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The cycle by which bars servicing infâmes were raided and destroyed, then reborn in a different location, wearing a different face, had become intimately familiar to Grantaire over the years he’d spent in Paris. The Café Alexandre had replaced the Troie in 1827 and 1829 had seen the Café Alexandre replaced by Madame Bleu.Grantaire hadn't been present for the raid on the Alexandre, nor had any of his good friends. Two of the Gigis had reportedly been caught in the raid, but no-one knew if they'd been sentenced. Not even Albertine, who'd been with them but managed to slip away. No-one really knew what had become of Monsieur Chapon, either. Rumor had it that he'd managed to run out the backdoor in the midst of the chaos. Grantaire hoped the old man really had been saved the indignity of death in bondage.Madame Bleu was a fine enough replacement, except for in one key regard: it did not have the rentable rooms the Alexandre and the Troie had had on offer. Anti-physical men may meet here, they may kiss and dance, they may dress however they please, but carnal pleasure would have to restrict itself to the sort which could be dealt with while seated. This was because Madame Bleu was not quite a café of the same nature as her predecessors – she was not exclusively an infâme establishment, for one, but simply a winehouse which did not mind the presence of beautiful vice. What she lacked in appeals to carnal pleasure, she made up for with frequent musical performances. Prouvaire was quite excited about the place – apparently he and Bahorel had been frequenting it for quite a while, even before the closure of the Alexandre had necessitated moving to another establishment. Much that appealed to infâmes appealed to Romantics too, Grantaire supposed. Tonight a travesti was singing a song from a popular operetta, her voice not quite as light as that of a castrato yet carrying some of the same effect. Once she finished singing, Prouvaire turned around to stare at Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet with stars in his eyes. "Oh, isn't she marvellous?" he asked, Romantic zeal emanating from him. The crowd seemed to agree with Prouvaire, for the applause soon drowned out any response."They certainly didn't have performances like this last time I was here," Bossuet said. "I hear the place changed ownership a few years back," Prouvaire said. "The old owner died and his son has different ideas about how to run– Oh, Madame Dido is greeting people!" Prouvaire flew out of his seat, rushing over to the crowd of people surrounding the singer. "2 francs says he'll be too shy to talk to her," Grantaire said. "I'll take that bet," Joly said. "Jehan is unstoppable when he's like this." "Speaking of unstoppable forces," Bossuet added. "Is Enjolras planning to descend upon the premises?""Not to my knowledge," Grantaire said. "I think he has a meeting."Enjolras had had a lot of meetings, lately. Not that that bothered Grantaire. He'd said it wouldn't and it didn't. Enjolras and Grantaire had had a stable arrangement for the better part of a year, now. Well, more or less stable. There had been some less than dignified moments that Grantaire preferred not to dwell on, but overall Enjolras had shown a superhuman ability to put up with Grantaire. Truly, that such a divine being should make do with the wretched in a lover was perplexing – although perhaps it was this divinity, the same divinity which let Enjolras fight so tirelessly for the people, that let Enjolras see something of worth in Grantaire? The last would be first and the first last."Right," Joly said. "He was meeting with a printshop owner, I believe."Grantaire nodded."He's found someone willing to put Saint-Simonist drivel in his machine?" Bossuet asked, impressed."He may have found someone suitably suicidal, yes," Grantaire replied."That is exciting!" Joly exclaimed. "A round on me to celebrate!""What are we celebrating?" Prouvaire said as he returned to the table with red cheeks and an even redder lipstick mark on his forehead."I'll get the round," Grantaire announced as Joly began explaining.Yes, this was Enjolras’ newest project – a republican newspaper. That countless other newspapers had come and went over the last six months, as they struggled to find publishing options, released a few issues and were then inevitably shut down by censors, had not deterred Enjolras nor his steadfast companions in this project, Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel. Grantaire held up four fingers to the bartender once he caught his eye and the bartender nodded in acknowledgement."Briséis?" Grantaire turned around and was face to face with The Piano Queen."Look what the cat dragged in," Grantaire drawled."I thought that was you!"The Piano Queen smiled and reached out to kiss his cheeks. Grantaire followed suit.Behind The Piano Queen stood a Persian-looking man and The Piano Queen turned to him with an aside Grantaire was clearly meant to overhear:"I'd know those buttocks anywhere.""Yes, I know you've always wanted a bite," Grantaire shot back.The Piano Queen laughed."But alas! I hear you're a kept woman now?" Hah. What a funny lady this Piano Queen was. He had doubtlessly heard gossip that the once so loose Briséis had not been known to seek pleasure with anyone for quite some time. Well, not anyone but a certain lover, whom none in the community knew much about. A certain Achilles who had taken Briséis as a war prize.What a shame it wasn't what any of them thought."Will you cry if I tell you that you're misinformed, but that I still will not let you partake of my buttocks?" Grantaire asked, managing to turn his venom into banter.The Piano Queen laughed."I won't, but I'll persist in being a gossip! If you have not been turned into a kept woman, have you perhaps taken vows?""I didn't realise my carnal behaviour was of such great interest to you, my dear.""Everyone's carnal behaviour is of great interest to me," The Piano Queen said. "But I'm being rude. Briséis, this is Hamza from Constantinople."Grantaire turned his attention to The Piano Queen's companion. He was a middle-aged man with dark, sensual eyes and a well-groomed moustache. The Piano Queen explained that Hamza's profession brought him to Paris every once in a while and that every time, he and the Piano Queen would endeavour to meet up. A foreign prince for their little queen, then?"Paul has shown me some of your artwork," Hamza said in only lightly accented French. "Most impressive. I would like to commission a piece while I am here."Before Grantaire could answer, The Piano Queen broke in:"Oh and Hamza, you must show Briséis some of your delightful miniatures as well!" Grantaire had heard of the decadent wonders contained within Oriental miniatures before and indeed, he had seen some of those obscene miniatures which depicted men lying with women, but he'd never been privvy to such anti-physical treasures. Had the Fates granted him a rare blessing, that he should meet a man who could show them to him?Grantaire and Hamza started making plans and by the time Grantaire returned with wine for the table, they had decided upon a time and place to view miniatures and discuss commissioning. "I think I shall have to dedicate a poem to her," Prouvaire was telling Joly and Bossuet when Grantaire returned."I'll give you two francs if you perform it for her," Bossuet said." Joly will give you two francs if you perform it for her," Grantaire corrected."I'll have you know that I've come into some money," Bossuet said. "I have found employment.""Oh? As what, a Ganymede?"Joly snorted and Prouvaire flushed."Indeed, I have sold my flesh to an old friend of my father's, who found it most heartbreaking that this unfortunate son was spending his life as an idler, and took it upon himself to grant me honest employment."Prouvaire made a face.“You’re his project, I take it?”Bossuet nodded.“He is most engaged where it concerns the spread of civilization. Voilà! The money of a civilised man spends the same.”“To joining the petit-bourgeois, then,” Grantaire said, lifting his glass.“To civilization!” Said Bossuet and raised his.
A day later, while Grantaire was painting, a key turned in his door. He heard it open and close, then footsteps drawing nearer. A hand grabbed his shoulder, massaging it lightly. “How did it go?” Grantaire asked, not looking up from his canvas. On it, a hoplite was sodomising a helot. Or soon would be, at any rate. The composition was still rather light on details where the act itself was concerned. “We’re getting there,” said Enjolras, letting go of Grantaire and moving away. Grantaire hummed vaguely in response, his focus almost entirely on the hoplite’s shield. Was the angle right? Or did it make the shield look uneven? These were easier questions to concern oneself with than whether a republican newspaper would do any good, especially when it was bound to be closed in but a month from publication.
