O1 Enjolras rubbed a hand through his blonde hair as he glanced up out of the skylight that was the main source of natural illumination in the tiny garret that he occupied when he was not in the streets of Paris or within the Cafe de Musain; his time being spent with the rest of les amis de l’ABC and the various hangers on from other Parisian groups and sometimes there were other students. Enjolras didn’t really care who was there, as long as they were committed to the cause, as long as they were prepared to see it through to the end. The sky seemed grim to his blue eyes, though the hour was growing somewhat late, and would ever be grim and late until the Republic became a reality. He leant over and pulled on his coat, the small, battered looking cockade still clinging to his lapel, just as he continued to cling to his fervour that this republic that had once dawned, would dawn again. He left the small garret and ran quickly down the stairs and out into the Paris streets.
O2 They were still full of people despite the darkening hour; the starving beggars seemed to collect as though they gravitated towards one another. As though a larger grouping might force one of the carriages to halt in the street, for bread to be given, for money; for any sort of mercy that they might be in a position to offer. It made no difference. No-one stopped. No-one ever would. It made his blood boil. The only ally that he, and the rest of the working classes had ever had after the terror and the revolution had been General Lamarque and the man was fading from life as a candle might flicker in the wind. Automatically, Enjoras’ eyes flickered to the windows of Lamarque’s house. The shutters were closed, and the whispers were that he would not last the week. Perhaps the liberty, the equality that truly was the right of man, that which had been discussed by the enlightened philosophes and had been the foundation of The Rights of Man, would become
O3 a reality. Again, the people would rise against the lies that had been presented to them on a charred silver platter as the blood was rinsed from the gutters. They would be victorious and again claim the land for their own. That was a dream that Enjolras was striving to become a reality. As he entered the Café, those whom he had begun to call his brothers (together they were the..friends of the ABC, a somewhat desolate pun on abaissé; the debased, the common, the miserable ones) turned at his entrance. Often it was as though it was his mere presence that seemed to inspire them, to give them back their hope that might dwindle through the day. Courfreyac was perhaps the most committed of the amis and for that, Enjolras had almost made him.. second in command as it were. The others were loyal, extraordinarily so; but many of them had mistresses and Enjolras looked up sharply as Marius admitted to having found a woman. Enjolras’ mistress, his lover; it was France.
O4 “For Gods sakes Pontmercy!” he snapped sharply. “How do you expect for this to be successful if you let a woman cloud your vision.. You know what we fight for! You know what our goal is..You cannot let a woman get in the way of this” his handsome face was curled into a snarl. “You will be like Graintaire!” he waved a slim hand towards the drunkard of the group. He sometimes wondered why he did not just turn the young man away.