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Chapter Text

The day Enjolras entered the Musain with a lovely bouquet of lilacs, everyone should have guessed there was something weird going on.

"To what purpose?" Courfeyrac asked.

"They are for us, since we're making gunpowder." Enjolras replied, and as little logic as the reply had, it still made more sense than Enjolras bringing flowers for reasons of spring and cheerfulness. It would be nice not to have to smuggle in gunpowder, which would get us noticed or even arrested. Besides, I have found an interesting recipe that I would like to try."

"You mean, making gunpowder as in chemistry?" Combeferre asked, intrigued. "The coal is easy to acquire, the sulphur can be found..."

"Coal sounds messy." Courfeyrac remarked. "Is this necessary? I'm quite fond of the smuggling part."

"...But the saltpetre needs to be illegally acquired, same as the gunpowder, or to be treated in big cisterns..."

"That is the point, yes." Enjolras smiled. "My friend, I need you to read this and tell me if it can be done." As he looked for something in his bag, he turned to Courfeyrac. "And to you, no, of course, it would be only a secondary option. If it doesn't interest you, you don't have to try, and we won't do it here anyway. Chemistry would be too noticeable. I was thinking about the Corinthe, maybe between meals."

"Where every unpleasant smell, and maybe even weird sounds, can be blamed on Mame Hucheloup's cooking. Good reasoning. I have to admit, I am curious." Courfeyrac replied. When Enjolras took his old documents from his bag, Courfeyrac looked at them almost as eagerly as Combeferre, and the gathering's attention seemed to steer in their direction.

"Committee of Public Safety, Instructions to the French People for the Manufacturing of Potash" Combeferre read, his eyes sparkling. He flipped through the pages. "About washing saltpetre from the walls, for the war effort, and... Enjolras, I'm impressed. I have heard about these, but I haven't seen them until now. Where did you find them?"

"I have sources."

"These are original ones. It's the right paper."

"Of course they are. These are the right signatures. Would the science work?"

"Of course it would." Combeferre replied, smiling like a boy given a new toy. "Theoretical science can come with an expiration date, but techniques - nothing worse can happen than finding a better method."

"Which could have happened since then, but some governments are more reluctant than others to explain to the People how to make weapons!" Bahorel spoke in good humor. "One could ask why, except that we all know. Let's do it the old way! Making explosives, following revolutionary instructions, it will be the most terrific project ever!"

"If this method were flawed, France wouldn't have won the Revolutionary War, now would we have?" Joly noticed joyfully.

"So," Enjolras started, "we need to scrub the walls of our cellars for untreated saltpetre. Burnt lilac for potash. One cauldron, maybe more."

"We can borrow Mame Hucheloup's." Courfeyrac added. "It would be less conspicuous than carrying one in the streets, even if any of us had one. Or have any of us a dark secret involving forbidden alchemy or doing his family's laundry?"

Enjolras nodded. "And when we're finished with this part, of course, we'll need sulphur and coal, and something in which we can mix them."

"And buckets to fetch water." Combeferre added. "I guess we'll bring the saltpetre in buckets anyway."

"I'll get the sulphur!" Joly spoke, smiling. Everyone here was listening now, and seemed intrigued, or even excited.

"In the Encyclopédie by Diderot and d'Alembert, they explain how to choose the best coal for this." Combeferre noticed. "I think they explain the devices too, at least a little bit. I'll get this, even though we don't need them the first day"."

"Don't forget ordinary coal. Or wood. Anything to build the fire. Or can you charm some from Mame Hucheloup, Courfeyrac?" Bahorel asked.

"My charms would probably not be enough on a thrifty woman, but we can buy it overpriced from her. We'll be carrying enough things already."

"Good." Enjolras smiled. "Corinthe, tomorrow, at three, then."

Courfeyrac was leafing through the brochure. "Let's decorate our roads with horse chesnuts and our gardens with lilac flowers! Let's multiply this odoriferous shrub, and it will be discovered that, under the reign of freedom, it will be by showering our footsteps with flowers that we will be given the gunpowder which must end in crushing the tyrants!" He paused to think. "I have to admit, I like this."

"I have just one copy of this document, and Combeferre will probably want to study it, but for those who don't trust their memories, I have written out some copies of the part explaining how to get the saltpetre from the walls. It is basically white sediment which tastes salty, and is found on humid, stony places."

He passed the copies around, keeping three for Bossuet, Feuilly and Jehan who had not turned up yet, and came to Grantaire, who, of course, was already drinking.

"Do you want one?" Enjolras asked distantly.

"Well, since you ask, that means that you've got one left, so you made one for me, didn't you?" Enjolras didn't reply. "So you really expect us to explain to our landlords that we need to go downstairs to the cellar, lick the walls - you talked about the taste, I didn't come with that one - then wash the walls, all this to follow very reasonable instructions from a bunch of guys who have Safety in their name, but are better known for decapitating each other?"

"Yes." Enjolras answered harshly.

Before Enjolras turned to leave, Grantaire grabbed the sheet, and replied, "I'll do it."

"By the way, did you get these flowers only for the symbol, or should we burn them now?" Bahorel asked.

"Good idea." Enjolras held the bouquet over a glass, took out a match and lit the flowers. The fire burnt a few petals before going out.

"You should put a little alcohol on it." Bahorel recommended. "To start the fire."

Combeferre didn't have the time to yell before Enjolras poured a generous amount of alcohol on the bouquet, which caught fire very spectacularly, and resulted in Enjolras trying to remain stoic with his fingers half-burn, and more ash on the table than in the glass.

No one dared express it, but an idea started to make its way through the minds of the assembled group: if he had let go of the burning flowers, the table could have burnt to the ground. And they hadn't even started yet.

"Let's add terra cotta bowls to the list." Combeferre added, after politely coughing. "Big ones."

Chapter Text

"I'm still in shock that he believed you." Bossuet laughed.