“The printer is interested, despite the risk," Enjolras added from Grantaire's armchair."Interest doesn't print papers," Grantaire said as he started cleaning his brush."It doesn't," Enjolras acknowledged. "When it comes to this, anything short of outright refusal is workable.”Grantaire looked over at Enjolras. A light frown decorated his brow and his lips were pursed in thought."Have you eaten?"Enjolras shook his head."Then let's go to Café Voltaire and take our supper. Then we can head to the Luxembourg Gardens – if you're still up for it?"Enjolras looked up at Grantaire, a thoughtful look on his face.“I’m not feeling terribly inclined right now, but that may just be the hunger.”“Or the paper,” Grantaire added. “Either way, you know I am not of a disposition to value plans. They require a great devotion from you, yet are themselves most fickle. It is of no concern to me whether we partake of the gardens tonight or another night.”Enjolras smiled mildly – tiredly – and rose from his seat.“We shall see after supper, no?”Grantaire nodded and went to grab his coat. He’d thought that would be it, but when Grantaire walked towards the door, Enjolras did not follow. Instead, he was staring intensely at the painting Grantaire had left behind. “What? Don’t like the colours?”Enjolras didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he asked: “How come we’ve never done that?” “What?”Enjolras gestured vaguely at the part of the painting where sodomy would, at some point in the future, be taking place. “I know you’ve enjoyed it before, I’ve gathered that much from your conversations with Joly and Lesgle.” For a long moment, Grantaire didn’t answer. How could he? There was no answer except the obvious: Enjolras was not made for past times such as that. Enjolras partook in the pleasures of friendship, Grantaire in those of the beast. There was a line, really – or there ought to be – when a beast took on the form of a man. Enjolras turned around to look at Grantaire, lifting an eyebrow at his silence. Grantaire forced a laugh.“First you’re not sure if you want a helping hand under the moonlight, now you want to sodomise me?”Enjolras frowned. Not a frown of confusion or deep thought, but one of annoyance – Grantaire had come to know Enjolras’ frowns quite well. “The painting made me wonder. It is a quite frequent theme in your libertine artwork.”Grantaire desperately grasped on to the way out of the conversation Enjolras had just provided. “Aha! But paintings are not real life – my helot there does not need make himself ready, the hoplite need not find a suitable place for such exercise. It does not occur by happenstance, but by plan – and have I not just laid out my feelings on plans, dear Enjolras?”“You speak as if we have never had the time and place for it…” Enjolras shook his head. “Very well. It was but a stray thought. Let us leave.”While Grantaire’s body left his quarters behind for the streets, his mind was busy congratulating him for leaving the conversation with such ease and if not elegance, then at least an argumentative nature that was not out of place with his usual way of communication. "The fall of the Roman Republic cannot be placed at the feet of any one man," Enjolras exclaimed, cheeks flushed with excitement. "As is often the case, it was a compounding of successive failures: of economy and greed; of military losses; of reaction." "You're wrong, Enjolras," Grantaire said as he peeled the tail of a shrimp. "The fall of the Roman Republic cannot be placed on the feet of one man, but of three: Crassus, Pompey, Caesar. Crassus for dying, Pompey for becoming consul, Caesar for invading."Enjolras shook his head lightly as Grantaire talked and reached his hand across the table to rest his hand on Grantaire's arm, stopping him from going on. A wise move, too – Grantaire could have gone on for the entire remainder of their meal."And what of the corruption of the senate? Indeed the corruption of every rich citizen of Rome? You speak only of the First Triumvirate, what about the Second? And what about Sulla, who made Rome an empire before Caesar did? I repeat myself: no single man can be made responsible. History has not only great men, but great forces and great peoples."Grantaire took a great gulp of wine while Enjolras spoke, and set about answering as soon as it was swallowed: “Great peoples! Yes, perhaps the Roman people was great, but what is ‘greatness’? Is it bravery, zeal, domination? Is it Christian piety and compassion? If the Romans were great, was it by their own merit, or through the pilfering from Greeks, Persians, even Gaulish barbarians?”“You ask pertinent questions, Grantaire, yet you mistake me,” Enjolras said. “Quite on purpose, I suspect: I did not say that the Roman people was great, but that the peoples of the world are great and that it is they who move history. The Romans were not greater than the Gauls, nor are the Gauls greater than the Moors.”Grantaire smiled mischievously. “Ah, but if no people is greater than another, how can any of them be great? You speak of the Gauls, but what of the French? Would you say they are no greater than any other people, too?”Now it was Enjolras turn to drink, although he did so with a restraint Grantaire had never shown in his life. A frown decorated his brow as he did, yet this one was not of vexation – or at least, not any vexation at Grantaire. He did not answer immediately, and when he finally did so, it seemed to pain him.“The French are great, on this account I will hear no dissent, yet I cannot with justice claim that the French people is ipso facto greater than any other people. Feuilly reminds us of the world outside France – chiefly of the greatness of Poles, but also of Romanians, Italians, Czechs. Bahorel reminds us of the greatness of Germans, Prouvaire of the greatness of Turkmen and Hindus.” Grantaire laughed. “It seems, dear Enjolras, that there is no way for you to make the French greater than any other people without violating your own principles of equality and fraternity.”“Indeed not,” Enjolras responded evenly. “Nor would I wish to make the French greater by diminishing another people – that sort of nonsense is what men have used to justify slavery and other exploitation of their fellow man. Indeed, in my list before, I neglected the Haitians, whose greatness I have a particular admiration for.”Grantaire pushed his empty plate towards the side of the table and leaned back in his chair. “I am far from disagreeing with you, Enjolras – at least on that account. But let us call for the bill before I accost you with more questions. If you are indeed done?”Enjolras nodded and Grantaire signalled the nearest waiter. Before long, they had settled their business with the establishment and found themselves on Rue de Voltaire. The air was humid, hanging thick with the heaviness of storms soon to come, but for now, the skies held them back. It was warm still, but strong gusts of wind reminded them that Paris had left summer behind for fall. “To the Luxembourg then…?”Enjolras smiled and nodded. When they started walking, he took Grantaire’s arm, as he had become in the habit of doing. Indeed, Enjolras seemed almost unconscious of the action – by contrast, Grantaire felt something rush through him each time, something far stronger than any wind.“I’m afraid I must return to the core of my question from before, if you please: If all peoples are great, how can any be great? If one people is great, does it not then follow that another must be less great?”Enjolras shook his head.“You make the same mistake as Royalists do by assuming competition where none need exist: the peoples are not in competition for greatness; one people does not become greater when another becomes less admirable. Rather, every people, every subsection of humanity, has itself something to offer. The forces of history run through them all; through us all. I believe each people has an equal distribution of greatness and wickedness, though their sins and virtues may not be the same in each.”Grantaire sent him a sidelong glance and smiled wryly. “Even the English?”Enjolras nodded solemnly and said only one word in response: “Cromwell.”Grantaire laughed. “Very well. I suppose should I ask Bahorel or Prouvaire, they would have answered me with a single name too, but they would have exclaimed: ‘Shakespeare!’”Enjolras smiled. “I suspect you are right.”“Have you seen any of his plays?”Enjolras shook his head.“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”At that, Grantaire began wildly and – he suspected – quite incoherently to explain points of interest from about half a dozen Shakespeare plays, all intermingled together in such a manner that Enjolras had no risk of learning anything of note about any one play. Enjolras seemed content enough to listen to this blabber, though, and so Grantaire continued. “One can tell that you have spent much time with Prouvaire as of late,” Enjolras said as they entered the Luxembourg Gardens. Yes, because I have spent little time with you , Grantaire though, but managed not to say. He had made a decision. He had made promises both to Enjolras and to himself – although frankly, only the former held any real value. Grantaire held his tongue on the matter, letting bile sink back into his stomach and said instead: “There is much to be learned from any poet, I confess it. And I cannot deny that Jehan has been quite helpful in procuring more respectable clientele than my usual one.”“Speaking of…” Enjolras whispered and slightly inclined his head towards the right.Grantaire followed Enjolras’ eye line and his eyes fell upon a figure walking parallel to them. It was difficult to tell much in the dark, but Enjolras would not have drawn Grantaire’s attention to him if he was merely another anti-physical soul seeking reprieve. “Police?” Grantaire whispered back. Enjolras nodded. “I suspect so – do you see the way he walks? The way he looks about himself so purposefully?”Grantaire shrugged, though Enjolras had little hope of noticing the gesture in the dark. “Could be looking for a prostitute.”
