vivent les peuples

The hour was growing late, but for once Feuilly was not worried about the time. They had done all they could to prepare for the funeral to-morrow—with weapons and ammunition safely stored away, contact reaffirmed between their allies, and the plans for the construction of their barricade as finalized as they could possibly be without knowing exactly where they would end up or what they would have to work with when the time came—but even so, the conversation continued in low tones, an almost electric feeling permeating Courfeyrac’s rooms as the sun began to dip below the horizon, and Feuilly could not tell if the restlessness he felt itching under his skin was from excitement or dread for what was to come.

He looked over at his friends, all crammed in together on the settee in the other room. At some point Courfeyrac had moved so that he was laying down across both Enjolras and Combeferre like a cat that wanted attention, one of Enjolras’ hands clasped in his own, and Combeferre had taken to idly running a hand through the younger man’s hair as he frowned down at the papers he had been working on for the better part of the evening, at some intervals pausing as he fell deep in thought, at others his pen moving almost frantically.

Finished with double-checking the boxes of cartridges hidden in the bedroom, Feuilly moved to join them and squeezed in at Enjolras’ side. Enjolras, underneath their friend’s weight as he was, shifted the best he could so that Feuilly could sit comfortably as well, and once they were both settled Courfeyrac didn’t hesitate to stretch out and place his feet onto the younger man’s lap with an impish sort of grin.

Feuilly rolled his eyes fondly. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he asked, “What are you writing, Combeferre?”

At his question the other man finally looked up from the bundle of papers in his hand, taking a moment to set them down onto the nearby console table before giving Feuilly his full attention. “I’m writing a letter to my younger brother. I cannot help but worry… so I thought it best to ensure he would be prepared, no matter what happens.”

“Prepared for what?”

“For the responsibility of being the man of the house.”

Feuilly admittedly wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Of course, if something should happen to Combeferre, that would leave his brother as the sole provider for their family; and they all knew intimately well the risk they were taking. It only made sense he would want to do what he could to ease the transition, so to speak. But even so, his brother would understand… wouldn’t he?

“I wrote one to my parents earlier,” Courfeyrac added, easily filling the silence when it lasted just a little too long. “And… my brother as well, in case he does not come after all tomorrow.”

“Do you really think he might change his mind?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac shrugged in response, an almost uncharacteristic frown pulling at his lips. “I haven’t the faintest idea, to be honest.

“And what of Marius?”

“I’ve yet to get a straight answer out of him, either.” He brought an arm up to drape across his forehead with an exasperated-sounding sigh. “The poor fellow has been especially distracted lately, it’s hard enough just trying to hold a conversation with him. And he still refuses to tell me a thing!”

“He always has been of a more reticent disposition,” Combeferre affirmed sadly. “But I’m afraid there isn’t much that can be done when someone simply doesn’t want any help.”

Courfeyrac sighed again, and Feuilly patted his leg in sympathy. “I know.”

“Are you going to write a letter as well, Enjolras?” Feuilly questioned, filling the following silence in turn, and turning to address the only one who hadn’t spoken up in the conversation so far.

Enjolras looked a little confused, and he quickly shook his head. “I do not believe any letter of mine would be well received. Besides, there are more important things to attend to right now.”

“Oh.”

‘That’s a shame,’ Feuilly couldn’t help but think. He knew Enjolras didn’t have much of a relationship with his parents, but he still had a hard time imagining anyone not treasuring the other man’s words. Any letter he wrote would surely be an inspiration to whomever read it, family or not.

Enjolras tilted his head then, considering the younger man. “Do you wish to write a letter, Feuilly?”

“Oh,” he said again, taken aback by the question. “I don’t really have anyone to write….”

He trailed off as the realization hit him: he may not have had any relatives to bid farewell to, but Feuilly found he still had something he wanted—no, needed—to write down.

“Actually— yes, I’d love to.”