"My dear, I am notorious at this apothecary.." Joly laughed with him "He knows me, so of course he believed me. He, however, has lost with me the little credit he has. He should have told me that - it has been well-known for centuries - sulphur does nothing to prevent the bubonic plague. It is a myth."

"You would be very sad if apothecaries refused to sell you dubious mixtures on the pitiful excuse that they don't work."

"Ha, it's different when nothing has been proved on either side!"

"Well, for one thing, you would have seemed suspect buying this."

"I've got to concede that point."

---

"I need this cauldron! I'll have to cook tonight's menu!" the Widow Hucheloup argued. "The other one is used for jam until at the earliest tomorrow!"

"Not this one, of course," Combeferre assured her. "When we're finished with it, I don't think it will be a good idea to use it for cooking. No, the one you use for laundry." He looked at her with a big smile and inquiring eyes, the expression which could make almost anyone feel like a bad pupil about to be tested. "I hope you don't use the same cauldron for cooking and laundry, do you?"

"Of course I don't." she said meekly. Then, she added, more imperatively. "Can I at least know how you would use my cauldron? Will it at least still be good for washing my laundry?"

"Of course! We'll scour it ourselves."

"We're doing a little chemistry," Courfeyrac explained. He waved the lilac flowers he had picked up on the way. "We're making our own perfume." He was quite proud of his lie. It was very plausible, for a young, refined young man who attempted chemistry with flowers.

"Oh Lord." she said, frowning at the flowers. "You're making gunpowder."

"What?" Courfeyrac's surprise was magnificently displayed, for the simple reason that he really was stunned.

The Widow Hucheloup held up a very proud chin, prominent and ugly. "You young boys believe I'm an old woman who knows nothing! My husband fought in Napoleon's army! My father fought in Valmy!"

"Really?" Combeferre asked. Maybe he was even sincerely interested. It was difficult to tell.

"My mother made these for the army when I was a child! If I went to you little club, I could explain how it's done! Too bad I have honest work to do!"

"I always thought you were younger," Courfeyrac replied with a smile.

is words stopped her tirade in its track. She mumbled. "Why do you even think I have no problems with you young ones talking about politics in my otherwise respectable establishment?"

Courfeyrac had always assumed it was because they embodied the better half of her clientele, but he fought to keep the comment for himself.

---

"I still can't decide whether using flowers to make gunpowder is strangely poetic or just horrifying." Jehan mused.

"The ones we used are half-shrivelled up, almost dead." Bahorel commented. "I don't know if, poetically, it makes things better or worse? They're past their beauty, given all their scent, and what's left of them now?"

"Just ashes which will fly away again," Jehan commented with a smile. "living a second, briefer, brighter life. I could make something with this."

"I guess you could. And you can as well be the one who makes them fly and hit."

"Still, someone should have told me. I brought fresh flowers."

"They barely burn." commented Enjolras - without boasting about his attempt the day before - "but before they wither, they can probably drown out the smell, or... something"

"I'm quite sure I can find other uses for lilac flowers in May." Jehan assured them. "My mistress will appreciate them more than you do, for once. Well, the reverse would be disturbing, I confess."

---

It was a truth acknowledged by science and every possible experiment, and even the Committee of Public Safety, that if you didn't put enough ash on the mix of burning water and saltpetre from the walls, it wouldn't crystallise well, and you would have to add some more. If you put too much, it didn't crystallise well either, and you could try to correct this by putting more saltpetre in it.

It was a truth cautiously suggested by theoretical science, that somewhere, in the middle, there was a right amount of lilac ash which would give perfectly good crystals of saltpetre.

Well, suggested by science, and Combeferre's attempts. But he didn't really count. He had probably made a deal with some kind of science daemon to manage it. Which was probably living in the fourteenth tome of the Encyclopédie. The book had some detailed explanations about making saltpetre involving some kind of complex equipment. How he could use any of these explanations to complete a recipe using only a cauldron would have been a mystery to anyone. And it got even more mysterious when he tried to explain it, so his friends had kindly asked him to stop.

"I'm sure I can just be here and burn the lilac and try not to breathe it !" suggested Joly. He was laughing very nervously after having almost been hit by a drop of the mixture. "Someone has to do it. I don't want to play with these. I'm sure it's toxic."

"It's not. The sediment, at this point, is mostly salt."

"Mostly."

"It certainly is scorching hot." Bossuet commented with better humour that he should, after experiencing its heat directly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It is." Combeferre sighed. "Maybe you should be burning lilac, or..." He remembered that burning anything was not necessarily the best idea for Bossuet, very nonflammable terra cotta bowls or not.

"I'm sure Mame Hucheloup's cellar is full of good saltpeter." Joly suggested. "And we don't have that much anyway."

He and Bossuet took one of the emptied buckets, and flew away with it.

"It's not very fair - and not very practical - if I'm the only one who makes the mixture." Combeferre noticed. "Don't worry, I will explain everything."

There were suddenly a lot of volunteers to burn the lilac flowers or anything else besides helping Combeferre.

"I will get the next step ready." Bahorel exclaimed, taking his knife and one of the logs. No one dared to ask what he was planning. They were too proud, or they already knew, or they were frantically searching for their own excuses.

---

"You see, here, it changes color." Combeferre explained to Courfeyrac.

"But it's not the same color at the beginning anyway! It depends on on which cellar we picked it from!"

Yes, there must be impurities. That's why they have to be removed first." With the wooden spoon, he picked up a small clot of sediment and put it aside. When anyone else tried it, the liquid quaked and shivered like a wild animal, trying to eat back the coveted impurity and viciously burn the daring fool who tried to deprive it of its substance.

"Hello, young men!"

It was the Widow Hucheloup, and Courfeyrac considered as his personal duty to go and be polite to her, leaving the wooden spoon to Jehan.

There was some surprise, maybe even some worry, and Combeferre felt he ought to explain. "Mame Hucheloup's mother has done it in the past." Then he added "Her father fought in Valmy." as if it gave her some kind of right to be here. Technically, she didn't need it, as it was her house, but well, it couldn't hurt.