“Perhaps I am wrong,” Enjolras whispered. “But let us seek to lose him nonetheless, hm?”Grantaired hummed his agreement and the two fell silent, trying to keep track of the figure to their right without attracting his attention. They crossed to the left at the first dividing of the street and from there soon sought refuge among the bushes. Other voices could be heard in the distance, quiet moans and negotiations, their origin obscured by the wind. “Well?” Grantaire whispered out into the dark, towards the warmth of Enjolras’ body. Enjolras hand came to rest on his cheek, his fingers running through Grantaire’s beard. Then he leaned forward to kiss him. Soon, all thought of police or politics was forgotten between them, as only their restless breaths and warm bodies remained. Quickly, trousers were opened, pricks were found, and restless breaths became more restless still.The skies staved off the storms for one night more.
Among Grantaire’s many unfortunate habits was a tendency to enter the Musain backroom just as Les Amis de les ABC were about to start one of their meetings – or, just as frequently, after they had already begun. This day was something of an exception to that pattern, brought on by a cancelled wrestling lesson. Grantaire had shown up to the courtyard where the lesson was to take place and had found a cancellation notice on the gate. Fellow disgruntled students gossiped about what the cause could be for a few moments, then went on with their day and Grantaire found himself with just over an hour of excess time on his hand. He spent half of it on the walk back towards the Latin Quarter, invariably ending up in short conversations with acquaintances and arguments with salespeople. When he arrived at the Musain, there was still about half an hour of time left before the meeting started.Grantaire soon learned that he was not the only person to arrive early, for on his way up the stairs, he heard Prouvaire’s excited voice: “She is the most elegant of ladies, I am most devoted to her – my last six poems have been inspired by her person! Oh, Courfeyrac, you simply must let me convince you to go to Madame Bleu with us! I am sure you will find the place quite – Oh! There’s Capital-R!”Provuaire smiled at Grantaire as he entered, something wild in his eyes. Next to him, Courfeyrac waved in greeting.“Good day to you too, Jehan. I hear Aphrodite has found you! Or is it Eros?” “It is neither, for I have not found a mistress, but a muse!” Prouvaire declared. “Oh Grantaire, you simply must do her portrait for me. I should gladly pay double your usual price, so long as I may be able to gaze at her countenance from anywhere I might choose! Poems are not easily written at an establishment like Madame Bleu.”Grantaire laughed. “It’s still Dido, then? Take care that Mercury does not come down from Mount Olympus to warn you away from her. If you stay clear of such divine intervention, I shall gladly do her portrait for you, although it must naturally require the lady’s own assent. Do you think you shall be able to talk to her long enough to procure that? Save the double pay you would give me, and make sure you have some in reserve for her. Where a true muse is found, she must be granted gifts for her service – that is not charity, it is payment for services rendered. To inspire poems, now that is a tragic profession, only sweetened by the devotion of the poet to the muse.”“You are unfair, Grantaire, to myself and the lady both. But it is no matter; I shall engage Madame Dido next I have the chance and if she gives her agreement, I shall pay you both as you deserve to be paid. You need not worry for either of our fates, only the art I am asking of you, should I be able to arrange for its creation.”“You have been to Madame Bleu as well, then, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac, whose presence Grantaire had almost forgotten, asked. “Prouvaire seems most impressed. Does the place gain the same verdict from you? You must be of discerning taste, with how well you know the establishments of Paris.”“I am no more of good taste where cafés and wine-shops are concerned than a whore is of good taste where men are concerned. A volume of knowledge does not imply the ability to judge it all with wisdom.” Courfeyrac laughed, but it sounded rather forced. In truth, Grantaire was feeling perturbed that Prouvaire had brought up Madame Bleu with Courfeyrac – Madame Bleu may not be an anti-physical establishment as such, but to have his nightlife merged so completely with his day life disturbed Grantaire nonetheless. The arrival of Enjolras and Combeferre saved Grantaire from having to elaborate further. Both of them were beaming as they entered the room, and neither could wait till the beginning of the meeting to reveal the reason. “The printer agreed!” Combeferre exclaimed. “I just heard from him this morning,” Enjolras added and laid down a pile of papers on the table. “These are my notes and drafts of articles. Combeferre spoke to Joly at the medical school – he and Bossuet have been working on a few articles as well.”Courfeyrac stood up. “I have something too. If I hurry, I can go get it before the others get here.”Enjolras nodded and Courfeyrac ran off – although not before giving both of his compatriots a hug on the way out. “Long live the press!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The backroom of the Café Musain had seen itself transformed into a workshop of sorts. There was none of the modern machinery to indicate such industry, but the industriousness of Les Amis des l'ABC was enough to fool a casual observer. Stacks of paper, books, pamphlets and newspapers lay upon every available surface. Open inkwells sat precarious close to these piles, right in reach of pens being swung like swords. Combeferre alone was in possession of a fountain pen, and as he wrote, he also regaled his fellows with a praise of its qualities."Soon, my friends, the dip pen shall be entirely an instrument of the past! No longer shall we risk forgetting our inkwells as Courfeyrac or spilling them as Bossuet, for they shall be entirely obsolete!”“But my God!” Cried Bossuet. “How will we ever manage to escape legal papers, if not by rendering them unreadable? Truly this invention you praise so shall cost us much, Combeferre!” While the others worked, Grantaire lay on top of a table and hummed the tune of an operetta he had recently seen. The hectic activity around him affected him not at all, for it was all in very good accordance with the workings of his own mind."You're taking up a lot of space, Grantaire," Enjolras commented as he pushed one pile out of the way in favour of another."Is that a comment on the size of my corpus, dear Enjolras?" Grantaire asked cheerily. "Would you prefer me in a corset?""I would prefer to have room for all the writings I wish to reference."Grantaire didn't look up, but he could hear the eye roll in Enjolras' voice and he grinned as he went on:"You can just pile them on top of me, can you not? Soon you pundits will have buried me beneath your library and will have to extracrate me as one does an ancient artefact of great value. What a disappointment getting to the bottom shall be!"Enjolras was saved from answering by a laughing Courfeyrac: “Grantaire, if you’re quite done teasing Enjolras, might you acquire some refreshments for us?”"Teasing!" Grantaire exclaimed, mock offended. "You would impugn my honour so?"Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, a smile still on his lips. “Just do it, fool.” Sensing that the end of humour to be derived from these antics were drawing near, Grantaire finally slipped off the table. The space where he had lain was instantly filled by the ever increasing piles.“I shall play the barmaid, then,” Grantaire declared to a room of men too concentrated on their work to pay him much mind. He spotted Louison standing at the top of the stairs, staring out over the mess the group had made of the backroom.“Louison!” Grantaire exclaimed and she nearly jumped in surprise. “Will you not teach me, Louison?”“What do you mean, Monsieur?” “To be a barmaid, as my companions have called upon me to be.”Luison stared at him as if he were a wandering madman.“Don’t mind him, Louison, please,” Courfeyrac said, rising from his seat. “He’s simply teasing you and you must pay it no mind. It is the way with those who tease, is it not? That if you do not give them attention, they shall pass you by.”Courfeyrac was all charm and Luison was by no means immune. “That is perhaps true, Monsieur Courfeyrac,” she allowed. “But I must say, I do not believe Madame would approve of what you have done with this place!” “We shall put it all in order again, dear girl, don’t you worry,” Courfeyrac told her. “Here, let me guide you to all the spots our dirty dishes have hidden themselves.”Grantaire smiled wryly at the display as Courfeyrac played the perfect gentleman to Louison’s flustered maiden. Then he turned around and started the trek down towards the main bar.
