Do You Hear The People Sing [Group Thread]

[LA MORT]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ] One more day to revolution We will nip it in the bud Lamarque is dead. Lamarque! His death is the hour of fate. The people's man. His death is the sign we await! On his funeral day they will honor his name. It's a rallying cry that will reach every ear! In the death of Lamarque we will kindle the flame They will see that the day of salvation is near! The time is near! Let us welcome it gladly with courage and cheer Let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts But a jubilant shout They will come one and all They will come when we call! Red, white and blue is splashed over the crowd as they stand somberly awaiting the arrival of the carriage that will shortly be gracing the streets of Paris. Someone cries and the crowd stirs anxiously, the tension can be felt pulsating over the people like a heartbeat as the sound of horses can be heard in the distance. The time is here…the time is now…Do you hear the people sing? [Please post in the sign up order. Located Here] We'll be ready for these schoolboys

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TEMPLATE BY TRINITY BLAIR @ CAUTION 2.0 & ATF

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[atrb=border,0,true] I OFFER YOU A LOOK INSIDE, I OFFER YOU THAT TRUST I NEED YOUR STRENGTH TO FIGHT THE BATTLES I MUST I NEED YOU TO REMIND ME OF THE LIGHT WE BEAR WITHIN THERE'S MORE TO LIFE THAN THE THINGS WE SEEK TO WIN

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[style=height:330px; overflow: auto; text-align:justify; background-color:00235E]It began as a solemn day, a sad day. Everyone had admired General Lamarque. He had been more than a war hero; he had stood up for the people. And now, it seemed half the city was standing up for him. Every type of person had come out to show their respect for the late general, from the National Guardsmen who admired Lamarque for his military prowess to the working poor who had revered his heart for the needy.

So far, things had been peaceful, but there was a bit of tension in the air. People had been jostling for position for hours so that they could get a clear sight of the casket as it would go by, lining the streets for perhaps miles. Courfeyrac stood among his brethren and some of the women who waited on them in the Musain or the wine shop, the people who lived in the area near where their barricade would rise today.

Everyone was waiting with slight impatience. Even though this day was symbolic for more reason than one, even though Courfeyrac really did have gratitude in his heart for Lamarque, the man was dead now and there was nothing more that he could do to help them. He had been the catalyst for change, it was true, but the rest, they would have to do on their own - and that was exactly what they were going to do.

His amis had all come to the consensus together - as true republicans ought to do - that when the carriage came by bearing Lamarque's body, they would mount and overtake it, waving their red flag. The carriage would halt, the people would rally amount them to stop the procession of the funeral, the Guardsmen would face a wall of opponents, and from there, everyone would run to the street where they had agreed to construct the barricade. Everything would have to happen very rapidly, and no mistakes could be made, but they had planned most meticulously, and now their schemes were nearing fruition.

Was it irreverent to let this occur at Lamarque's funeral? Perhaps. But it was the place where the most of his followers would be, and what better way to honor him than by fighting for his cause?

As he craned his head to check the street one more time, he finally saw the carriage approaching in the distance, and gave a knowing glance to his friends on either side of him. At long last, it was almost time.

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[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

[atrb=border,0,true] WHEN THE CIRCLING AND STRIKING ARE DONE AND I LAND LET ME COME BACK TO YOUR HAND, BACK TO YOUR HAND [style=height:340px; overflow: auto; text-align:justify; background-color:00235E] There was a a thick tension in the air, an eerie silence laying over the heads of hundreds of people lining the street on both sides, and the low, rhythmic drumrolls in the distance only added to the spooky feeling of the whole situation. It felt like they all were waiting for a grave execution, only that the person they were waiting for was already dead. General Lamarque… with him they did not only bury a great man, they also buried many a person’s hope that actual politics of here and now would care for the needs of the people and would want to change their horrid circumstances in life. It was almost ironic that the same illness that caused hundreds of Pariseans to drop like flies had carried off their fiercest advocate as well. And now that the May Parade only a few days before had showed what the National Guard was willing to do if faced with even the inkling of a threat, the mood was not only reverent, it was explosive. It seemed like everyone was waited for some signal, something to happen with bated breahs – and Mylène was one of the few knowing that something would happen. She felt uncomfortable being wedged amongst so many people, she would have rather watched the spectacle from the safe distance of a rooftop, but then she let her gaze wander over the lads, her friends that were standing around her with serious, tense faces, the flags they had prepared to wave hidden behind their backs – and she knew that this was her place. It had been a deal sealed some time ago, but it had been confirmed yesterday at latest, when Ponine and her had brought them a very much needed additonal supply of gunpowder and bullets. Their reaction still made her smile inwardly, a tiny bubble of pride swelling in her chest. Now they should say again the women could contribute nothing to their cause! They had shown themselves to be reliant and effective, void of the delicacy and fear that was usually connected with their gender. And yet Mylène also felt fear, felt apprehensive of what was to come. This was getting serious, barricades would rise, people could be injured or even killed – and there were still so many questions unanswered! Her heartbeat was echoing the rhythmic beat of the approaching drums, and while they still reminded her of the regime of injustice they represented, she also drew courage from them. Something was about to happen… and they all could contribute to it! Once again her eyes flickered towards Courfeyrac and she gave him a tentative smile, then craned her neck. Not long now… not long now…!

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[Deleted]

Combeferre had not slept a wink the night before. He had only gone home at his friends’ request, and he had shut himself in his study, staring out of the window the whole night and mentally berating himself for being such an ignorant fool. It seemed that everyone around him had been aware that Eponine was in love with Marius except for him. Everything made better sense now—from the first time that he had seen her to when she was asking him what class he shared with Marius. She had never wanted to take lessons from him because she particularly liked him—it was all for Marius.