Jehan remembered it was his turn fetching water, no excuses allowed, and lent the spoon to Enjolras.

Combeferre even let himself have a small hope that the Widow Hucheloup could show the others how it was done.

Unfortunately, let's just say that, after a few attempts, it was seen that she had as much memory of this as of her deceased husband's cooking. It was the polite way to think about it.

So they got her to talk about Valmy instead. At least, for a beginning.

---

"Well, for us in the countryside, you have to admit that the Maximum Laws caused a big loss of income."

"Mame Hucheloup, the people in Paris were literally starving." Enjolras replied. "A loss of income is irrelevant compared to it."

"It was the excuse you gave my parents then, yeah."

When Enjolras talked about politics for more than a few minutes, he had the uncanny ability to make pretty much everyone reproach all that they hated in the National Convention in general, and the Robespierre administration in particular, like he was personally to blame. His friends suspected that he secretly liked that.

But he was currently mixing saltpeter with lilac ash, so it was very much the opposite of a good timing. Combeferre didn't have time to step in before Enjolras became a little too invested in the conversation, and the cauldron swallowed the spoon with a big gulping noise. Enjolras tried to catch it back, without success.

"I'd like it very much if we continued this conversation later," he said to the Widow Hucheloup, very slightly infuriated.

She stepped back, but claimed very self-righteously. "I was only trying to help."

"You can." Courfeyrac said diplomatically. "You can help a lot, if you get us another spoon."

---

Grantaire looked at his terra cotta bowl like he had a deep and unmentionable problem with it.

Then he gulped one more deep glass, and decided that the best thing to do with unmentionable problems was to mention them.

"Cain showed all of his intelligence when he invented murder, and I don't say it as a compliment. He gave bad ideas to God himself, who afterwards quickly started floods and epidemics and even lightning bolts, but only under the stage name of Zeus. Seeing Cain, he didn't understand why until now he had only come up with the suspended death penalty, meaning, life. But at least, Cain only used a sharp stone. Let's give him that. He was only half-guilty, since these things hurt people's ankles even when there's no one to brandish them. It came after, as a family tradition, that all his children and grandchildren and sweet little girls started to greet him at breakfast with: honorable ancestor, meet the new sword I made up it kills people, isn't that cute? In no time, humanity had in its collective hand maces and knives and blowpipes and hammers and daggers and halberds and knitting needles and bows and pillows! And it only gets better, or worse, depending how you see things. Let's just look at this triumph of science, gunpowder. We haven't even started to use it against some kind of enemy, and we are burnt and cut already, in an atmosphere of desolation and apocalypse, except that we usually imagine the apocalypse smelling better. How much time does humanity need before inventing weapons that fight by themselves, and will kill their users before they find the enemy? The world will be better from it - or emptier, which is the same. Has this day come? Will we all die here for our efforts?"

"Grantaire, I really think you need to hush," Jehan said kindly, yet firmly.

"Why? Would you repress my freedom of speech? Do you think I lie? Also, we haven't even begun to use the sulphur and coal yet!"

Jehan studied the room. "I think you're exaggerating the situation." He gave it a second look. "Well, a little bit."

---

Feuilly arrived only after his work, with a large amount of lilac flowers to burn.

"I'll wash the saltpeter from my cellar tomorrow," he apologised.

"No problem." Combeferre assured him. "We still have enough for a few days. Do you want to mix saltpeter and ash?"

"Yes, I'd like that."

After about twenty minutes, he had removed every unwanted sediment of salt and was getting very nice crystals.

"You're so good at that!" Combeferre beamed.

"You're the one who explains so very well!" Feuilly replied, equally pleased.

The others were looking at them like they had missed something really crucial, but couldn't for the love of everything know what it was.

Chapter Text

The next day, Combeferre brought along the thirteenth tome of the Encyclopédie to go with the fourteenth, and opened it to the article about powder. Had it not been written by important names of rationalism, you could have argued that it was unlucky.

"Joly, did you bring your weighing scales? Perfect, I have mine, we will be able to go two times faster. Proportions are different for a cannon and a gun, so of course we'll need the second list..."

"This part is easy!" Bahorel claimed. "No need to weigh and count. I'll show you." He grabbed a small crystal of saltpeter, a pinch of sulphur and a fragment of coal, and put them in a wooden bowl, which he had sculpted from a log the day before. Then he took hold of another wooden piece, like a flattened cone, and started grinding all this into powder.

"You shouldn't do that." Combeferre noticed. It was enough to make everyone else form a large and respectful circle around Bahorel.

"I did it dozens of times when I was a child!" Bahorel protested, still crushing the three components together. "It makes very good fireworks. I didn't have a gun to put it in, otherwise I'd have..." A very tall flame jumped from the bowl, to Bahorel's pestle, to his hand, and almost to the ceiling.

Bahorel howled with laughter, and started trying to smother the tiny bits of flames which caught in his hair. Enjolras, without a word, spilled a glass of water on his head.

"Thanks." He laughed again. "Alright, I didn't expect that. It happened the first few times, when we tried to crush it with stones. But with wood, usually, it got better. When no one was trying to smoke a stolen cigarette nearby, at least."

"Did you and your friends use the saltpeter right from the cellar?" Combeferre asked.

"Yes."

"This one is stronger." He didn't say I told you so. He was trying very hard not to think it, but it wasn't very successful.

"I can see." Bahorel laughed again, wiping the water from his face. "And that's awesome."

"By the way, it's a pity this mortar can't be used again. It was a good idea. Only, we'd ground the coal, the saltpeter and the sulphur separately, before mixing them in a liquid..."

"I have more!" Bahorel revealed. "It was this or stirring your cauldron like an old witch, so... I have mortars for everyone!"

Combeferre didn't comment about the old witch. The gunpowder and Diderot probably had avenged him already.

---

"I didn't know that part." the Widow Hucheloup remarked. "We gave it to the mayor, at this stage. She added "It's interesting." with a totally uninterested voice.

