Chapter Text
Paris. 1832.
Despite the cries of liberty and equality heard during the French Revolution almost fifty years earlier, a Revolution which killed a king, there is once again a king on the throne of France.
There is cholera, famine and starvation among the poor people of Paris, and widespread anger and disillusionment about the corruption of the government. Despite promises of a republic, one monarch was replaced with another in a rebellion two years ago.
There is one powerful man who does his best to speak for the people , General Lemarque - but he is very ill, and many believe that he will soon be gone from the world, and his positive influence gone with him.
It is clear that the promises of liberty and equality have not yet been fulfilled - but while some give up and start to believe that these ideals are nothing but an impossible dream, there are others who refuse to stop fighting….
The pungent smell of cheap tallow candles fills the air of the little tavern, and one swift glance around the room shows that it is hardly the grandest place in Paris, or indeed the cleanest.
But none of the young men huddled in the tavern seem to be at all concerned by the lack of luxury, though the expensive clothes they wear and their coiffed hair indicate that they are rather used to the finer things in life, making them seem a little out of place in this room.
None of them are looking at their surroundings - rather, they are gazing attentively at the man in front of them, a man stood on a stool as he speaks to them, presumably to allow his voice to carry further.
This young man seems perhaps even more out of place than the others in this rather dingy tavern.
He is tall, broad, with dark and rather unruly curls falling over his forehead - astonishingly handsome, many might say. Dressed in fine burgundy velvet with spotless breeches and polished boots, he is clearly wealthy, and confident with it.
But it is the flaming passion in his dark, green-flecked eyes, the fervour lighting up his entire face as he speaks, which draws the eye more than anything else, which seems to lend a bright glow to the otherwise unremarkable room around him.
“Where is the liberty that we were promised all those years ago?” the young man asks his enthralled audience. “Where is the equality? Was it not promised to our parents, our grandparents, that our beautiful France would be a republic? That we would all be fellow citizens, without being pointlessly separated by class?”
There is a general murmur of assent among the other young men - most are too busy drinking in his words to fully respond.
“Freedom was what was promised to us - and yet, it would appear that we have somehow come full circle since the time when old Louis Capet was guillotined and a republic declared in France! Now we have not Louis Capet, but Louis-Phillipe - and I see no great difference between these two tyrants. It seems to me that this king is no better than the last. He too, allows corruption to run unchecked among the wealthy men who advise him, all the while ignoring the poor people in Paris who are starving on the streets, and who desperately need his help!”
“What about General Lemarque?” a young man pipes up suddenly from the huddled crowd of listeners.
“It’s true,” the man at the front responds, inclining his head respectfully towards the man who interrupted him. “General Lemarque is a lion among wolves. He has done his absolute best to stand up against corruption and injustice wherever he sees it - he is truly the people’s man. But the tragedy for the people of Paris is that Lemarque is ill, and fading fast. In fact, he won’t last the week out, so they say. Lemarque is a light in the darkness - but his flame is soon to flicker out. And when it does, gentlemen - I say that we can be the ones to rekindle the spark. The time for revolution, I truly believe, is almost upon us - and we shall be there to meet that time when it comes. We can all unite, everyone gathered here, we can rise up and defend the poor and the suffering of Paris, we can fight back against the tyrant and his pack of wolves, in the name of Lemarque, champion of the people. All we need is an abundance of faith and courage. Who is with me?”
A great cheer rises up from the men huddled in front of him, and the handsome man’s face lights up in a surprisingly boyish smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
“Excellent,” he breathes, as though he is genuinely surprised by their enthusiasm. “I cannot begin to explain how much your support means to me, gentlemen. I thank you - and I promise you, the people of Paris will soon thank you too. But enough of my tedious prattling for now, I think!” A disbelieving chuckle runs around the room at these words.
“If we are truly to turn this dream of revolution into reality - and soon - then there is work to be done, and plans to be made! Albert - perhaps if you could bring out a map of Paris so that we can determine our points of attack? And Francatelli, my friend - if you could begin drawing up an inventory of the supplies we already have, I will be with you in just a moment...”
His face still flushed with fervour, he jumps down from the stool he stands on. The spell of his voice broken, there is a sudden bustle of activity in the tavern.
