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Justice (Enjolras): June, 1832
Audric and I have discussed it a thousand times, and never come to any satisfactory conclusion. I wish I could believe as he does, that our aims will achieve themselves in the fullness of time, that years of human suffering are better than a day of bloodshed. I would like to have that faith. I am here now, in the wreckage of a street, because I think it necessary, not because I want to be here. Perhaps I imagined glory, once when I was young, but 1830 cured me of that. Last night when I embraced him, he pulled away from me. "You are going, aren't you. In spite of everything I've said." "I am going to the funeral," I said. "Armed," he flung at me. "Prepared." He turned away, his shoulders hunched. "Damn you." "Audric--" My heart twisted. I have no defense against his anger, except anger, and I did not have the heart to quarrel with him, that night of all nights. I cannot bear to see that look on his face, upset with me, disappointed in me. I am so proud of him, his wisdom and his kindness that have only grown over the years; I want him to be proud of me. I said soft, soothing things to him, convinced him somehow to come to bed with me, to let me kiss him and hold him until we fell asleep. When we woke in the early hours of the morning, we did not speak of it. And he is here, now. He cannot be too angry with me, if he is here. * * * When I come out into the street, it is almost dark. The day has gone more quickly than I would have believed possible, but not in a blur. Everything is clear in my mind: the things we have done, the things we have yet to do. I know where everyone is, and what to expect from them. Strange that it comes so easily. Two years ago I was too overwhelmed to do much more than follow; today I have led. "All quiet?" I ask of a man I know slightly, and he nods. "So far." "Where did Courfeyrac go?" He points up the street, where I can pick out Aimery's graceful figure amid a knot of shadows. "And Combeferre?" "He went off with --" Something warns me: a prickle in the air like the presentiment of thunder. Whatever he was about to say is lost beneath the sudden pounding of my heart. When the shot goes off, I am already moving. In the stillness that follows, as I round the corner, someone says distinctly, "God." There's a handful of them standing in the shadows; a dead man at a window, and a burly fellow just beneath, the gun still smoking in his hand. "That's it," he says in tones of satisfaction, and my mind goes white with fury. I promised Audric that I would have this in hand. Swore to him that I would brook no needless bloodshed. This fool, this reckless drunken fool, has made me a liar. We are judges, not assassins. And it is strange how it comes so easily; how he bends before me like a child, felled by his own guilt; how swiftly and suddenly he dies. In the clear, cold place where I find myself, the sight of the twitching body hardly moves me. The others have gathered to see what the matter is; I can hear their breath in the silence. Calm, cold, I turn to explain it to them. And then I see Audric's face.
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