"I can do it! I can do it!" Joly tried to hug the Widow Hucheloup, who seemed a little taken aback. He was jumping in the room, hugging everyone and showing the crystals of saltpeter he had finally managed to synthesise. She retreated.

Near the cauldron, Combeferre was sighing with relief. The Widow Hucheloup commented.

"Diderot? Isn't he the one who wrote that scandalous story with a ring and women's sexes talking all the time?"

"Yes, but..."

"And also the one with the pervert nuns and the sadistic abbess." Grantaire commented. He was not helping.

"Yes, that one! And you trust this guy with making gunpowder?"

Before Combeferre had the time to explain, Grantaire had started. "He was trying to make a point about how the Church was corrupt, you know."

Combeferre looked startled. The Widow Hucheloup grumbled non-committedly.

"You see," Grantaire carried on, "Some of my friends have some kind of theory, when you're a brilliant mind who... fights the political evils of his time, you can give advice in chemistry too."

"That's a very stupid theory." she replied.

"Yeah," Grantaire replied, very satisfied with himself. "That's what I was thinking too."

---

With a mortar and pestle, getting a very fine powder of saltpetre and sulphur was surprisingly easy - maybe even suspiciously easy. Coal required more effort, but some people who had, after these last few days, a strong desire to hit something, preferably gunpowder-related, were happy to oblige.

The time for mixing them has arrived. Maybe even, the time for mixing them without getting some hair burnt has arrived, but this part was still very theoretical.

"No risk." Combeferre reassured them. "I would fear more never getting the gunpowder dry. We will make the mix in a small volume of liquid, enough to moisten it."

"You mean water?" Joly asked.

Combeferre re-read the relevant chapter of the Encyclopédie. "Water, or vinegar, or even alcohol, or... it seems that urine would work too. There is no indication here on which is better. Try small quantities for now. If it doesn't work, we'll waste less of the saltpeter - we're not very experienced at this. It's all in proportionate parts, which is very lucky, since it was before the Revolution gave us the metric system..."

"Wait, urine?" Joly asked.

"I'm actually more curious about alcohol preventing the mixture from burning, but yes."

"Did they actually try it?"

"I'm not sure, since they don't mention which works better."

"I'm sure they did, and it was all the same, that's why we don't experiment on this. Combeferre, I can see you thinking about it."

There were murmured jokes about Diderot's urine in the background, probably even broaching Diderot's penis in general, but Combeferre didn't let himself be distracted.

"I was just thinking that it's sad that we don't have Lavoisier's notes, it would be better, since he..."

And then Bossuet was laughing hysterically, and Joly tried to calm him down, and there was a big nervous tumult probably centered about Lavoisier's notes being better than Diderot's urine, but as several people were talking at the same time, and Bossuet was still laughing so hard he couldn't talk, it was hard to tell. And everyone who tried to stop it ended bursting out laughing, too, even Combeferre himself.

Enjolras was looking at the scene, a little puzzled.

"I call a moratorium on all jokes about urine." he said, calmly, but with enough authority to make everyone pause, even Bossuet. When you thought about it, this interdiction left very little to say.

Combeferre still added, to be sure "And no one mocks Lavoisier either. He was one of the authors of the texts we use. The Republic should bow in shame before him."

Courfeyrac made the most of the ensuing silence. "I have a sense of priorities and put a moratorium on all actual use of urine. More like, a total ban. I promise I will fetch as much water as needed if no one pees on any bowls."

"And I'm sorry." Bossuet added. "Chemistry makes me nervous."

"It makes everyone nervous," Jehan reassured him. "This is obvious now, if it wasn't before."

"Besides, you know that the scientific parts of the Encyclopédie were mainly written by d'Alembert, not Diderot." Combeferre added. "I can bear the confusion from Mame Hucheloup, or even Grantaire since he does it on purpose, but please."

The supporters and the objectors to jokes about urine all looked at him the same way, like it was the less relevant contribution ever, and did they mention that all this chaos was totally his fault?

"You expect me to suppress all the parts which could lead to irrelevant or heated discussions next time, don't you?" He smiled. "Sorry, I won't. Science doesn't work that way. But okay, we won't experiment. I really hope that nothing can go wrong with water. Will I show you the proportions, and how to use the weighing scales? Joly, help me with yours, please."

The brave wannabe chemist calmed down and went to take their measure of sulphur, saltpetre and coal to mix, even if there were still a few quiet laughs.

It was about that time the Widow Hucheloup popped her head around the door. "No one will be peeing in bowls in my house!" she claimed.

"Thank you, wonderful woman." Courfeyrac replied.

"It's nothing." She went away.

A few minutes later, she showed up again. "And yes, it means I was listening to you. But it's my house, so I have the right."

Then she left, for good.

---

"Then we just have to mix! Don't forget to add water as soon as it dries up."

"How long does it take?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Oh, with such small quantities, only a few hours. Then we'll leave it to rest, and we can probably put it through a colander, wait for it to dry and see how it works as soon as tomorrow."

Most eyes looked to Combeferre as in this context, uses of "only" and "as soon as" were uncalled for.

"Well, it needs very precise mixing." he explained. "And the good news is that, tomorrow, we'll have all the saltpeter in crystal form so we'll no longer need fire. And we'll have tested the recipe, we'll know what works, so the day after tomorrow we can go back to doing this in the Musain or even at home." Also, this part is very easy. A child could do it. Making the grain tomorrow will be harder."

"So, let's enjoy the easy part." Joly smiled.

Half an hour later, Bossuet had made his mortar explode, and Joly seriously reconsidered his statement as he bandaged his hands.

Then Jehan did something his wrist didn't like at all. Then half of Grantaire's mixture fled and got on the floor - having probably got annoyed with him, he commented. Then Enjolras' mortar almost took fire.

At this stage, it was clear that bad things could happen to anyone.

Maybe this was not the easy part.

Or – the worst thing to consider - maybe it was.

---

"I bet on Courfeyrac, next time." Joly said.

"You will only give me motivation for doing better!" Courfeyrac replied, pretending affront.