It did not take many days for the novelty of bustling activity and flying papers in the Musain backroom to wear off. Grantaire had found it exciting, endearing, pleasant enough to be around at first – now it was loud and irritating, and a reminder of things to come. The anger at Polignac increased with every day that passed and a violent response seemed increasingly likely. Not just a tumult, they had had plenty of those already, but something bigger – a tumult metamorphosed into an uprising, a revolt – it might even make it to a revolution. Such was the talk in the backroom, as they wrote and arranged articles for publication. A dizzy, joyous anticipation filled the air and it made Grantaire sick to his stomach. If this whole newspaper business didn’t get them all thrown in jail, they should surely all get themselves killed through their efforts against Polignac. Perhaps it was in Grantaire’s best interest to see the paper a success, then? If they were locked away, it would be harder for them to martyr themselves. Their imprisonment was preferable to their deaths. And yet, what could Grantaire do? He could no more betray his brethren than he could dissuade them from their path. They were who they were and he loved them for it and despaired for them because of it. There was nothing to do but walk to his doom, as Louis XVI had walked to the guillotine. Kings and emperors would come and go, a convention of a decade might be seen one day, but for all of that, the poor would starve, leadership be corrupt, persecution commonplace and the only thing left changed would be the deaths of those who made each new dictator ascend his throne. A name for the paper had yet to be decided upon and throughout the day, various suggestions were shouted out to the room and met with insatiable debate. Being too occupied with dark thoughts and green absinthe, Grantaire took no notice of the debate until he heard Prouvaire’s suggestion:“How about À la Volonté du Peuple?” "Indeed, vox populi, vox Dei!" Grantaire exclaimed. "But what of those accursed by God?"Prouvaire frowned and shot Grantaire a look somewhere between annoyance and confusion. “None can say truthfully who is accursed by God, if anyone” Joly interjected. “Any man who tries is a fool at best, a tyrant at worst.”“For my part,” Bahorel said. “I should think it a great compliment to be accursed by that heavenly tyrant, whom the pope and his bishops credit with all their inventions.”“You mistake God, I think,” Combeferre said. “When you presume he has the qualities men of power have ascribed to him.”Courfeyrac cleared his throat and at that, the religious discussion was stopped before it could begin in earnest. “It’s too poetic a title, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said. “Too long, as well.”The rest concurred with Courfeyrac and with only a token resistance from Prouvaire, his suggestion was dismissed.“Jehan was not the first, I think, to mention the people,” Bossuet said after a while. “In fact, we may well be overrun with peoples, if each of our evocations of them should bear fruit.”“Perhaps it should be Le Moniteur du Peuple, then?” Joly suggested, a glint in his eye. Many laughed, but Bahorel loudest of all.“Yes, a good police spy name!” “Perhaps simply Le Journal du Peuple?” Enjolras suggested, head still buried in his papers. “The people, the people!” Grantaire exclaimed, spilling absinthe everywhere as he gesticulated with his glass. “I do not understand your obsession with the word, nor the concept! The people is no more good and just than the pope, who you just dismissed, and the pope no more than Bonaparte, who was a thief, and Bonaparte no more than the Bourbons, who sucked France dry!” “Take care of the absinthe, Grantaire,” Enjolras simply said once Grantaire fell silent. His voice was calm and even, betraying no reprimand or even base irritation. What stung most, however, was that he still did not deign to lift his head from his papers. “‘The people’ is an idea,” Combeferre said. “And our paper shall speak to the same ideas as that of ‘the people.’”Grantaire scoffed, but found himself without words. A discomforting state for an incessant speaker such as he. All eyes were on him, save one pair. Finally, Grantaire just gesticulated clumsily – drunkenly. “What do I care,” he said, “It’s your funeral.”
“Left! Go for his left!”Shouts filled the air along with the stench of sweat. The virility of a boxing match required such an air, loud, overwhelming, ill-smelling. Most of the shouts mixed together in a synthesis of noise, yet one shout made it past the rest. “Left! His left is open!”That shout was not meant for Grantaire, but it was useful to him nonetheless. He adjusted his stance, defending the very left he had apparently been neglecting, and sounds of disappointment went through the crowd. Due to some foul words that had preceded the match, Grantaire was hardly the fighter with the most support among their little audience.A fist crashed into Grantaire’s jaw.Grantaire was almost thrown backwards, but the low stance fencing had taught him wasn’t for nothing. Didn’t mean his jaw didn’t hurt like a motherfucker. Grantaire spat out blood, then went on the offencive, aiming for his opponents left cheek but missing when the man moved out of reach.Grantaire tried time after time to hit his opponent, from any and every angle, but kept missing, until finally…His fist made contact.Grantaire was too far gone to notice with what.He just hit.And hit.And hit. And he forgot the boxing ring, the men around it and all their noise, even his opponent… If his friends were all going to die, Grantaire supposed he would as well. What world could possibly exist where he lived yet they did not?Grantaire was living on borrowed time at any rate. Time won for him by Joly and Bossuet.And Enjolras… Enjolras might not wish to look upon him, but he would always wish to look upon Enjolras. “Stop! Stop it, you’ve won, you’ve won!”Slowly, Grantaire came to. His opponent had fallen to the ground, bloody. Grantaire went perfectly still. “Didn’t you hear me?” the boxing master demanded. “This may be a free match, but that’s no reason to go overboard. You’re not some ruffian who doesn’t know any better!”Normally, Grantaire would beg to differ, but he felt too numb to say anything at all. The boxing master made an irritated sound, then waved his hand dismissively.“Go clean up.”Grantaire left the ring. Out of habit, he made a motion to remove his training gloves, but found blood and bare hands instead. Right. It had not been a training match. Instead of cleaning his hands, Grantaire merely grabbed the waistcoat and tailcoat he had discarded for the match and promptly left.Perhaps he would go to a different boxing club next time. If there was going to be a next time.Once Grantaire had made it a few streets away from the boxing club’s rooms, his breathing became easier.He hadn’t realised it’d been strained, but he felt the relief quite keenly. With the return of breath came also the return of pain. His knuckles were throbbing something awful.It was cold out as well, he noticed. Sweat was still pouring off him, though, so Grantaire continued his trek home with half his clothes in his arms, delicate sensibilities be damned. Grantaire may have won that boxing match, but he had lost a far more important match in recent weeks. He had lost to Patria again, after holding her off for months on end. Not valiantly, not honestly – as a knave, he had held her off. Yet for all his villainy, here she was again. Perhaps good was meant to prevail over evil after all? Patria was a busy lady and could be held off when she was otherwise occupied, but she would always return to reclaim what was hers one day. Grantaire had known this. He had promised Enjolras, on more than one occasion, that he understood this. In truth, he did understand it. He understood the nature of this world he had been spat out upon. He and Enjolras were not cut from the same cloth. Enjolras was heavenly, he must concern himself with heavenly matters. When he fought, it was only to achieve a goal. While Grantaire…Grantaire looked down at his bloody knuckles once more. He opened and closed his hands a few times, wincing in the process. He’d have to clean this when he got home.Grantaire understood very well that heavenly Enjolras would not concern himself with earthly matters forever, but he had been lying every time he'd implied that this meant he'd made his peace with it.Grantaire never made peace with anything if he could help it.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
As Grantaire entered Hamza’s rooms, he was struck by the fact that they were much grander than he had expected them to be. This Ottoman suitor of The Piano Queen’s must be an important delegate indeed; he was being housed at a great mansion, wherein he had been granted a large salon to receive guests, as well as been provided with a bedchamber. This unnerved Grantaire somewhat, yet he could not help but feel impressed by the gold-plated furniture, the ornate carpets and tapestries and the great divan Hamza was sitting on as Grantaire was brought in.
“I was beginning to fear I had mistaken the address,” Grantaire told Hamza after they’d greeted one another.
Hamza laughed and gestured for Grantaire to sit down beside him.
“I can understand why – I do not expect I appear so grandiose at cafés that this is where one would imagine me,” Hamza said. “Don’t be frightened, though, all of this is not to accommodate me, but to impress those I serve.”