Combeferre picked up his papers again to thumb through them and, finding one he hadn’t written anything on yet, passed it and his pen over with a, “Here.”

Feuilly accepted them, already mulling over where to start. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

“What are you going to write about?” Enjolras asked curiously. He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing into Feuilly’s own.

“The partition of Poland?” Courfeyrac added in a teasing lilt.

“Oh, you—” Feuilly swatted at Courfeyrac’s feet. “You shall just have to wait and see.”

“Can’t you at least give us a hint?” he pressed.

“You shall have to wait and see,” Feuilly repeated.

“Perhaps this will be a good exercise in learning some much needed patience,” Combeferre added mildly.

Courfeyrac met the other man’s eye at that. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Then I would be more than happy to expound upon what I meant, if it would help you to understand. There should be time enough yet before we ought to think about turning in for the night.”

“You say as if such a topic is dense enough for an entire conversation!”

“Well….”

“I cannot believe this! You—”

“Feuilly is trying to write,” Enjolras said pointedly, and Feuilly laughed.

“It’s alright, I’m only thinking right now.”

“All the more imperative for us to remain quiet, then,” Combeferre returned.

“Perhaps. But I truly do not mind.”

“You are too kind, my dear fellow, letting us prattle on and on when you have important business to attend to,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, his gesturing hands accidentally smacking Combeferre’s chest in his enthusiasm. “Business so important you cannot even give us the slightest hint as to what you're planning to write. I can only assume that you are intending to compose a novel of a letter that rivals Combeferre’s all about ‘72 and its impact on the great nations of Europe, and you are only too embarrassed to tell us so for fear that we would never stop teasing you!”

“Of course there will be a passing mention to it,” Feuilly admitted, unable to resist a smile at Courfeyrac’s antics any longer. “But that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

“Aha, I knew it!”

“It is not a hard guess to make,” Enjolras pointed out, his lips quirking up into a smile of his own. “And I would expect nothing less from our discerning cosmopolitan.”

Feuilly beamed at the epithet. “A topic as pressing as this one bears repeating, over and over again if I must. You know I will never tire of it.”

“And you have certainly proven as much,” Courfeyrac agreed.

He opened his mouth to reply, only to pause when his eyes landed on the fan he had painted years ago—and that Courfeyrac had inexplicably decided to keep for himself—displayed on the wall just as the ones from the atelier were, and what came out instead was a surprised, “I still cannot believe you kept that.”

The others followed his gaze and Courfeyrac, realizing just what Feuilly was referring to, waved a dismissive hand. “How could I not? You were so proud. And every time I look at it, I am reminded of that moment.”

Feuilly found himself flushing at the other man's words, once again at a loss on what to say.

“Yes, I remember that,” Combeferre mused. “To think, how few in numbers we were then, with nothing more than hope to guide our steps. And now here we stand on the precipice of battle once again, for what I pray is the final time.”

“We will fight as often as we need to,” Enjolras protested.

Combeferre inclined his head at that. “I agree. It is a necessary evil, one that I wish we could do without; but wishing alone will not make any meaningful improvement to the lives of the people of France.”

“Or to the peoples of all the earth,” Feuilly was quick to add.

“But perhaps it will be necessary no longer once our Republic finally dawns.” Courfeyrac reached up to clasp Combeferre’s arm, giving him a warm smile. “And the good can at last be innocent.”

“Yes,” Combeferre said softly, and Enjolras pressed his hand as the other man’s gaze fell back to his letter. “Yes, may it be so.”

“I believe it will,” Feuilly declared. “Someday, perhaps one day very soon, even if we do not live to see it. Our efforts will not be in vain!”

Enjolras turned to regard Feuilly again for a long moment, something both somber and exceedingly fond in his expression. When he spoke, his quiet voice rang with finality. “You are right.”