"Well, for now, you're not even concentrated on what you're doing. You're all about taking these bets."

"True, true. But I think putting too much energy in it only makes the powder dry, and causes more accidents. So I'll have the better mixture, at the end."

"I bet on myself." Bossuet said.

"You don't have the right. It would be too easy to fail on purpose."

"I promise I won't. Well, you have to understand. You know how Bad Luck can favor me, and if you let me try this, she must let me alone, or have me winning a bet."

"Beautiful strategy," Joly commented. "Please, Courfeyrac. If he's the next one to make the room burn, it's not you, so you win."

Courfeyrac relented. "That's good. But only for you, my dear Bossuet. Don't tell anyone." He discreetly hailed Combeferre. "Hey, do you want to bet on the next explosion?"

Combeferre looked at everyone's technique, as if there was indeed a way to predict it. It was a little intimidating. "Bahorel." he said.

"I heard that! I will bet on you!"

"You'll probably lose."

"I don't care, it's just for the sake of it. Besides, no one else will, so if you mess up, I get the jackpot."

"Jehan? I'm sure you've got an idea!"

"Can't I bet on nothing exploding today?"

"Oooh, I admire your optimism! You can, and it's even extremely hazardous, so it's twenty to one. Can you get me Grantaire?" He turned around "Oh, hello, Enjolras. Are you sure we should stop this? It's fun."

Enjolras shrugged. "Actually, you're doing a good job lifting spirits, so, no. I would object if it were a question of life and death, which it is not. Explosions can go far worse." His last sentence was said like he was trying to convinced himself.

"Really? Good! Would you care to place a bet, then?"

"Don't go too far."

---

"It must be Feuilly." Combeferre said, smiling, as the door opened. But it was a kid, the one named Gavroche, who entered the room like he lived here. He had a big bucket with him.

"Hello! Did someone order a lot of saltpetre? Oooooh, it smells so bad! This is amazing!"

He went to Courfeyrac, who froze, like he should have been careful what he wished for. He examined the bucket, which was nearly full, nothing close to what anyone could get from a single cave.

"I want my payment, now!"

"Of course!" Courfeyrac held out a five francs coin, then he paused, and gave another.

"Yeah, it's very nice of you to double the price, but we had some other agreements, citizen."

"Of course you can eat with us tonight."

"You know what I say."

Jehan came to the child, and asked "Have you... have you found that at your parents?" The unsaid question, "Have you got parents ?" was burning his lips.

Gavroche looked very offended. "Wh'are you mistakin' me for, citizen? It comes from my home!"

"It looks like your house is very big," Jehan remarked, hoping for the truth.

"The whole town of Paris. No one does better. But if you don't mind, I have some important agreements to talk about." He turned to Courfeyrac, and looked as serious as he could manage "You promised that I could make things explode with you tomorrow!"

Courfeyrac looked at Jehan as if he could save him from a very stupid decision he had made a few days ago, when everything seemed different - by awaking some innocence in children, or something.

Jehan sighed sadly. "He spoke: and furious the cry of the Greek, Oh, give me your dagger and gun!"

"What you said, I guess." Gavroche smiled, a little suspicious, but all ready to be Greek if it was necessary.

"You're not backing on a promise, Courfeyrac." Jehan cut him short. "Especially with a poor child." Gavroche pulled a mocking face to Courfeyrac. "And you'll be personally responsible for his safety tomorrow."

Courfeyrac heaved a very deep sigh, and ground his mixture so hard that it gushed on his face.

"I win!" Joly claimed.

"Oh," Gavroche said, "that's gonna be awesome!"

Chapter Text

The next day was a Sunday. Feuilly, who didn't have to go to work, was the only one whose enthusiasm was pretty much intact, as Combeferre explained to him the short version of what he had missed.

"It's really fascinating."

"Isn't it? It's so unfortunate not everyone sees it that way."

"You know," Feuilly suggested, "it's long and boring crushing the powder. Rather than having everyone make a small part of it, maybe you could pass around a bigger bowl for grinding, and have the others take a rest, or crystallise the saltpetre, or whatever else."

"That's a good idea, actually. But for the first time, it's better if no one can blame anyone else if their gunpowder doesn't work... Well, not that I think it won't work... but it could... I'm a little nervous. Does very nervous begin to describe it? Don't tell anyone. I've made the colanders from old paper with holes in it, and that's supposed to work. I don't even understand how it can work. I feel like we're trying to build a factory with stones and soil, which is the history of humanity, but is, well, considerably huge! Like the history of humanity can be!"

"I won't tell anyone." Feuilly promised. "Hey, show me the proportions. I'll catch up with you."

---

"Old woman, I'm in awe. You're so ugly that you could pass for a talking ape."

"Shut up, young rascal!"

"The voice is perfect too! Do you want to make thousands of francs working for a circus? I'll be your manager. We'll sell portraits. Everyone who sees them will think they're exaggerated. You can get more famous than the king. Well, I hope people will soon forget this one, so that doesn't mean much."

The Widow Hucheloup turned to face Enjolras, who was climbing up the stairs. "Is that thing yours?" She asked angrily.

Enjolras stared at Gavroche, then at the Widow Hucheloup. "He's of the people, of course he's ours."

"If you ask if I'm one of them, a good republican, then I say yes!" Gavroche puffed himself out. "It's a very egalitarian sense of theirs. Or maybe you're asking if one of them is secretly my father? If so, shame on you, because for one, you read too many romances, and for another thing, I can count better than you do." He turned to Enjolras. "It would mean you started very young, citizen."

"He's a pest! Are you sure you want to put him in the same place as exploding... things? Especially when that place belongs to me."

"Since you ask, I'm not sure I want to, but it will happen anyway. It's been decided."

"You're rude! Both of you!" Gavroche exclaimed with a big smile.

"If you'd shown respect to Mame Hucheloup in the first place, she might be polite to you now."

"I can't! I had to eat her cooking yesterday! And you, would you respect me?"