Before Grantaire could answer, the servant who had brought him in returned with tea for both of them.
“That said,” Hamza continued. “I cannot say that I dislike it.”
“You have no reason to,” Grantaire responded. “Not unless you were a prince at home.”
“And yet, with less luxury would come less scrutiny, and more time to spend as one wished. Paul might certainly prefer it, were I simply given money for a hotel by my employers.”
Grantaire took in all the extravagance around him once more.
“And who are your employers, exactly?”
“Merchants,” Hamza said, pausing to blow on his tea. “Exporters of textiles, along with other luxuries of my homeland.”
“Textiles?”
Hamza looked Grantaire up and down.
“Indeed. ‘Grantaire’ – it is not a usual name, is it?”
“I’m often told it’s unusual,” Grantaire confirmed, a feeling of dread descending upon him.
Hamza smiled kindly, as if they were merely discussing the quality of the tea they were drinking.
“I believe I may have met your father once,” he said. “An amiable man.”
Grantaire’s heart started hammering away in his chest.
“When he wants to be,” Grantaire managed to respond.
“No, but don’t look so alarmed!” Hamza exclaimed at Grantaire’s expression. “I have no ill intentions towards you, I assure you!”
“My father is a textile producer,” Grantaire responded as evenly as he could manage. “What cause did you have to speak with him? Surely he’s a rival to your employers?”
Hamza laughed.
“A rival? Pardon me, I am sure your father’s production is quite impressive, but I don’t think he seeks the same clientele with his textiles as my clients do with theirs. Their textiles are a luxury good while your father’s are… oh, what’s the word…”
“Common?”
“Essentials! That was the word I was thinking of. At any rate, your father wanted insight into our production process and techniques. I think he hoped to find some way to do what is done in Constantinople, but more cheaply. I know little of such things, however, and could not help him much. Our meeting was quite short.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“I have two reasons, Adrien Grantaire,” Hamza said with a teasing look in his eyes. “First, I wished to understand why an heir to such a textile production is spending his time creating pornography for a living and second, I wished to tell you a secret about your father.”
Grantaire snorted.
“I was almost a bastard because my father bedded my mother before they were married and he maintains a mistress, as all such men do. What sordid secrets can the old bastard have that I have not already heard whispered alongside those ones?”
Hamza grinned.
“Not an amorous one. But first, you must answer my question.”
Grantaire frowned.
“The one about why I draw horrid little perversities and paint erotic indecencies that make a mockery of neo-classicism, when I have such a grand bourgeois inheritance?”
Hamza inclined his head.
“Those descriptors are yours, not mine, but yes.”
Grantaire looked Hamza over, but nothing in his serene expression revealed his intent.
"My father and I don't see eye to eye on… anything," Grantaire said. "He despairs at a libertine son and I at a practical father. My father's production shall be my brother's one day, not mine."
Hamza sipped his tea.
"Has he disinherited you?" he asked.
Grantaire made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
"Not yet."
In truth, Grantaire doubted that he ever would – seeing Grantaire inherit anything would pain his father, but he would not be alive to see it. If he were to disinherit Grantaire, however, he would have to witness all the gossip that would engender. Grantaire's father was a proud man, and proud men would do everything to hide a failure; disinheriting Grantaire would be advertising it. Therein lay Grantaire’s protection.
Not that it mattered. The miserable fool would grow old enough to outlive Grantaire out of sheer determination to have things his way. His father may not have disinherited Grantaire, but Grantaire was unlikely to see a sous more from him all the same.
“Then things are not as bad as all that,” Hamza said. “You are still young. Father and son may fight when the latter is young, but still find one another when youth is tempered with maturity and fatherhood with old age.”
Grantaire made a face.
“You’ve met my father. Does he impress you as the sort of man who’ll grow softer with age? I should think he would only grow more bitter.”
Hamza smiled, then made a face as if he was trying to suppress said smile.
“I don’t know the man well enough to say, but there’s no reason to, ah… get ahead of ourselves, is there? Time may not heal
all
wounds, but it does do wonders for most of them.”
Grantaire sipped his tea to avoid saying something impertinent.
“No matter, you have answered my question and I must keep my side of the bargain. You see, I met your father about a year ago, at the home of a Parisian textile importer. This importer had invited other men from his trade to meet and discuss. Many men spoke to me that night, but your father managed to catch me in a quiet moment and we spoke of Ottoman manufacturing, as I have already relayed to you. It didn’t take long before another man appeared next to your father and dragged him away, his face decorated with the most serious folds. My curiosity was awakened by this scene, so I snuck close enough to hear the subject of their conversation. What I learned from this made me glad that I had not promised your father any future meeting, nor been receptive to his advances in such a way that could have given him any strong hope of attaining such a meeting. You see, your father appears to be cheating his business partner, a Monsieur Martin, out of his rightful share of the profits.”
Grantaire found himself gaping. He could not quite say what had him genuinely shocked – he could easily believe such a thing of his father, whom he had never held to be of strong moral character, but the daring of such a scheme was perhaps be beyond what he had imagined his father capable of. Or perhaps that wasn’t it, perhaps it was merely that he had not expected Hamza to possess any information about his father that Grantaire had not already known or suspected? Or perhaps it was thinking of Monsieur Martin, who had so often dined with Grantaire’s family and who had been, for some periods of time, the most frequent guest in their home. Could he really be such a form of cuckold?
“What did you hear said that you can be so certain?” Grantaire asked once he had gathered his thoughts enough to speak.
“From what I understand, the man who dragged your father away was his accountant, who was in on the scheme. He said to your father: ‘Monsieur Grantaire, I have promised Monsieur Martin that I shall send him the newest accounts as soon as I am able. I fear he may suspect something and would like some time to conceal what we have done before sending the papers to Monsieur Martin. Perhaps Monsieur Grantaire can tell Monsieur Martin that I am taken ill? Or would Monsieur Grantaire prefer a different approach?’ to which your father responded: ‘This is troublesome news best spoken of elsewhere. Let us leave early tonight, you can come to my rooms and we can discuss this matter by ourselves.’ And indeed, your father and his accountant did leave early that night and did not appear at the next event two days after. Upon inquiry, I was told Monsieur Grantaire had returned to the south due to some urgent matter with his spinnery.”
“You are most well informed,” Grantaire said.
“Being well-informed is half of my profession,” Hamza replied. “Although in this case, the information in question was of little use to me, save it serving as a fitting present for you.”
“Is that why you give this gift so freely? Because it is of no value to you?”
“That is part of it, yes – the other part is as a favour to Paul. He is more fond of you than you realise, I think.”
Grantaire lifted an eyebrow at that. The Piano Queen was a friend, sure, but a dear one? What was Paul up to?
“But you came to look at my miniatures, not to hear me ramble on. If you’d follow me…”
Hamza rose from the divan and walked towards a desk at the far side of the room. Once there, he opened a drawer, removed a satchel and from within said satchel withdrew an envelope and a small book.
Grantaire had yet to follow, so Hamza gestured for him to come over. Grantaire rose.
“This book here is very precious to me,” Hamza said, slender fingers softly caressing the cover.
Grantaire drew nearer and saw that the cover contained no clues as to the contents of the volume. A golden symmetrical design adorned the cover while the spine contained a number of Arabic characters.
“It’s a full story,” Hamza said as he opened the book and flipped through the first couple of pages. “It involves two young men in Constantinople being brought into Europe as slaves and falling in love with their masters.”
Grantaire was about to make a disparaging comment, but fell silent when Hamza stopped on a page showing several men engaged in an orgy of the flesh.
“Where does this fit into that story?”
Hamza turned the book somewhat and read aloud a few lines of Arabic. There was a rhythm to his words that made Grantaire think the writing was in verse, though he understood nothing of it.
“They’re celebrating with their masters and some of the masters’ friends,” Hamza explained, his accent more prominent as he made the switch back into French.