This time the silence lingered, heavier than before. The night continued to deepen outside, and it wasn’t long before Courfeyrac was compelled to get up, taking a moment to tousle Feuilly’s hair as he walked past and into the other room in search of a candle so they could continue their work. Feuilly smiled again and tapped the pen to his chin, his thoughts turning back to the task at hand; and as he began to write his letter in earnest a sense of calm certainty kindled within his chest.

Whatever happened to-morrow he knew that, for better or for worse, the fight would not end with him and his friends. —

To Félicien Courfeyrac

Félicien picked the letter up, unsure how to feel about the fact that his brother had dropped the particle from his own name; he knew he must have done it to tease him, and some amalgamation of annoyed, fondly exasperated, and completely and utterly devastated threatened to overwhelm him.

He shoved it into his pocket, next to the one he’d found addressed to their parents, neither willing nor able to read whatever Marc had written right now.

“I don’t know why we have to do this by ourselves,” Charles grumbled from where he was busy pulling books off of the bookcase and stacking them onto the floor— an eclectic mix of law-books and romance novels so well-worn the spines were starting to fall apart and, more than a little surprisingly, a couple of dictionaries in English and German.

When had Marc taken up an interest in learning other languages?

Félicien quickly shook his head. “You know father is very… busy.”

“As am I! I ought to be reading over my notes for class tomorrow. And you— do you not have a wife at home, and a newborn baby, that need you? And yet that fool goes off and gets himself killed trying to commit treason, and we’re left to clean up the mess!”

Félicien said nothing to that. He was angry, too; he’d tried to convince Marc to recognize the battle was a losing one and come home, but his brother had stubbornly refused to see any sense. And regardless of what he’d said Félicien did sympathize with their cause, he just hadn't been willing to die for it and, selfishly, he hadn’t wanted Marc to die for it either. He was sick of all the fighting. And now, just when things had finally been okay again between them, his brother was simply… gone.

“The whole world has turned upside down,” Charles continued crossly. “To see my fellow students break down the gates of the school just to join that rabble! You should have seen it— what a terrible sight! The distinguished name of the Polytechnique defiled, our family name disgraced; it’s sickening, I tell you! I don't know what’s gotten into everyone. It’s as if the cholera has driven them all mad! Did you know several of my classmates have been in contact with these republicans? with Marc himself, even?”

“Have they?” Félicien asked in surprise.

“They have, indeed! This was a premeditated affair, I tell you! Our brother has been stirring up trouble for months now! Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, he always was rather… deviant.” Charles’ face scrunched up in disdain. “And that Enjolras boy only ever made it worse.”

“Yes, he always did have the most terrible influence on Marc.”

‘More than we ever realized,’ he thought bitterly.

“Father should have acted more firmly while there was still a chance to set him straight. If only….” Charles trailed off as he picked up a folded paper from the desk and, opening it, squinted at it in confusion.

Félicien walked over to his side, his interest piqued. “What do you have there, Charles?”

“It’s a letter addressed to no one,” Charles answered, bewildered.

“Addressed to no one? Let me see that.” When he reached for it the younger boy didn't hesitate to hand it over and, furrowing his brow, he read, “To whomever is reading this.”

“It’s not from Marc,” Charles pointed out.

He skipped down to the valediction at the end to confirm that his brother had indeed spoken true. “No, it must be from one of his friends.”

Charles scoffed at that. He turned his attention back to sorting through their brother’s things, tossing a fan that had been mounted to the wall to the growing pile of sentimental objects their mother would probably want to keep.

Félicien folded the letter back up and moved to help him but, unexpectedly, he found his throat tightening as all of the grief he hadn't allowed himself to feel since the morning he’d realized their cause was truly doomed came crashing down on him with sudden force.

His brother was really dead.

He had seen the body, of course, but it was almost impossible to reconcile that ghastly sight with the living, breathing person he had known for so long. He trembled at the memory, of how pale and stiff and cold he had been, of the hole in his chest too big for any bullet or bayonet to have made—Marc, what did they do to you? What happened after I left?—and, almost desperately, he tried to imagine him here in the room instead, standing there with them and telling some dumb joke that would have Charles rolling his eyes… only to realize he couldn’t quite recall the sound of his brother’s voice anymore.