"I do. You're skilled and efficient. That's why I won't handle you with kid gloves and pretend you're behaving suitably, when you insult our allies without a good reason."

"It's fun!"

"More fun than climbing up these stairs and getting to the gunpowder?"

"I can have both. You're trying to bedevil me, but I can see what you're doing, pretty boy!"

Enjolras let out a sigh. "I'm currently trying to get upstairs, and if you don't come with me, I'll leave you to the mercy of Mame Hucheloup. She has worse weapons than her cooking."

"That's better! You can motivate troops when you want! Goodbye, goddess of ugliness!"

"When I want?" Enjolras asked.

"I'll show you tricks."

"You bet."

"Do you want to learn how to insult people? Clearly, you're not very good. It's one of the most important things in politics."

"Just because I don't want to sink to your level doesn't mean I can't..."

"You see! You're very bad!"

As they went away, The Widow Hucheloup sniggered. "You're right, he is yours."

---

"So, when does it explode?" Gavroche asked.

"Whenever you want." Combeferre raised an eyebrow. "Or, sometimes, when you don't want it."

"Sounds good! Can I try?"

"Not just now, since I've just moistened all the mortars."

Gavroche glared at him, a glare which accused him very strongly of having done it on purpose, having inaccurately boasted about explosions and generally of mocking him.

"So, when?"

"We'll pass the powder through colanders, and when it's dry, we will test it. I'll show you how to do that."

"By making it explode?"

"That's the third step."

Gavroche pondered the options, and decided that yes, maybe it was worth it to learn the first two steps. Even if it was probably a trap (would someone who looked so reasonable really be able to make things explode?), it was an enticing one.

---

The fashionable thing, it seemed, was to put barely-wet balls of gunpowder into a colander made of paper, in which one wooden spheres. These crushed the gunpowder which, when it was dry enough, went through the paper holes in grains of exactly the right size.

When you did this (making the spheres roll, waiting for some powder to come out of the mystery box), it looked very much like a child's game. Gavroche declared that he was way too old for this.

A child's game, except that it was, theoretically, the point where the gunpowder became actually usable.

When Bossuet's bowl caught on fire with a high, clear, and aggressive flame, this suddenly became a lot more tangible.

"How did that happen?" he asked, after having soaked his sleeve in the bucket of water. It had been a pretty sleeve. Now the surviving one was even more precious, one of a kind, one might argue.

Combeferre was always ready to explain things, even if this one was not as abstract, fascinating and harmless as he'd have liked. "I guess there were sparks. And yet I put out the fire... But... there are still some embers. We shouldn't do these steps at the same time."

"You really shouldn't!" Bahorel exclaimed. "What did I say about the stolen cigarettes? Even at hundreds of meters, accidents happen!"

He didn't say I told you so. Not exactly. But it was close.

After that, it still looked like a child's game, except the part where the participants looked at their toys like they were going to savagely burn them, and not in a let's pretend kind of way.

And they couldn't even go and smoke a cigar in the street. Not when the window was open, and with all the mass of smoke, it was better not to close it.

"Hundreds of meters!" Bahorel threatened playfully. "Bad luck! These things happen!"

"You know, about when the powder magazine of Grenelle exploded in 1794 ?" Courfeyrac remarked.

"Oh yes." Jehan sighed. "The first act of God perpetrated by the dark god of industry."

"Well, I had always thought it was deliberate sabotage, not an accident. Now I'm not so sure."

"A sabotage by whom?" Joly asked.

"Probably the Prussians, I don't know. I didn't know even when I thought it wasn't an accident."

"It could have been anyone!" Feuilly remarked. "England, Spain, even Russia."

"It could have been extremist Republicans disappointed about the 9th of Thermidor." Grantaire said cheerfully. His friends tried not to respond with dark glares, because that was certainly what he was trying for. Enjolras and Feuilly failed miserably.

Grantaire turned to Feuilly, because he was not sure he was emotionally steady enough to look at Enjolras. "Why could it not have been an act of protest? Do you think they would have too much respect for human life... no, it's a very stupid suggestion."

"Is there some kind of theory about angry, fiery glares igniting the gunpowder?" Bossuet asked Combeferre jokingly. "If so, it would totally be the right time to experiment!"

There were laughs. There were also a few scared looks directed at the gunpowder, because you can never know, do you?

---

"I've just been appointed expert in testing if gunpowder explodes or not." Gavroche said. "First thing, you have to see if it's the colour of gunpowder or not." He turned to Combeferre. "That's a stupid test, isn't it? Isn't it its own colour, like Henri IV's white horse?"

"With this one, it's easier to see if you've already fought." Combeferre commented.

"I did! I just didn't take the time to look at it with a... whatever scientific thing you are looking at the powder with. So, this man here says if it's too dark, there's too much coal, and that means you don't even know how to weigh things, citizens!"

"Looks good to me!" Bossuet exclaimed cheerfully. It looked good to everyone, and there was a collective sigh of relief and a few cheers. But when the next test was to take a pinch of it and figure out whether some grains were bigger than others, Bossuet admitted defeat gracefully.

"It was too good to last! I knew it, ha ha!"

"You were interrupted a lot yesterday, while you were working on it." Combeferre noticed. "Of course, the risk was greater. It will get easier with repetition."

The third test was the one Gavroche was waiting for. Gunpowder was put on sheets of paper, in small heaps at regular intervals. The game was to ignite only one of them.

"This is a pretty one!" Gavroche noticed, in awe before Bahorel's guwpowder, which had ignited instantly with a thin cloud of white mist. The other heaps were intact, and more impressively, the paper was, too. "Perfect work."

"They won't admit it, but I'm sort of an expert here." Bahorel replied nonchalantly.

"Next one! Next one! Oooooh, not good!" He ignited Jehan's powder, and there were black marks on the paper. "What do you think it will do to your poor gun? It'll dirty it!"

"It kills people. I wouldn't say it's immaculate." Jehan replied.

"Jokes won't save you! Give it to me and try again. You!"