“
Celebrating
,” Grantaire repeated. “I’d like to celebrate like that.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Hamza laughed.
Hamza proceeded to show Grantaire each of the erotic miniatures contained within the volume, explaining bits of pieces of the story as he went along – even relaying the poetic value of certain passages with such an enthusiasm that Grantaire wished Prouvaire had been here to hear it.
“Of course the whole story ends with Sir John and Janno converting to Islam,” Hamza explained. “A pious moral for a tale of love. I suppose a beautiful beloved isn’t the worst reason to convert.”
Grantaire turned his eyes from the book to Hamza.
“A beloved? Like the Ancient Greeks?”
Hamza frowned in confusion, then understanding washed over his face.
“Yes, more or less,” he said. “I’m sorry, I tend to forget that they are not a part of your society here in France. Not in the way they are at home, at least.”
Grantaire stared at Hamza.
“I didn’t realise the concept still existed in Constantinople.”
“Indeed, indeed. Tahir and Tayyib are young and beautiful. Even before they’re slaves, they’re not nobles, you know? They’re beardless sons of artisans and merchants, while their masters are bearded nobles.”
Grantaire shook his head.
“I hadn’t realised the implications of all that.”
Hamza laughed.
“And I hadn’t realised it wouldn’t be obvious.”
A society that still had lovers and beloveds... How extraordinary. Grantaire had heard the occasional tale about Christian boys being enslaved and raped in Constantinople, but he had never taken it as anything but religious polemics…
“Is The Piano – excuse me, Paul your beloved, then?”
Hamza laughed.
“I don’t know about that… he’s not as young as he wishes he were, is he? And he has a moustache.”
Grantaire looked Hamza up and down. He couldn’t tell if he was older or younger than The Piano Queen, but he had a full beard in any case.
“I don’t suppose you’re his beloved, either?”
Hamza shook his head, still amused.
“It is not as cut in stone as all that… Besides, this is Paris! The rules don’t apply here.”
Grantaire smiled wryly. He supposed there was some truth in that – this dreadful, wonderful, chaotic city.
“But the police enjoy chasing sodomites here. You don’t make it sound as if that is the case in Constantinople.”
Hamza smiled sadly, his eyes still on the manuscript.
“Perhaps it is more correct to say, then, that a man away from home may do as he pleases in Paris. Those who would frown on my actions at home do not care what I do among Christians.”
“But they would frown upon it if it were at home?”
Hamza shrugged.
“Some would – some always do. Most only would if Paul was a Muslim, I think. The lover and beloved don’t always differ very much in age; they would substitute the lack of age difference with the difference in religion.”
Grantaire nodded slowly. That did, he supposed, line up with what he knew of Classical pederasty.
“Let me show you my prints,” Hamza said and moved to open the envelope he’d fetched when he brought out the book.
Thoughts whirled around Grantaire's head in the aftermath of his visit with Hamza. Thoughts about his father and his betrayal of the one man Grantaire had assumed him to be loyal to, thoughts about lovers and beloveds, thoughts about The Piano Queen and thoughts about the illustration Hamza had commissioned him to create.
The first was the easiest concern to dismiss. Who cared if Grantaire's father was a villain? Grantaire had never mistaken him for noble. Besides, what was Grantaire to do with this knowledge? Write to Monsieur Martin and involve himself in the whole mess? No thanks! No, the matter was better left forgotten till it might one day be of some use…
The rest of it was harder to work through. Lovers and beloveds were still extant creatures in Constantinople? Yet the relationship The Piano Queen and Hamza had was not one of lover and beloved, of man and youth? They were not quite the Achilles and Patroclus either, not the battlefield lovers of Thebes… What were they? Did Hamza have a lover in every port and The Piano Queen was merely one among many? Or were they like a Joly and Bossuet, only split between the Occident and the Orient?
It had been early afternoon when Grantaire went to see Hamza and as he left the mansions of Le Marais behind and walked over the river down to the Latin Quarter, late afternoon made way for evening.
Grantaire turned down the familiar road to the Café Musain, halfway by habit, halfway in the hope that he’d find Enjolras there. Grantaire couldn’t say exactly how the desire to see Enjolras had materialised, but underlying the maelstrom of thoughts he’d been dealing with was a vague sense that he ought to speak to him.
There was no Enjolras in the main room of the Musain, but as Grantaire made his way to the backroom, he heard a light, familiar snore.
There he was, the great light leading the way towards the Republic, the siren singing songs of Patria, the heavenly Enjolras – asleep surrounded by open books and frantic notes.
Grantaire made his way over to the sleeping marble and gently put one of his claws on Enjolras’ shoulder.
Enjolras jumped up from his chair.
“What?!” he exclaimed, looking wildly around as if expecting an attacker.
“I’m not that scary, am I?” Grantaire said.
Enjolras blinked a few times, recognised Grantaire and relaxed.
“Sorry, I had a bad dream,” he said and pulled a hand through his blond curls, removing them from his face. “What are you doing here?”
Grantaire looked down at the notes Enjolras had been surrounded by. Bread prices and unemployment rates. Research for an article?
“I mean to eat supper here,” he said, then looked up at the dishevelled Enjolras. “And I prefer eating in the company of friends.”
Enjolras looked at his research, then nodded and started tidying.
“I could eat.”
Enjolras didn’t speak much while they ate. Grantaire tried a few different tactics to get him to talk – showing interest in the paper, ridiculing Polignac, ridiculing
Rosseau
– but none was met by more than a short response. Enjolras seemed lost in thought more than he seemed displeased, but Grantaire suspected both were contributing factors to Enjolras’ silence.
Once they’d finished eating and paying for the meal, Enjolras suddenly spoke up. Grantaire had expected to go drinking on his own – or rather, go find drinking companions for the night in such establishments that encouraged fleeting friendship – but instead, Enjolras asked him to return to the backroom of the Musain with him.
“I wish to speak with you about something.”
“You wish to speak with me?” Grantaire said wryly. “You’ve barely said a word to me since I arrived.”
Enjolras hummed softly and turned his gaze away from Grantaire.
“Come with me if you wish to hear me speak, then.”
Enjolras started making his way to the backroom, leaving Grantaire to roll his eyes but follow obediently. Once they arrived at the backroom, Enjolras took his time turning on an oil lamp. He then turned around to look at Grantaire. Or rather stare. Enjolras stared at him for a good 20 seconds before he spoke:
“I want you to listen to me, Grantaire.”
Enjolras’ voice was intense. It was the type of voice usually only heard from him when he was rallying for republicanism. To hear it divorced from that context felt… odd. Wrong, even.
“Alright…”
“
Really
listen,” Enjolras insisted. “Because I am of the belief that while you tend to listen to me when I speak, you often fail to understand what I’m telling you.”
“I am of an inferior intellect, I thought that a well-known matter,” Grantaire responded without forethought.
Enjolras rolled his eyes.
“It’s not a question of intellect and you know that very well. Must you always make this so very difficult?”
“It’s a talent, truly.”
Enjolras let out a frustrated sigh.
“Just listen, for once. I have come to realise something about the two of us, Grantaire. About why things ended the way they did last year. About why they stayed as strange as ever, once we started once more. I have observed our interactions this fall and come to a conclusion: You do not trust me.”
Grantaire opened his mouth to protest, but Enjolras cut him off.
“I know what you’re about to say. Of course you trust me. How could you not, when we are both members of an illegal group? When you have taken me to illegal places? When you have lain with me? All of this is true, I grant you. You trust me politically, I think, however reticent you are to think yourself a political being. Yet you do not trust my intent, my friendship, my affection. You believe that when I speak with you, when I eat with you, when I lay with you, it’s all out of misplaced kindness. You believe I do all these things with scorn, that I am a noble and you the beggar I have taken condescending pity upon. I cannot say why you believe such a thing, nor why you would be so keen upon me if you believed me capable of acting so despicably, but I can come to no other conclusion based on what I have observed. Am I wrong to say any of this?”