He begins to make his way towards Francatelli, who has already pulled a piece of parchment towards him and started writing down supplies, as requested - but before he can join the other man, the leader of the revolution has his path blocked by two buxom women. One of the women is brunette, the other a redhead - both are wearing somewhat low-cut gowns, and they lean in towards him conspiratorially with a hand on each arm, so that the tops of their breasts are exposed to fullest advantage.
“That really was quite some speech, Monsieur,” the brunette woman purrs at him. “Indeed, you are truly an inspiration,” the fire-haired woman adds, looking up at him sweetly from underneath her eyelashes. “Perhaps, Monsieur, you might like to sit with us for a little while? Tell us more about the revolution?”
“Oh…no, I...um…”
The passionate articulacy which had held everyone rapt mere moments before seems suddenly to have vanished, and the man, though still beautiful, seems suddenly to have become a stuttering, awkward and tongue-tied boy. The fervour has vanished from his face, and his abrupt anxiety is evident for anyone to see. He appears to be seriously considering bolting.
“Oh come, Monsieur,” the brunette woman says, smirking as her gaze falls to the man’s lips and she bites down slightly on her own. “One cannot be dedicated and selfless all the time. Everybody needs to take a little time for their own pleasure.”
“I...thank you, Mesdemoiselles, truly, but...but I really don’t…”
“You don’t what, Monsieur?” the redhead asks with a giggle, tossing her locks so that they practically hit him in the face.
He has gone scarlet by now, and despite the fluency of his speech before, he can’t seem to find any words with which to respond. His dark eyes dart around the tavern, as though desperately looking for an escape route.
Another tall, dark man appears suddenly behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. He turns, and seems to almost sigh audibly in relief.
“Mind if I have a word with you, Drummond?” the newcomer asks jovially. “I just wanted to discuss strategy with you a little - and we wouldn’t want to bore these lovely ladies, would we?” He grins at said ladies seductively, throwing them a mischievous wink.
“Yes ...of course….” Drummond answers, sounding immensely grateful for the interruption. “Excuse us, mesdemoiselles….”
As soon as the men are out of the ladies’ earshot, Drummond exhales, sounding exhausted despite the briefness of his encounter with the women.
“Thank you, Ernest, truly. I confess I wasn’t too sure what to do there.”
Ernest laughs, shaking his head at him.
“What?” Drummond asks, frowning.
“It’s just….amusing, is all,” Ernest responds, still chuckling. “All that fire and passion up there on the stool one moment, making speeches that could convince somebody that day is night, or black is white. And yet, as soon as any woman speaks to you, you have absolutely no clue what to do or how to act, do you? You know, you will never cease to amaze me, Edward Drummond.”
Edward Drummond flushes an even brighter shade of scarlet, mortified.
In another small and dingy tavern only a few streets away, another young man sits.
An onlooker who had just come from the other tavern might have remarked that this man looks quite as striking as Edward Drummond, the leader of the revolutionaries, though in a very different way.
His bright blond hair seems to gleam in the low light of the candles, and his eyes with their long lashes are a startling, almost bewitching shade of blue.
He appears to be another kind of young man who could easily command the attention and admiration of others, should he wish it - but one glance is enough to see that, at the moment, he craves not adoration, but solitude.
The pale golden-haired man sits hunched at the bar of the tavern, cradling his tankard tightly and staring vaguely into its depths as though considering whether it would be possible to drown himself in it. His gaze appears a little unfocused, and as he leans his elbow on the countertop, he seems to lose his balance slightly for a moment. Evidently, the tankard he cradles is far from his first of the evening.
The door of the tavern bangs open, and another young man barges unceremoniously in, the expression on his face indicating that he is not in the sweetest temper.
The newcomer is taller and broader than the man sitting clutching his tankard at the bar, but the similar gleam of his blond hair - not to mention the expression of recognition and relief that crosses his face as his blue eyes fall on the other man - leave scarcely a doubt that the two are related, and closely.
“Alfred, for god’s sake,” the newcomer chides, strolling quickly over to him, his annoyance clear in his tone. “This is not where we agreed to meet!”
“Isn’t it?” Alfred responds vaguely, scarcely glancing up at him.
“I have been looking for you for nearly two hours now!”
Alfred shrugs slightly. “I’m sorry, George. I forgot we had agreed to meet.”
George glares at him, unimpressed by this clearly half-hearted apology. “If you were truly sorry, Alfred, you might have made more of an effort to remember after forgetting the last time!”
Alfred shrugs again. “Honestly, George, does it matter? Does anything really matter?”