Joly's was good, Grantaire's set fire to one of the other heaps, Courfeyrac's was good, and he hailed Gavroche like it was a personal victory; Enjolras' set fire to the whole sheet of paper. He sighed bitterly. Combeferre's was good; he seemed relieved and almost surprised. Feuilly hadn't finished yet but everyone supected it would be perfect.

"About half of it." Combeferre smiled, collecting it. "Not so bad, for a first time. It will get better."

"It could be luck." Courfeyrac noticed. "It must be possible to have it right for a time, like when you always win first time you play dominoes, and you know, it doesn't mean that you have to volunteer to play all the other... that it will work next time."

"Do you perhaps fear you won't be able to see how high the stakes are the second time?" Combeferre smiled.

"I just mean, maybe the global progress of science and knowledge can... follow a winding road, sometimes."

"That's been oft-noted. Don't let it use those twists and turns to stab you in the back." He turned to Gavroche. "Give me that, please."

Gavroche displayed the very face of an angel, which would have seemed suspect to anyone. "What, that? Oh, the gunpowder-that-doesn't-work that I have in my pockets? You don't need it, do you? I was helping you dispose of it."

"We will treat it and get the saltpetre back then try again."

"You mean, with the cauldron you decided not to use?"

"Not today, but..."

"Please," he said. He fixed the students with his gaze. He had just remembered a word he hadn't used for years, so they could make an effort too and politely agree with him. "It will be long and very boring! Why won't let me have it?"

"What would you do with it?"

In truth, Gavroche had thought about it, but not about the best use to mention in order to convince some almost adult students. "It dirties guns, but it seems to explode quite well. Can't I blow up the king? It would be fun."

Everyone gaped at him. So, Gavroche thought, either they were very shocked by his proposal, or they were just trying to be reasonable, and that meant having to wait an appropriate time to admit that it was a very good idea.

Then they exploded. Like good gunpowder. Or rather, like bad gunpowder igniting its neighbours.

"You're too young to have blood on your hands! - Killing a king doesn't destroy the monarchy, it just puts another king on the throne! - I'm sure you don't even know how to use a fuse, it will explode in your face, kid! - We don't execute people without a trial! - How can you be sure there won't be other victims? - It would be better if we killed as few people as possible anyway!"

And so on and so on. So, it was a no, an enormous heap of nos. The only conforting thing was that no one seemed to doubt Gavroche's capacity to get to the king and set him aflame, and no one had mentioned the police. That was something.

"I was joking!" He exclaimed (he had not been joking). "But I could make fireworks with it. Don't you think? People would pay to look at it. It would give me a job."

"What if some police agent asks you where it comes from?" Courfeyrac asked.

Gavroche made a face. They had managed to not mention the police until now! And someone had to spoil it just because... because he had made promises he had no intention of keeping! Of course, he had kept them, and never said a thing about the leftovers, but Gavroche had the right to be resentful anyway. Even if it had been nice to invite him in the first place.

"From the French Revolution?" He suggested. And as it didn't seem to spark enthusiasm, he added, with pride. "It would be true! Of course, I could lie too, and say some nice criminals gave it to me. Oh, and I could sell it to them, too! The criminals I know. I know you don't approve of crime and all that, but it will dirty their guns anyway!"

There was a discussion which didn't officially include Gavroche, but it didn't matter, because most of these students didn't know how to whisper. The one named Bahorel, in particular, shouted a lot, and he was defending the right of children to play with fireworks and making everything burn. Things looked good.

"I promise if you give it to me I won't try to kill the king." Gavroche added, to be clear about it. He wouldn't. If he didn't get too bothersome, at least.

It seemed some of them, like this Prouvaire, were not agreeable at all to giving gunpowder to a young man like Gavroche. It was very sad. Some others didn't trust him at all about how he would use it. That was very sad too, but realistic.

"I think it's time to end this discussion." Enjolras suggested. "Let's just vote on it."

Gavroche guessed that that was an order, or maybe they didn't want to protest because they were supposed to be all about democracy.

"Can I vote?" he asked.

"No way." Enjolras replied. "You're too young, and you're directly affected."

"Can I vote ?" the one called Grantaire asked.

"You've been participating as much as anyone, and if you manage to form your own opinion about something, I certainly won't impede you."

Finally, only Bahorel and Grantaire wanted Gavroche to have the gunpowder, and Gavroche was sure Courfeyrac would have said yes too, if Prouvaire hadn't whispered something to him about responsibility, which was unfair, and also electoral fraud.

"I'll make my own! You won't take my gunpowder from me, will you?"

There was another vote, and they were okay with Gavroche using gunpowder of his own making, good or bad.

"Even if it's good?" He asked, to be sure.

"Especially if it's good." Combeferre replied.

It meant they had managed to convince him to use the funny colanders. Damn them all! To hell with all the best people!

"Since we're being democratic, what about stopping all this already?" Grantaire asked. "We could vote on it."

Gavroche suddenly liked him less. And he had started so well.

"I mean," Grantaire kept talking, "you had two reasons for doing this, the first one was religious, you see an original paper from the Committee of Public Safety, you want to go and try it, it's lucky it wasn't one of the craziest ones. So, it's done. The second one was to produce gunpowder in order to fight. That part will never been as quick or as safe as smuggling it, and it is not even less suspect or more legal, and have I mentioned it doesn't work?"

"Well, it's still sort of fun!" Bossuet remarked.

"You know, it's your problem. I'm pretty used to being useless to the revolution. You aren't."

"Citizen," Gavroche told him, "I really want to try this. Also, I think you're being counter-revolutionary."

Then Grantaire burst into mad laughter, like he couldn't stop, and Gavroche felt a little cheated not to understand why.

"Are you one?" he asked.

"You could say that." Grantaire replied, still laughing. "Not that I would do anything against the Revolution. It's a friend of friends, after all."

"What are you doing here, then?"

"You'll understand when you're older."

Gavroche hated that line.

"Actually," Enjolras said, "I'm not sure he will." It could have been an even more evil thing to say, except that Enjolras acted like there was nothing to understand, and also, Grantaire stopped laughing.

