of Enjolras. Volume 4, Book 14, Chapter 1.

The Fading Light of Dawn (or Apollo Eclipsed)

Old art from 2021, dragging it out of the archives for a new Barricade Day.

This is an AU in which Grantaire wakes up just a little too late. He stumbles into the room just in time to see Enjolras shot. It is too much for him to bear in the moment and he collapses, the guards mistaking him for dead. As the sun finally rises, he wakes once more. He drags Enjolras back in from the window, desperately hoping the man survived somehow. Refusing to face the fact that his one source of light is gone.

This song had some minor lyric changes, indicated by “//” with the 1994 lyrics before and the 2003 and later lyrics after.

You can hear the 1994 Red Cast sing this here and the 2003 Orange Cast here.

Romanized Japanese lyrics are given first, with words in katakana, the syllabic alphabet primarily used for loanwords, in ALL CAPS. My English translation and notes follow, and you can see more of my translations of the Japanese Les Mis musical here.

??? at the barricade??

June 5th | the barricades rise

some normal barricade boys that are also not doomed

Spared In Spite

I knew a cold hell awaited me.

With every stinging step, over blood,

bright red – not yet matured enough to spill.

I was denied valor,

to be made honorable by your hands

As only yours had the right to reap my soul

It's clear that fate was not meant

for a wretch like me

Always wicked, gutter-bound.

Even lucifer's fall was too kind an end

For a moment, suspended in air,

I flew free.

Why? I ask the walls

You held onto the chain that links our fates

And worse yet– tethered yourself back to me

I, who has stood at the gates of hell

Stoking flames that failed to burn you

Knowing I had one foot in the doorway

So then, why now?

When I look at your face