When Others Rise
The table in the corner was empty.
That was where they had always sat, when they had not adjourned to the
back room. Pierre could almost see their figures around the table,
talking and laughing, blissful in their youth. Like shadows, he
thought he saw them singing there once more.
But they were only shadows.
It had been fully a week since the rise and fall of the barricades,
and the Cafe Musain was once again open for business. The custom had
decreased considerably, due to the effects produced upon the cafe that
June fifth, but Pierre Marchelieu came to the deserted cafe anyway.
Part of him hoped it would help him remember; the other part wanted it
to help him forget. And now that he was here, he felt the wounds he
had suffered a week ago ripped open again.
He could all but hear Enjolras speaking of liberty. Enjolras. Pierre
had been in several classes with the young man, had even struck an
unlikely friendship with him. Even though they disagreed
politically--at first--they found each other likeable. At first
Pierre found Enjolras's arguments for revolution foolish and futile,
but then he began to see his point in a different light. Every day he
came to the cafe, paying special attention to the group of students in
the corner, who spoke so idealistically of equality and freedom for
the people. He found himself angered by the poverty on the streets
that so many turned a blind eye to. But he still wasn't sure enough
to join the revolutionary group, they who called themselves the
Friends of the ABC, the abaisse, a sombre pun if ever there was one.
He had left the city on the first of June for a week-long visit with
family in Calais. And he had returned on the morning of the seventh
to the most sorrowful disaster he had ever faced.
They were all dead, or at least assumed dead. The bodies of all but
young Marius Pontmercy had been identified among the dead on the
barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Marius had disappeared.
Now, as he sat staring at that lonely table, he once more contemplated
the ideas Enjolras had spoken of so enthusiastically. And now that he
was--now that all of them were--dead, would those ideals die as well?
Had their fight been in vain? Had they given up their lives for
nothing?
Buried in his thoughts, Pierre didn't notice that someone had come in,
and was now standing behind him. The other man touched his shoulder
tenatively.
"Marchelieu?"
Pierre turned slightly.
"Louis . . . you startled me."
Louis Repardin sat at the table opposite his friend, who was still
gazing at the empty table. "Marchelieu, are you still thinking about
them? Why not just let it go and get on with your life? Dwelling on
it isn't going to bring them back."
Pierre turned his gaze to Louis. "Let it go, you say? What would
that make their deaths mean? You know as well as I do what they were
fighting for. If nobody does anything about it, if we all just say
'How sad' and bury their ideals with their bodies, we will have
betrayed them. Enjolras believed in the people; they all did. They
believed that the people would rise and join them in their fight. The
people failed them. We are the people, Louis. I don't want to live
with the guilt of knowing I failed them twice." Slowly, he leaned
across the table to Louis. "Do you?"
Louis looked his friend in the eyes. "Of course not, Marchelieu. I
already feel bad enough for never joining the cause." His gaze
became glazed, and his eyes took on a faraway look. "I had so many
chances, so many opportunities. But I kept hesitating. I should have
joined them. I should have died with them." He closed his eyes, and
a silent tear fell from them to the surface of the table before he
opened them again to look at Pierre. "But we cannot spend the rest of
our lives in passive grief for them. We have to move on; there is
nothing we can do for them now."
Pierre still sat and gazed at the empty table. Louis' voice seemed to
come to him from far away, but he caught the words. All at once, he
could hear the words of his dead friends mingling with those of Louis
and himself, and certain phrases leapt out at him, begging for his
attention.
*The people will rise and fight . . . if not now, then after our
deaths . . .*
*We are the people, Louis . . .*
*. . . we cannot spend the rest of our lives in passive grief . . .*
*The people will rise . . .*
*We are the people . . .*
Pierre felt it hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he nearly
overturned the table he sat at in his excitement.
"No, Louis," he said with fire in his eyes, "you are wrong. There is
something we can do . . ."
* * * * * * *
The group was small, but enthusiastic. It seemed appropriate that
they would choose the table in the corner for their hushed meetings,
somehow. Pierre spoke to them softly.
"Friends, we have to prepare," he said. "The uprising last year
depleted all our supplies, and it will take months, even years to
replenish them. So we have to start now. Repardin, how do we stand
in support?"
"Popular support for uprisings of course is low these days," Louis
said, "but there are still secret factions in some places who are
with us. One in St. Martin, another in Rue de Bac. They're
scattered, but still there."
"Good." Pierre's eyes seemed to shine like fire. "When the time
comes, we will need the support of all we can get. Freedom comes at
a high price, but it does come. We will be free!"
The others murmured their enthusiasm. At the neighboring table, a man
sat quietly, lost in thought. All at once, he got up, paid for his
wine, and left without a word. Once outside, in the silent night, he
crossed the street and turned to look at the Musain. Memories came
rushing back to him all at once, and his eyes filled with tears.
Through the window he could still see the revolutionary group planning
at the corner table. *There must be something about that table,* the
man thought. *It is ripe for revolutionary conversation--first ours,
now theirs.* He looked up at the clear sky, at the stars, seemingly
searching for something he could not find.
"You were right, Enjolras," he whispered to the night. "The people do
rise. They have risen to take your place, and the earth will be
free." A tear fell to the ground as Marius Pontmercy turned and
walked down the street, home to his Cosette and away from the memories
of the Cafe Musain.
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