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“Perhaps it is only easy to feel anger for the death of a stranger when one is thoroughly unacquainted with death. It is why young men fight, is it not? I would have liked to see them ushering infantries of widowers to the weeds of Valmy. How much would change then—how much remains the same, now.”
It was not the first time a woman had died of cholera; not the first since dawn, and not the first since the hour. She had not been poor, because Joly had her name, and saved them all the trouble of bending down and prying it from a trembling child. Nevertheless, that faceless remnant of her life will come around again on the bulletins and covert pamphlets tonight, throwing open the shutters of private anger, one now scattered broadly to the various winds—against the Orléanists and the frightened gentry fleeing to the provinces, or the young reveling in the warming excesses of a decaying capital. Pestilence and revolution, alive and inextricable in the streets of Paris—a ground upon which the parish, King, and man might finally stand in agreement.
“It is why Achilles marched towards the gates of Troy, I’d have thought, you, of all people, should recall.”
“Ah, you have me there. I had thought for a moment we were alive in the midst of the nineteenth century, and French. Though, in this sun, I must concede, you, alone amongst us, may very well be Hellenic bronze and stone.”
“Find their names, and make yourself, for once, useful. Otherwise, air the remains of your absinthe elsewhere.”
“What for? Talk of cholera only depresses the regular man, we strive, yet we cannot find it in ourselves to resemble such Homeric heights as to derive action. Death inspires little anger in those you wish to stir—they find her too familiar.”
“And what would you know of the common man, what would you know of striving, of inspiring, of stirring—of living?”
“As much as you know of death.”
At this, he stepped towards Enjolras into the rare sun.
“The smell of death is worse now, because summer is nearing. All this should contrast the light well enough for you. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine are wonderful ways to be alive. Let this season not be your last. I would wish that you did not desire so much to die.”
“You spit now in the faces of all of us who are true.”
“Spit, all which contributes to the dense miasma. Joly would have you not so near the dead, for the very fear of it. I would have you even farther. Might I be honest?”
“When have you ever not?”
“It would not have to be you.”
“Are we speaking of this, again?”
“Whichever poor creature began this sickness is long dead, cholera carries on. The Republicans will carry on. You are above it. Even Robespierre sequestered himself from the base material violence, there are other ways.”
“You raise the trivial to heights of impossible importance, by this, you throw to the light your minute disposition. Do not insult me by asking the same.”
“I cannot say I wouldn’t have felt disappointed if you answered any other way. I only asked so to absolve myself—if it were, though it would not—of seeing and loving a great man, and letting him die. The gods would not forgive me. Drink with me, in Corinthe, please. While we yet have the time and chance.”
“Grantaire, as sure as the seasons, you will always have the time and chance, if nothing else, to drink.”
“Then you will come?”
“Only so that the people there may hear of the continued ravagings of the disease, and in it, recognize the ravagings of the blind state.”
“Of course. Only so.”
***
“I may miss the rain. Piquet. Whiskey, here and now. Horace. Aeschylus. And brandy dearly.”
“You will not die, Grantaire. I doubt you have the courage within you to do so.”
“You will see. Finish your pint, so we may talk freely about this matter of courage.”
“It is rare for the fly to talk of steadfastness.”
“Indulge me, are you frightened to die?”
“It is not as if we have a choice in the matter. What more can a man wish for, than to do so in service of a greater purpose?”
The fire had settled in the hours since their arrival, as the sky too had darkened. Grantaire took Enjolras’ hand in his, and pressed the tips of his fingers to his mouth, and as Enjolras curled his hand to pull away, he brought his lips to each of his knuckles once more, before letting go and smiling, loose and soft.
“Will you miss this?” Grantaire asked, a shine of drunkenness in his eyes.
“I would not allow myself to.”
“When the night’s slow, do you think of anyone?”
This, Enjolras did not answer.
“I would have known.”
“And you think of nothing. Nothing of significance.” Enjolras replied, acute and not dulled by wine.
“Perhaps, if we did, we might both cling tighter to life. Try having a warm body in your bed. And drink more. One might see things differently. In this voluntary dusk of life, as one says, live a little.”
“You reeled me in with talks of courage. I am still waiting. Are you frightened to die?”
“If you would be long-suffering Prometheus, and in courage, unafraid of the eagle of Zeus, then allow me to be Orpheus, alone, and ask yourself, would he then have been frightened by the Maenads?”
“I suppose he would not.”
“But you are right, however, on the matter of courage. It takes little courage to die such a way and for, as you say, such mortal a cause as love. But it is death all the same, with identical fervor. I would hope for you to accept it.”
“We would not die.”
“No, and even if we did, it would not matter. Things such as the convictions of man are not so easily dissolved by anything as insignificant as death. I may believe in its life past us. I would not worry for anything on the scale of revolution. Love, on the other hand, I hold to be more private. And though I am certain that nothing so true and particular as it can ever outlast the lives it concerns, I find it hardly matters when those lives are over. After all, no one could know it as truly as them, not through endless songs nor poetry. And these lives are not yet over. The night is young.”
“Grantaire.”
“Come, let us test our theories before the dawn. Let me convince you of the value of another weight in your bed, and I will, only for you, consider once more, Marat and Hébert. How much truly could our deaths mean before we have fully lived? Would Patria not appreciate greater a sacrifice being in one which pains us more to part from?”
“Grantaire, we would not die.”
“I would like for you to kiss me.”
“You are drunk, as ever.”
“When better for that and drunkenness, in the age of cholera and revolution?”
“I will see you in the morning.”
“And I shall see you through the night before then.”
“I cannot shake you, can I?”
“You hardly try.”
Grantaire stood up, pushing his chair back somewhat unsteadily, and turned the circumference of the table to lower himself at Enjolras’ feet, resting his chin over his knee.
“Ask of me anything.”
“Get up, you fool.”
Grantaire rose obediently, palms pushing himself up off Enjolras’ thighs, before falling forward, with intention, towards Enjolras’ warm breath and loosening cravat. Enjolras’ hand reached around Grantaire’s collar as Grantaire’s lips fell on his, until he found it in him eventually to push him away by the same hand.
“What now?” Grantaire asked, supple and limbless, halfway on his lap, spirits on both their breaths.
“We may yet die.” Enjolras replied, quiet.
“All the more reason then. To die drunk and in love would be more than what the Greeks got.” Grantaire said, before leaning in again once more.