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Do not let them tell you this is a story of pain. Yes, it is a tragedy, but it is not one of pain, it is a story of love. The way you have heard this story before has truths in it, but never the whole truth. I shall tell you, in entirety, what truly happened that day, the 6th of June, 1832, in the Cafe Corinth:
—
As all great love stories begin, we must begin with emotion. Enjolras was afraid. How could one not be, when all one’s friends are dead?
First, Bahorel fell. Then Jean Prouvaire. Then Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Fueilly, Joly, Bossuet. Grantaire– that bothersome skeptic– must be dead as well, hidden amongst the bodies littered in and around the Cafe Corinth. All struck down in the height of their youth. Enjolras is not afraid of death, nor is he afraid of the National Guardsmen standing before him. No, he is afraid to face his friends when he joins them beyond the barricade. He regrets it, this whole endevour. But he must fight for his homeland, patria, France.
Enjolras has retreated to the top floor of the Cafe Corinth, running as fast and as far as possible. He knows he is only delaying the inevitable, that all too soon he will hear that familiar bang of a rifle and taste the sharpness of blood overtaking his senses.
“He is their leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot,” one of the Guardsmen cried. Enjolras knew this would be the consequence, but he wished he could respond that he had not wished to kill the artillery-man, that after the ring of his carabine had elapsed he prayed for that man. He wished he could ask the man’s name, to hear the story of his life. To know where he was from, and where he was going. Did he want to fight against his brother, his fellow man? Did he feel rage, pain, love as he fell? He wished he could explain that he hated killing, the whole buisness of it. He wished he could explain that when he closes his eyes, he sees only the lives he’s been forced to take. He wished he could explain that this eye for an eye bullshit meant nothing to him. But he did not say any of that.
“Shoot me,” he said simply. But there were layers to the soft growl he spoke in. And though he dropped his weapon to the floor, his stance– the firm feet and crossed arms– emitted more power than any construction of steel and wood. A Guardsman stepped forward, raising his gun to Enjolras, but only seconds later he disengaged.
“I cannot shoot a flower.” He said this, and looked upon Enjolras’ calm face, unblemished from the blood and dirt that covered all others at the scene. Even his blond hair, which should– by all laws of Nature– be darkened by the dust and smoke, seemed to glow in the reflections of the Guardsmen’s rifles; he seemed there to be a god. The other Guardsmen turned away, keeping their guns lifted, knowing the task that must be done.
The sergeant shouted, “Take aim!” It was in this moment that the sceptic awoke.
—
Grantaire, as we know, was not dead. Although, in his drunken state he may as well have been. A faint conversation could be heard across the room, and it was the curt “Yes” and “No” answers of Enjolras that awoke him. That, and the deafening silence of the rest of the barricade. When he awoke, he realized– with the awareness only a drunken man possesses– two things: the first, that all his friends were dead– he posited this from the silence– and that Enjolras was still alive– as it was his voice that drew him from his slumber.
Yet again, the sergeant shouted “Take aim!” It was in this moment that the skeptic truly awoke. That is to say, he understood.
While lying prone on the table, the Guardsmen must have assumed Grantaire to be dead. This was his one saving grace. Awake, however, they would surely notice him and kill him in the manner they had his friends. In this moment, Grantaire made an idiotic decision. You see, he was conflicted in the way all men are conflicted– caught between his head and his heart. His head argued to stay still, they may pass him by again and he could live. His heart argued that living would mean nothing, his friends and Enjolras would be dead. In the long span of human history, this may be the one instant in which the heart has won over the skeptical man.
“Long live the Republic! I’m one of them.” Grantaire was unaware that Enjolras was observing him with piercing eyes. However, as he turned to stand beside the man, he could see the faint tinge of pride upon his disdainful look. He had gazed into these eyes many times. He had seen their angry fires directed at him, and the joy that spread throughout his face when he spoke to his friends. Never, had he seen pride, and certainly he had never seen it directed at him. It was in this look that Grantaire found his courage. Not only to stand up for the Republic, but to admit the things he believed.
“Finish both of us at one blow,” he boldly challenged the Guardsmen. He softened when he turned to Enjolras, grasping his hand as if it was the one thing binding him to this mortal plane– in some way, it was– “Do you permit it?” Grantaire almost left it there, but the warmth of Enjolras’ hand gave him the courage to continue:
“Do you permit me to dream of what could have been, if we were anywhere but here? Do you permit me to stare into your eyes, in adoration, as the fire burns even beyond the grave? Do you permit me to share in your fate, even though I have not earned it as you have? Do you permit our roles to switch, for me to finally believe that someone cares that I will fall? Do you permit me to love you, not as a brother-in-arms, but as a lover? Please, Enjolras, do you permit it?”
Grantaire could not stand to hear the other man’s answer, for fear that he would be pushed away, forsaken in his moment of need. But as he fearfully turned his head to Enjolras, to stare into his eyes, they were not full of the fires of rage, but rather the cool, calm waters of adoration.
“I permit it. I permit it here and in the next life, for as long as we live and beyond. For even the vibrant earth needs the barren moon to pull Her tides, and Pygmalion was able to carve a loving wife from immovable stone. I doubted you, Grantaire, but no longer. I love you as a wanderer loves the sight of fire in the distance, although it may amount to dangers.”
And so the men grasped eachothers hands, holding on to the sweetness of life, the confession that, perhaps, both men had finally found something to live for, just as soon as life was certain to be lost. The National Guardsmen looked on, astonished, at this Apollo and his Hyacinthus, but that did not stop the entourage of bullets from their guns.
Eight bullets pierced Enjolras, holding him against the wall. His eyes still shined, and though many would assume it was the fire of rebellion, we know it now to be the fire of passion, of love found too late. Grantaire fell to his feet, struck as if by lightning. The men, even in death, did not let go of eachother’s hands. Upon both of their lips lay a single phrase: I love you.
—
And that is the truth, the whole truth. It may seem improbable, but the truth is often stranger than fiction. Enjolras found that a Rebellion need not be fought alone, and Grantaire discovered that happiness lies not at the bottom of a glass, but in the eyes of his love. Perhaps lessons learned too late, but lessons learned all the same. Do not let them tell you this is a story of pain. Yes, it is a tragedy, but it is not one of pain, it is a story of love.