“Félicien?”

Félicien looked up to see Charles frowning at him, one of Thérèse’s dolls in hand. He could still remember when she’d insisted Marc take it along with him the last time he’d come to visit, claiming the doll would look out for him while he was gone since she couldn’t, and demanding he promise to bring it back soon, given that it was her favorite one.

When he failed to respond Charles grabbed the older man’s shoulder and shook it, snapping his attention back to the present moment. “Félicien, what are you doing?”

With an almost absurd amount of effort Félicien shoved all of those feelings aside to deal with later, slipping his hands into his pockets to hide the way that they were still shaking and forcing a smile onto his face he hoped was reassuring. “Nothing. Now come along, there’s much work to be done.”

“I know,” Charles huffed. With an uncertain glance at his brother he stepped back and turned to set the doll into the pile as well. “If you asked me, it’d be easier to simply throw all of this stuff away.”

Félicien’s jaw clenched at that. “Easier, perhaps. But who said the easier thing was ever worth doing?”

Charles paused, squinting at the older man. “Now you’re starting to sound like him.”

‘Perhaps that is not such a bad thing after all.’

“Come along,” Félicien repeated. “I do believe we should be finished by tomorrow if we do not dawdle.”

But Charles still didn't move. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

“Is that so?”

“There’s something bothering you, I can tell.”

“Our brother is dead, Charles,” he snapped.

Charles flinched at his words, staring at Félicen as if the older man had physically struck him, and Félicien felt his breath hitch. He averted his gaze as the younger boy stepped closer and, after a brief moment of hesitation, grabbed his shoulder again. 

“I know,” Charles whispered, his earlier anger all but extinguished. “But I feel there is something… more.”

Félicien shrugged, displacing the boy’s hand. He couldn’t tell him. He knew that Charles wouldn’t understand, that he would never think of his brother the same way again if he knew what’d really happened all those days ago, and he couldn’t bear the thought. He’d had enough of the petty contention that’d long plagued their family; he’d already lost one brother to it, he couldn’t lose another, too.

He tugged Charles into his arms then, struck with the sudden need to hold his little brother close, and Charles stiffened in surprise before hesitantly returning the hug.

“I just… miss him,” Félicien finally said, which was true.

He may not have been especially close to Marc, or even seen much of him for the past decade, but he still felt his absence like a physical wound— the image again flashed in his mind of the sight of his brother’s body and he quickly focused on the solid warmth in front of him instead, trying in vain to banish the thought.

“I do too,” Charles said, his quiet voice cracking, once again drawing Félicien back to the present moment. “I… I wish I knew why he did it. What could have driven him to such extremes? …was it me?”

“No,” Félicien answered without hesitation. “No, it wasn’t you.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“He loved you, Charles. He loved our family. He just….”

He trailed off, unsure what to even say. That their brother loved the ideas in his head more? That he had chosen to condemn himself to that cause knowing full well that it would cost him his life when he’d had a chance to back out? when Félicien had nearly begged him to?

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wish I did, but… I don’t.”

Eventually Charles had to return to the Polytechnique, reluctantly leaving Félicien alone to finish what they’d started. There was still much to do, Marc had more stuff than he’d realized, and all of their efforts had left the apartment looking like a tornado had torn through it. Yet despite the cluttered mess, the rooms still felt… empty.

Félicien looked around, debating on what to do next—and trying to ignore the complicated mess of feelings still festering below the surface—when his eyes caught on the dictionaries from before.

Had Marc taken up an interest in learning other languages? He’d never mentioned anything of the sort about it to Félicien, but then again he truly had no idea what his brother had been up to in the years since he’d left home, he would still be utterly clueless if he hadn't stumbled back into the younger man’s life through pure chance, and even then he’d known there was a great deal that Marc wasn't telling him. In many ways he had become an almost perfect stranger— for all of his downright impetuous temperament at times, Félicien never would have thought his kind-hearted brother capable of the sort of violence endemic to the barricades if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

Had he ever really known Marc at all?