“You’re wrong to say it,” Grantaire finally answered. “But not wrong.”
Enjolras let out a deep breath and sat down on the nearest chair.
“Good. I’m glad we agree so far. It can cause a certain madness in a man, not being sure if he’s seeing things clearly.”
“I know what you mean…”
“I’m sure you do,” Enjolras said with a small smile, an outstretched hand in the form of a facial expression.
Grantaire sat down as well.
“It’s not that I believe you despicable, Enjolras, it’s that I don’t understand what other reason you could have to associate with me, if it were not merely a kindness on your part.”
Enjolras smiled sadly, then stretched out his hand to lay it on top of Grantaire’s.
“Do you truly know yourself as poorly as that?” Enjolras said with a delicate softness, as if not wishing to upset a frightened animal. “Do you really think you would be one of us, that we would invite you to know all our secrets, if we did not see something of value in you – if
I
did not?”
“I’d never looked at it from that angle,” Grantaire admitted.
Enjolras looked down at their hands.
“I enjoy your company, Grantaire. You make me laugh. At least when you’re not being too difficult.” Eniolras smiled wryly. “Maybe sometimes even when you are.”
Grantaire laughed, but only quietly. He no more wished to disturb the tenderness between them just now than Enjolras had wished to upset him.
“You’d have to,” Grantaire said. “I’m difficult more often than not, I do know that.”
All Enjolras said in response was:
“Sometimes knowing helps…”
They were both quiet for a while, the only point of contact between them Enjolras’ hand on top of Grantaire’s. After a while, Grantaire turned around his hand and intertwined his fingers with Enjolras’. It felt oddly daring for such an innocent act.
“I spoke with an Ottoman merchant today,” Grantaire finally said.
Confusion filled Enjolras’ features.
“He’s an infâme of a sort,” Grantaire continued. “The lover of The Piano Queen when he’s in Paris.”
Enjolras merely hummed in answer. Behind him, the oil lamp was flickering, battling against its inevitable death.
“He told me something. That they still have erastes and eromenos in Constantinople. Modern lovers and beloveds…”
Enjolras bit his lip in thought but did not speak.
“It made me think. Well, a lot of what he told me made me think. I’m suppose to draw an erotic Parisian scene for him, as well. It needs to be done and delivered before the end of the week. He’s leaving then. In any case… when I realised about lovers and beloveds, I asked about him and The Piano Queen. But he told me – he, who is of a culture that practises something akin to classic pederasty – he told me that neither he nor The Piano Queen really belong to either role. And it made me realise…”
“Yes?” Enjolras asked, an oddly hopeful note in his voice.
Grantaire took a deep breath.
“It made me realise that I have perhaps been expecting to eventually understand myself through that scheme. To understand our friendship through that scheme. I don’t know why, I don’t know how I expected… But I think I have been trying to unite elements that ought not – cannot – be united…”
When Grantaire hesitated, Enjolras squeezed his hand.
“It’s a strange thing, to realise how little sense one’s thinking makes,” Grantaire said with a sigh. “I suppose I have been afraid of doing… of being an erastes who doesn’t teach or an eromenos who doesn’t learn, of penetrating what ought not be penetrated or letting you penetrate what ought not be penetrated…”
Enjolras frowned in confusion.
“You have had such sex before, have you not?”
Grantaire was thankful for how dark the room had become. He turned his gaze to the struggling oil lamp. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But never with anyone who mattered.”
Enjolras leaned in and kissed Grantaire’s temple.
“I think liberty means there’s no wrong way to copulate,” Enjolras said softly. “And equality that there’s no wrong role to take in it.”
“And fraternity that men ought to copulate with one another,” Grantaire quipped
Enjolras laughed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There was usually something comforting to the familiar, yet the familiar could also be suffocating. And not just because the familiar could refer to literal family, though that mapped out its meaning quite well. No, the beloved voice of a friend could become a great torment, fit to irritate and horrify rather than inspire love and care. The familiar could become so suffocating that it could make you forget why you even loved someone in the first place.Grantaire was not quite at that point yet, but he did have second thoughts about his choices. When he’d agreed to take breakfast with Joly, Bossuet and Courfeyrac, he had not realised it would be yet another meal weighted down by a conversation about Polignac and the king. He should have realised – whether it was optimism or stupidity that had blinded him, he could not say, but blind he had been. Polignac had circumvented the will of the deputies by bidding the king decide on all but the budget entirely by his royal self. How dreadful that Grantaire knew as much! But his friends had spoken of little else for weeks. “Polignac has some nerve after all,” Joly said over his newspaper, his buttered bread entirely forgotten. “I mean, even he must see that if he loses the support of the people entirely…”Courfeyrac had not forgotten his breakfast, but at Joly’s words, he hurriedly chewed his food and started speaking a little before he’d finished doing so.“He’s a duke, he couldn’t care less about the people. His mother was Marie Atoinette’s favourite, for Christ’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Charles X has never respected the Charter and he and Polignac will do their best to see even that pitiful concession destroyed.”“Then you two will have something in common,” Bossuet quipped. “Indeed, I cannot fault him for loathing the Charter. We are of one mind on that.”“But listen here,” Joly said, waving his newspaper demonstrably, “the names of the deputies who are organising against Polignac…”“Bah!” Grantaire exclaimed before Joly could start listing names. “Have some compassion for my poor head, won’t you, gentlemen? To be assaulted by crapula and Polignac at once, now that is simply too much to bear!”Courfeyrac and Joly shared a look.“Perhaps a cognac would lighten talk of Polignac, hmm?” Bossuet suggested. “It would lighten the crapula, at any rate,” Joly added far too cheerfully as he folded the newspaper and laid it down on the table. “Speaking of newspapers, how many issues have our friend managed?” Bossuet asked. “We’re on our third issue,” Courfeyrac said with a considerable amount of pride.They were on their third issue, that much was true, but – as Grantaire learned later in the day – they were on their fourth printer. The first had printed one issue then bowed out. The second had agreed, but been convinced by his son that it was too great a risk to take. The third had printed the second issue, but cut all ties with Les Amis des l’ABC after a visit from the police. The fourth one, who had printed their third issue, was beginning to get cold feet. It was at the Musain backroom that Grantaire learned this, as Les Amis des l’ABC joined together there once again. There was nothing unusual about that, of course, but the restless energy of breakfast was, if anything, more pronounced at this afternoon meeting. Unemployment, censorship, an impending royal coup… it made the air electric, in a way that invigorated radicals and put Grantaire to restless sleep. As the discussions got underway, Grantaire did not quite fall asleep, but he kept his mind far from the present by other means. He occupied himself not with listening, but with thoughts of art. Jehan had kept his word and commissioned a portrait of Madame Dido from Grantaire. He had met with Jehan and his muse some days ago and sketched out the portrait, but he would do the actual painting from his home. It was odd, really – through simple portraits and undignified erotica, Grantaire had somehow found himself earning an adequate income. He’d needed neither father nor atelier, only an utter lack of respect for himself. When Grantaire’s attention drifted back to the present, his friends were concluding their discussion of their ill-advised paper. “I’ll go talk to him,” Enjolras said. “Again,” Combferre added, a tad sardonically. “A more pressing matter concerns Polignac, Charles and the charter,” Courfeyrac said. “Can you not feel it in your blood, my brothers? Dear Charles is determined to ignore the charter he so reluctantly granted, and so revolution draws nearer!” Grantaire looked up at Courfeyrac and found an odd, excited grimace distorting his features. He knew far too well what Courfeyrac referred to – the populace was too upset to render ignorance a viable defence. The streets were upset at hunger and the increasing feeling Charles X meant to disband parliament altogether, while the bourgeoisie chafed at press censorship and The National Guard being disbanded over some slight no-one quite understood.