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Enjolras gently lowered the injured man to the floor insde the wine-shop, shifting helping another move to make space. “More wounded.” He barely had the words out before he turned, making his way back into the hail of gunfire. He was unarmed, his blond hair streaked with red.
“The nineteenth century is great,” said Combeferre, “but the twentieth century will be happy.”
Enjolras stopped in the doorway, and turned around.
“Do you believe it?” Combeferre asked. The floor was strewn with bodies. Some of them, Combeferre had known well. Others, he had not seen before today. He did not know which was first.
Enjolras swallowed. “I believe it.”
How can you? Combeferre wanted to ask. None of them had said it, but they knew that without the people of Paris, they would not last the night.
Enjolras took a step towards him. “What do you see when you look at these men?”
“I see that my brothers are dead.” Only hours ago, there had been a glorious future before him. There had been talk of progress, and of liberty. Now all he saw was blood and grapeshot.
“And I see that they were alive. And that while they were alive, they fought.” He took Combeferre’s hand in his, his eyes intense. “We may not last the night, Combeferre. The people of Paris may not rise. But remember this – these men did. Their sacrifice will not be in vain. So long as the human race continues, it continues to progress. So long as there are men such as these men, who will fight with more care for liberty than for life; so long as there are men such as Feuilly, who adopt humanity for their own; so long as there are men such as Prouvaire, who die with ‘Long live the future!’ on their lips; so long as there are men such as you, Combeferre – men who believe in the goodness of the human race, in the inevitability of progress; so long as that is so—“
Combeferre looked down at their hands entwined, Enjolras’ pale, his own darker. Both red with blood. “Is it so?” he asked. “Can you look out that door, and see young men shooting young men because on the one side they have been ordered, and on the other, they believe they have no choice, and tell me that the human race is good? Can you hear…” -the name died on his lips- “Can you hear poets killed by their governments and tell me that progress is inevitable?”
Enjolras tilted forward on his toes, lips brushing softly across Combeferre’s. “So long as there are men like you, who see that something’s wrong.”