He sat down at the desk with a heavy sigh and pulled the letters out of his pocket, needing a distraction, and was briefly surprised to find three of them. He hadn't meant to keep the one that wasn’t addressed to anyone specifically.

His curiosity getting the better of him, he set the other two aside—still unable to read the one Marc had left for him—and opened that strange letter again.

To whomever is reading this,

I know you do not know me, nor I you, but I have a few words I’d like to tell you regardless.

By the time you’re reading this I may very well be dead. That is just as well— I do not fear death. Perhaps you do; but even so, this is too important to shy away from. The future of our Republic, of our great country, and of the entire world is now in your hands. It is a heavy burden to bear, I know, but you need not bear it alone. Do not forget how powerful we are when we stand together— you need only look back to the July Revolution to see that power firsthand.

Of course, it will not always be so obvious, but this doesn't mean your efforts will be in vain. Progress is often slow but sure, like the rising of the sun. It cannot be killed, nor does it end when one man dies. It is a race— and every step, no matter how small, towards that grand finish line called the Future carries us all ever closer to a brighter dawn. It is this accumulation of individual choices over time that truly changes societies, for good or for ill, and as such it is imperative that the momentum is maintained. This is where you come in.

I again confess that I do not know you, and I regret I did not have a chance to tell you this face to face, but I do know one very important thing: if you’ve read this far, I know that you care, and that is no small thing. It is a lack of caring that was responsible for allowing the great evil of ‘72 to succeed, and from thence has every modern evil sprung. See the depravity of the Congress of Vienna, see the debauchery of the Ottoman Empire on Thessaly; but I digress.

No one of us alone can change the world, but each of us can have an influence in the world. My friend—for I do not think it improper to consider you a friend—I implore you not to remain passive. You must do what you can to deliver yourself from the bondage of ignorance and reject the moral dereliction of indifference, and you must continue our fight.

Take courage, my friend— the path you’ll tread is one well worn; by all those who have come before, and by all who will follow after you.

Your fellow citizen,

A lot of the members of Les Amis de l’ABC do resemble by their ideas and political opinions the “petits romantiques” or Jeunes France (young, less known romantics who belonged to a new generation of romantics born c. 1810, mostly republican, much more antisystem and anti-conformism than the older generations). They opposed the bourgeois society they lived in for social reasons and the oppressive, conservative, politics and morals that were born from it. They denounced the penal code which is established on bourgeois principles (protection of property before the protection of individuals + protection of the rich over the poor, etc). They criticised religion (many were atheists). They criticised conservative mores and reclaimed the criticism that was made against them, exaggerating it as much as possible to scandalise the bourgeois. They criticised scientific “progress” founded on bourgeois principles that further harmed marginalised groups (like the development of psychiatry, phrenology, “societal hygiene”, etc)

While many did descend from a certain bourgeoisie as well (not specifically wealthy but still bourgeois, as opposed to noble, working class or peasant), and while some remained attached to liberalism and total freedom, some did also grow closer to socialism. Chiefly, Nerval, who influenced the character of Prouvaire.

What I’m saying is, that if you don’t know much about politics from the time, you can always fall back on a critique of capitalism. In fact I think capitalism is perhaps more important than the question of a republic or a monarchy. The bourgeois (read: liberal) monarchy of Louis-Philippe is like a two headed monster in that it is both ultra conservative and repressive and doesn’t offer much change from its ultra monarchist predecessors, AND it is also capitalist, and brings new kinds of problems to the society of the time. Capitalism was criticised by both republicans and certain monarchists (like Balzac) which sometimes led to some very strange ideas (like republicans reclaiming royalist discourse about the downfall and corruption of the monarchy….)