"About the suggestion of stopping this," Enjolras continued, "I can understand that. We are not good at it. I'm very bad at it. I'm not sure Widow Hucheloup's mother, or even the Soldiers of the Year II were good at it on their first try ; they did it by necessity. No such thing pushes us. Revolution will not have to bring war this time. The Kings of Europe who arose to avenge Louis Capet will stay apathetic about his second cousin the usurper. I can see curiosity, I can see pride, I can see all the bad reasons why we'd want to examine the sciences and arts that saved freedom then. I won't blame anyone who stops now.

"And some of us should be in class." Bahorel said, "if you also want bad reasons to stop. I'm just saying."

This very convincing argument was anough for anyone to go back to powder making, showing great enthusiasm, or at least, no desire to be the man arguing for going back to school. Well played, Gavroche thought.

---

Gavroche had noticed some kind of regularity : first everyone looked at their gunpowder like it was going to eat them. Then, after a somewhat calm period, they thought they had tamed it, and started to exchange a few words while grinding. Then discussions became more heated, opinions flew about the latest play, the latest vicious idea of the government, the spread of the black plague in the Middle Ages, or the parallels between Poland and France in 1791 and 1794 (yes, this last was true, Gavroche could have swore it was Enjolras and Feuilly's favorite topic, even if he flew away fast), or a lot of other things. And then, whoosh! The gunpowder attacked again, while someone was grinding a little harder in a moment of anger or enthusiasm! Throwing its trainers on the floor, chewing at them a little on the way! Even without the prospect of taking some gunpowder home, it would have been better than the theater.

Gavroche also wanted to clarify that when his gunpowder exploded a little, it was in no way related to this regularity. It was just too fun not to do it.

---

"This will not do!" The Widow Hucheloup exclaimed through the door, opened just a little because the very air seemed to sting. "What did you blow up, this time?"

"Nothing!" Bossuet said with a big smile.

"I know what I heard!"

"What you heard this time was a gunshot! Fired with gunpowder I made!" he said with a joy most commonly associated with priests talking about the Second Coming of Christ. The Widow Hucheloup, disconcerted, hesitated for a time before seeing the flaw in the logic.

"You say that as if gunshots were a good thing!"

"Don't worry." Combeferre said. "It's only an experiment, we're not shooting each other. Everything is fine."

"We didn't shoot your furniture either." Courfeyrac pointed out.

"And no cops in your street." Gavroche finished. "Because, there were none."

Reassured somewhat, she closed the door and took a few steps down, before remembering she didn't even know what they had shot. She was not sure she wanted to know.

Also, she'd never know what the other noises were.

Chapter Text

Three months later, nothing was left of the experiments, in appearance at least. The Corinth was still standing, the participants in as good shape as usual. When climbing the stairs, one found that the room still existed, and even the smell of gunpowder was gone, overpowered by a smell of cooking as agressive as it was persistent. And as for the burn marks on the tables and floor, any half-decent liar could have sworn they had always been there.

The only way to find a trace of this epic and terrible past, was to ask the more or less volunteer protagonists.

"It was an experiment." Courfeyrac said. "And I mean I can now testify with total certitude that there are better tasks to which to devote your time. Not to mention that I lost an excellent hat." He smirked. "But of course it was funny. I'd have liked to see my face. The others' were worth it."

"I think there were pieces of a hat." said Gibelotte in a weary voice. "With the half-burnt sulfur paste, the coal dust, and all the things. That's the way youth has fun today. Others have orgies. It's less virtuous, but a little less messy."

"The gunpowder was perfect!" cried Bahorel, eyes shining. "It didn't even dirty guns. Of course I kept it. I can train with any gunpowder, but this one is for the day of the revolution - soon."

"After the revolution, I hope that everyone could try this," Feuilly wished. "Not necessarily with gunpowder, if we live in peace, but something like this. I'd like for everyone to learn a bit of everything, to know what they're good at and what they like."

"The only thing I know is that I know nothing. Socrates should have added: especially not about gunpowder," Grantaire mumbled. "It would have spared of a few days pains - and peine, because science, right or wrong, is always sad."

"It was sad at first, but it became great." Jehan sighed. "When fire under the cauldron is the colour of hell, when the gunpowder itself becomes lightning and thunder. I don't regret it. But I don't regret stopping either. The memory is more glorious than the immediate impression."

"They turned everything upside down," the Widow Hucheloup grumbled. "And afterwards they gave me a bouquet of lilacs, supposedly a memento of Valmy! It only proves they planned their quantities wrong." She snorted. "Like I have a use for this. Ha, children... they remind me of my youth, those demons."

"I kept the leftover sulfur." Joly said. "One never knows. Also the leftover saltpeter; we put so much hard work into it, it would be sad to throw it away. The coal, of course, we gave to the child. Winters are cold. I hope it will help him. I hope he won't suffocate from the flue gas."

"Nice fellows, all of them. Not too proud, and quite the jokers, even with their complicated words and pretty threads. Well, less pretty once the powder's exploded a few times. What can you say, you get close going under fire together."

"It certainly teaches humility. And perseverance." Enjolras said. He smiled. "The last few days we were closer to humility."

"My recollection of it? Explosions, of course!" Bossuet smiled. "Explosions in our hands, our ears, our minds and our trousers. Going home - well, seeking a home - I would hear the rhythm of the lack of
explosions far away. Next time one of them catches up to me, I'll laugh and say, you're sort of brave. Do you think you can make an impression, all alone?"

"I didn't go up and see," Matelote said, shrugging, "but there was such a racket! At one point there was this client. We had to tell him that it was a neighbour who often fought in duels in his room, and that he dueled people who came and asked him to stop."

"I could have never stopped," Combeferre swore. "It was fantastic, and of course, it was not all perfect, but this is how science progresses, isn't it? But to everything there is a season, and fortunately, methods of war give way to dreams of peace."

---

What do you say Courfeyrac did? Marius asked.