A very smol ficlet for @midautumnnightdream as a birthday present. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Dear Friend!! <3
Prouvaire had eagerly seized one of the first copies of Notre Dame de Paris when it had appeared at the nearest bookstore and read half of it there. Then because the owner, M. Allard was becoming impatient due to the influx of visitors asking for copies of Notre Dame and requesting meetings with Victor Hugo, the author; he deposited a few sous and walked around the streets devouring the rest of the book before knocking on Bahorel’s door excitedly.
The door took a few seconds to open, which seemed an eternity to Prouvaire, bursting with excitement as he was to talk about the latest book from M. Hugo.
Enjolras, dressed simply in a warm black coat, opened the door and pressed his friend's hand warmly in lieu of greeting him with a smile.
“There was some trouble early in the morning,” he began, “But I have been to the police station and he will be released in a few hours.”
Prouvaire swept his gaze at the room, the sheets were still crumpled and had not been made, the door of Bahorel’s wardrobe was still flung open, there were assorted skulls and daggers on the mantle and a few pieces of art they had rescued from Rue du Doyenne in the corner.
“Would you like to keep me company?” Enjolras asked, his face gentle. Prouvaire nodded and flung himself on the bed beside Enjolras, leaving several muddy footmarks around the room.
“Is this a new book?” Enjolras asked as Prouvaire watched the dying sunset in silence from the window and wrote a few scribbles on the pieces of paper he always carried around.
“Yes, by Hugo, Victor Hugo,” he pushed a few strands of long hair away from his face, “I’ve met him in a few Cenacle gatherings. The author of Hernani-the theatre riots last year?”
Enjolras nodded, he remembered the month and the riots vividly. The newspapers talked of nothing else for a month. Prouvaire and Bahorel had also received many angry letters from neoclassicist playwrights and he had heard Monsieur Hugo had received a bullet through his window. People could be so charged and heated over art. That was the moment, Enjolras had understood; what Prouvaire often talked about, how poetry and revolution were almost the same to him. Because Prouvaire was a poet, he had to be a revolutionary, he couldn't be anything else with this well of feelings, this great pouring of sentiment flowing inside him.
The silence filled between them as they watched the sun spread it’s last few ember glows, painting them all over the horizon.
“M. Hugo has one of his characters talk about the printing press overtaking architecture.” Prouvaire punctured the silence as he finished his scribblings, “I…wrote a poem on how Dom Claude is wrong. I think Notre Dame’s edificies may be swallowed by time’s flow, derelict and in need of repair as it stands. But people will still visit the ruins and read M. Hugo’s work about it and it will stand, all majestic, full of glory in their imagination. It will be the book that will keep the edifice in public memory long after we’re gone.
M. Hugo also intends the book to revive interest in Notre Dame enough to have it restored. ”
Enjolras’ smile grew into a pleasant laugh, “What else does M. Hugo say about the printing press? We’ve been moving to the cylinder presses at my uncle’s shop. They are much faster than the flatbed ones. We still have a few of those. But the cylinder presses have made such a difference. We can print many pamphlets and books. My uncle is always talking to merchants from Germany, and from the Americas. He is also working on improving our typesetting.”
Prouvaire’s eyes shone, “I have also spent many hours thinking of a mobile typesetting machine that would improve the printing ever since I first visited your uncle’s printing press.” His voice dropped a few notes of intensity and became shy, “I have a prototype that is so close to working.”
Enjolras took Prouvaire’s hand in his, “Oh that is exciting news, Prouvaire. You are envisioning the future of printing.”
Prouvaire looked away sadly, “I have been working on it instead of attending medical school as my father expects of me. But it is such an interesting problem to solve.”
“Do you think I can take a look? Perhaps we can work on this future together as well?” Enjolras gazed at the view outside with Prouvaire. The future was slowly being shaped and both Prouvaire and him were envisioning the same dreams, the same distant sounds of cannons on the horizons. Enjolras glanced at his friend and saw tears streaming down his face and he understanding, pressed Jean Prouvaire to him close.
They were interrupted by the whirlwind arrival of Bahorel and many excited chatters; the mist of the vision they were both sharing dissipated. The future however still remained as a shared melancholy between them.