“Damn right, I feel it,” Feuilly said and a chorus of agreement followed. It was especially the other workmen in the crowd who let their agreement be known; there had been more and more workers at the Les Amis des l’ABC meetings as of late. Unemployment emptied bellies, but filled insurgent backrooms. Enjolras spoke once the gathered voices died down:“Bahorel and I took stock of our caches yesterday. We’re good on weapons, but could be better on ammunition.”“What concerns me is when we ought to fetch it,” Courfeyrac said. “We must gather our ressource in time if they are to be of use, yet if we act too soon, we may just incriminate ourselves.”Enjolras nodded once more and spoke:“Combeferre and I have a few things in our rooms and those will be easy to fetch. I suggest we each make sure to have something in our quarters – as much as we can reasonably transport without attracting unwanted attention.”The sound of scattered agreement swept through the room.“I’ll make due with a pistol,” said Feuilly and turned to his fellow workers. “If the police is likely to think you a brigand on sight, it may be better to stick to those weapons that can be carried covertly.”“You underestimate me, Feuilly,” responded a tall worker. “I once walked from the end of Rue La Fayette to Rue Jean-Jacques-Rousseau with three carbines in my coat.”“Three carbines in your coat?” scoffed a workwoman, one of the few women who’d made it past Enjolras’ recommendations. “I can transport five muskets in my skirts. You don’t impress me, Emile.”Feuilly laughed and held up his hands in defeat. “You must all use your best judgement, of course.”From there the conversation moved into increasingly more detailed discussions of logistics, Grantaire’s mind wandered away from the Musain and to the Tuileries Palace. So Charles X had learned nothing from his forebears? Perhaps it was too much to expect of a monarch that he learn. Still, Grantaire was impressed with his king – to inspire so much upset in so few years required a certain je ne sais quoi . The fabled revolution that all his friends had waited for ever since Grantaire first met them… it seemed it would soon be here. As that thought fully took hold of him, Grantaire felt as if a hand had punched its way through his chest and grabbed ahold of his heart. What would become of them all? “Why did you want to see me, anyway?” Floreal asked as she fanned away a curious bee from her face. “Must I need a reason to take a walk in the park with a beautiful lady and dear friend?” “Yes.”Grantaire sighed.They were in the Luxembourg Garden, laying in the grass as the afternoon sun made its way overhead and passing bourgeois sent them dirty looks from the trail. Grantaire had decided on the tribade grisette as his companion in an effort to avoid more talk of Polignac or revolution, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from complaining of it all to Floreal, anyway. It was no wonder she found him a bore. “I needed to talk with someone who hadn’t gone mad yet.”“I’m not upset with you, so don’t take it that way, but… I’m surprised I’m your first choice for that.”“Who says you were?”“Ha!” Floreal exclaimed sarcastically. “No but really, though. You could have gone to see The Piano Queen or something.”Grantaire made a face.“Nah, The Piano Queen would have needled me about Enjolras.” “Who says I’m not going to?” Floreal teased.“Even if you are, your needling is far more tolerable than his. You’ve never been truly needled till you’ve been interrogated by an ageing bardache eight cups into the night.”Floreal hummed in understanding, but said nothing for a while. Grantaire stayed silent too, closing his eyes and listening to the raging wind around them. It would have been a warm day were it not for the wind. Down here in the grass, below the wind, it was warm all the same. “This isn’t how I’d hoped to catch up with you, if I’m honest.” “How had you hoped to catch up with me?” Grantaire asked. “That way I’ll know what not to do next time.”“Ha!” Floreal exclaimed. “Now I won’t tell you.” Grantaire picked a daisy from amid the grass.“You have a smart mouth for a flower,” he told Floreal as he picked petals of the daisy. “Has that granted you any luck in female company?”“More than yours has in male,” Floreal parried. “Ouch!” Grantaire exclaimed. “This flower has thorns!” Floreal rolled her eyes and sat up. She was quiet for a moment. She looked to be thinking something over. “I have made a new friend since we last spoke,” she finally said.Grantaire opened his eyes and turned his head towards Floreal.“Oh?”“Yeah,” Floreal said, and a smile spread on her face, the type of smile that couldn’t be held back. “She’s wonderful.”“You’ll have to tell me everything about her now,” Grantaire said. “You may not be with The Piano Queen, but you are still with a drunk bardache.”Floreal laughed and indulged him. Her name was Romulus, she was a petit-bourgeois widow a few years older than Floreal, she was stunning in both men’s and women’s attire, she ran her late husband's bakery and had a young son, and so on and so on. As Floreal spoke of her beloved, Grantaire let himself be transported away from ill thoughts of impending death and destruction and for those few hours they spent together in the Luxembourg Garden, a certain peace descended over them that the future would be sure to shatter. Spring turned to summer, and all hell broke loose. The news that day was like a plague, spreading through the city at exponential speed, rendering all it met sick or scared senseless. Grantaire avoided it till he arrived at the Café Musain with Joly and Bossuet. They did not go to the backroom that day, but instead came upon their friends gathered at a table near the entrance. The Musain was unusually crowded and everywhere, groups were gathered around copies of Le Moniteur. Le Moniteur, of all things! “The Charter is violated!” cried one man to another. “It’s abominable!” replied his friend.As they approached the table Les Amis les d’ABC had taken for themselves, Enjolras looked like a vengeful angel, Courfeyrac was smiling from ear to ear like a madman, Combeferre had removed his glasses, Feuilly was checking the chamber of his pistol, Prouvaire was chewing on a lock of his hair and Bahorel was dressed in bright scarlet. No one thing was out of the ordinary, but it all put together, in one painterly image, spoke of what had happened, as clearly as Courfeyrac did when he opened his mouth on spotting Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly. “Friends, citizens, countrymen!” Courefeyrac exclaimed. “Have you heard the royal news?” “How is our dear father occupying himself?” Bossuet asked, a wry smile on his lips. “Removing freedom of press, for one.”“Didn’t he already do that?”“I mean entirely and officially,” Courfeyrac clarified. “And he’s also dissolved the Chamber of Deputies.”At that, Joly and Bossuet rushed over to the others to get a glimpse at Le Moniteur. Courfeyrac began reading out loud and all around him was transfixed by his words, even those who had surely heard said words already. “ The regulations of the articles 1st , 2nd , and 9th of the 1st section of the law of the 21st of October, 1814 , are again put in force , in consequence of which no journal, or periodical, or semi-periodical writing, established, or about to be established, without distinction of the matters therein treated, shall appear either in Paris or in the departments, except by virtue of an authority first obtained from us respectively by the authors and the printer. This authority shall be renewed every three months. It may also be revoked. ”Courfeyrac’s reading had attracted attention from beyond their own table and as he went on, angry mutterings accompanied it from every corner in the room. When Courfeyrac paused. he said:“Pace yourselves, my friends, the first ordinance is hardly the most egregious. Let me skip forward a bit to the second: ‘ being informed of the manœuvres which have been practised in various parts of our kingdom, to deceive and mislead the electors during the late operations of the electoral colleges; having heard our council; we have ordained and ordain as follows: 1. The Chamber of Deputies of Departments is dissolved, 2. Our Minister, Secretary of State of the Interior, is charged with the execution of the present ordinance. ’”“Peyronnet,” Bahorel sneered. Courfeyrac continued reading out the most important parts of the King’s ordinances to increasing shock from Joly and Bossuet and increased anger from the room at large. Amidst the shock and anger, though, was also another emotion: excitement. Everyone in the room was a powder keg, ready to go off at the slightest movement. All except Grantaire. Grantaire may be shocked, but hardly angry and certainly not excited. Scared, perhaps. “A gamin told me that people are demonstrating by the Le National headquarters,” Courfeyrac said. “So who’s coming with me?” A roar went through the room. So this was what it had sounded like when Leonidas had rallied his men? Off his friends went and, helplessly, Grantaire followed them. He didn’t want to. He was scared and tired, so very, very tired . But how could he do any less? They were his friends. They may all die, but at least Grantaire would die with them. At least he wouldn’t be left behind. And so he followed. He followed them all into hell.