The innkeeper, a tall, thin man with a greedy malice in his face, pushes another tankard towards Alfred, despite the fact that he hasn’t yet asked for it. He names an absurdly high price, but before Alfred can hand any money over, George pushes it back towards the innkeeper with a withering look. The man gives him an ugly look in return, and walks away behind the bar.
“You do not need any more to drink,” George tells Alfred firmly. “In fact, you know what? I’ve had enough, Alfred. You need to stop this.”
“Stop what? What are you talking about?” Alfred asks, still gazing at his tankard instead of George.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” George responds angrily. “You need to stop wallowing, drinking your life away.” He lowers his voice so that he’s speaking in an undertone.
“It won’t bring Alexandre back, and you know it. It’s over, Alfred. Time to move on.”
Alfred finally looks up from his tankard. There is nothing vague or unfocused about the glare he gives George now.
“Move on? Move on to what , exactly, George? Move on to thinking about the fact that I will never see him again? Move on to thinking about my own cowardice, about the fact that I could have saved him, could have avenged him, about the fact that I have done neither?”
“Alfred…” George murmurs, gazing at him with helpless sympathy, his anger seemingly forgotten in the face of his brother’s outburst.
“Alexandre’s father killed him, in cold blood, when he discovered his son was bedding men,” Alfred continues, his voice trembling with rage and grief. “I know it. You know it. Even His Majesty Louis-Phillipe knows it.” He sneers as he mentions the king.
“But of course, Louis-Phillipe is rather fond of Alexandre’s bastard of a father, isn’t he? Couldn’t let it be known that he’s rubbing shoulders with a murderer, could he? And so the king covers for him, spreads it around that Alexandre’s death was somehow a tragic accident, despite the fact that anybody with half a brain could look at the evidence and know that’s a lie. Louis-Phillipe will continue to keep that bastard’s dirty secrets for him, keeping him in luxury, just as he turns a blind eye to the corruption of every other bastard in his government. And it will always be like that, George. Nothing changes. Nothing ever will.”
“Alfred - “ George says again, gently, trying to distract him from his tirade.
“And I know I can’t bring him back, George, I don’t need you to tell me that, thank you,” Alfred snaps, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Hell, I haven’t even managed to avenge him properly, point the finger of blame. Because his father knows only that Alexandre was bedding men - what would he do to me if he were to realise that I was one of the men he bedded? So I do nothing. I just sit here, and hold my tongue, like the coward that I am.” His voice is full of bitterness and self-loathing, and he pauses, closing his eyes briefly as he swallows back tears.
“ Now do you see why I drink to forget, George?” Alfred asks. His rage apparently spent with his sudden rant, he sounds merely hopeless and exhausted now.
George looks at him. “You never actually.... loved him though, did you?” he murmurs.
Alfred makes a choked sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“I don’t know. Maybe not. But it’s not like I’ll ever get a chance to love him now, is it? Anyway, that’s hardly the point.”
George doesn’t try to argue his point any further, but merely looks at his brother hopelessly, as though wishing he had the power to help him. Alfred picks up his tankard and takes another sip, avoiding his eyes again.
George clears his throat.
“Speaking of Louis-Phillipe, and his corrupt government,” he says cautiously, “did you know that there is a group of students who are apparently convinced they can bring them all down? I heard them shouting in the streets about it the other day. From what I heard, they believe they can bring another revolution to the people of Paris.”
Alfred gives a hollow laugh, staring into the tankard in front of him again. “Idiots.”
The two of them lull into silence for a brief moment, before George speaks up again.
“Why don’t you come with me to one of their meetings at the ABC Cafe tomorrow?” he asks.
Alfred stares at him, raising his eyebrows. “What on earth would be the point of that, George?”
“Well, what’s the point in anything, according to you?” George fires back sardonically. Alfred grimaces slightly, acknowledging the hit. “Aren’t you at all curious to see what they’re up to?”
Alfred shrugs noncommittally. “Not particularly.”
“Well, I am, and I would like you to come with me,” George responds firmly. “And who knows? Their idiocy might perhaps give you a laugh, if nothing else, which I should say you sorely need.”
Alfred turns to scan his eyes over George’s face. Something in the set of his jaw seems to convince him that there is no point in trying to argue. Alfred does, he supposes, owe his brother after standing him up. Twice.
He sighs wearily.
“Fine,” he mutters reluctantly. “As you wish, George.”