And the bloody fool didn’t even know it. The man—irritating as his ideas about Napoleon were—had everything Combeferre ever could have wanted or dreamed of, and for that he was jealous. Jealousy had been such a fickle emotion to the medical student in the past. He had considered himself above it. But now because he had allowed himself to fall in love, his mind no longer romped freely with God, and was now on the level of the everyday human being. He was jealous but he did not lash out in anger. He was not angry at Eponine. He was upset with her for risking her life the day before, and he had told her such before inadvertently telling her he loved her in the Musain. He was just sorry—not that he had loved her, but that Marius did not love her as he did. He wanted her to be happy, even if it crushed him—and it would, but he would push aside the pain and be happy for her if it ever came to that.

It was this and the fact that it might be his last night on earth that had kept him awake. When the dawn rose and sunlight poured onto his fatigued face, he rose from his chair, straightening his scarlet cravat and picking his coat up from where he had flung it on the way in. There would be no time for him to change, so he was wearing the clothes he had the previous day. He opened a drawer on his desk, taking out the two pistols he had obtained for that day. He secured them to his belt and wrapped his tricolor sashes around them to obscure the weapons. Finally, he pulled on his coat and peaked cap before stepping outside, shutting the door behind him.

It was still early, and yet a gigantic throng of people had assembled for the funeral march. Combeferre removed his hat automatically, running a hand through his disheveled fair hair and nodding at Bahorel beside him. He was tired and it showed, but he was not going to let it faze him. Of course, that seemed hypocritical since he was always getting after Enjolras for not getting enough sleep. He would be running on pure adrenaline before the day was over. In his front pocket, he had tucked one of his medical books—not that he would have time to read. It was for reference when he actually had to perform surgeries, which he foolishly hoped he would not. The only thing he had operated on was a cadaver, so this would be his trial by fire, if he lasted long enough.
Survival was not a goal. Making sure that they suffered as few casualties as possible was his only aim. He could not stand to see any of his friends die, and he would do anything and everything he could to prevent their deaths, even if it cost him his own life. That was why he was here—he believed in their cause of course, but he had been hoping for a peaceful transition. That hope was lost, but he stood with his friends simply because they were his friends. If he was to die, he would die alongside his brothers. He had prepared himself for this, writing letters to his parents in Normandy and his brother who was on holiday in Oxford. He had left out what exactly he was planning to do rather tactfully, but said in the event of his death, they were to look after Eponine. He had also had a will composed, leaving his flat and his accounts to her if he fell at the barricades. On his way to the funeral, he had stopped to post the letters. His parents and his brother would panic, no doubt, over both letters’ content, but odds were he would never get a chance to explain to them. It was likely that they would fill in the blanks themselves from the papers.

He pushed the image of his mother’s reaction from his head, his eyes squinting at the horses making their way down the street. He slipped his glasses out of his pocket and put them on, pushing them up his nose so that he could see better. Perhaps the people would follow—if so many of them had gotten up this early to attend the funeral. Of course they would, wouldn’t they?

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

It was still dark when Eponine slipped out of the bed beside Montparnasse. Between the adrenaline from the night's schemes and the overwhelming feeling of guilt and regret, she had barely slept at all. She had sought out 'Parnasse after the excitement and joy of the evening had turned to heartache, and she needed something to numb it all. Something to make her forget the look in Combeferre's eyes as she left with Marius, or the wide grin on Marius's face when he at last saw Cosette again. It had all been too much to bear, so she went looking for the only thing she knew that would drown it all out and make her forget, even for a little while. And yet once 'Parnasse had finally slumbered, sleep evaded Eponine as she lay on the coarse mattress, staring up at the stained and cracked ceiling. It had given her time to think, to pick through her life, separating reality from fantasy. For so long she had believed 'Parnasse was the best she could hope for in life, but dared to dream about a life with Marius. But was it really Marius she loved? As long as she had known him, she thought she had. While they were friends and had been for a long time, it had never gone beyond that. They teased and laughed with each other, but that was it. He had never shown her the amount of consideration and affection Combeferre had in just the short time she had truly known him.

And Combeferre loved her. Well and truly and willing to admit it to the world. The one thing she thought she would never have in her life, told herself over and over to stop wishing for, was within her grasp. She had never let herself believe it, and still didn't in some ways, but just the same, it was there. And she had let it slip away in a moment of stupid weakness.

So just before dawn, she had come to her decision. Marius would never love her, and she wouldn't dare rob him of his happiness. He deserved the joy of a life with Cosette, a life full of love. And she would do all in her power to see that he got it. As much as it terrified her, she would do the same for Combeferre, if it wasn't too late. If he was willing to give her a second chance, that she wasn't foolish enough to think she deserved, she would risk it all to let him in, to let herself love him.

Eponine had to find him, both of them, and make sure they survived this day. But they'd never let her near the barricade if they knew it was her. Padding across the room quietly, so not to wake 'Parnasse, she grabbed a discarded thin cloth. It might have been a blanket once upon a time, but the fabric was wearing thin. It was perfect. After ripping it into long strips, Eponine began the painful process of binding her chest, layer after layer tightening around her. Although she had worn a bodice since she was old enough to need one, this was something entirely different, and entirely uncomfortable. Still it was necessary to hide her gender to sneak into their barricade. Securing the last layer, she slipped her arms into one of Montparnasse's old shirts and belted some dark brown pants around her waist. Followed quickly by some oversized boots, her own tattered shawl as a make shift cravat, and a long dusty coat she found in a corner and she was almost done. Scrambling through the abandoned flat, she searched for the last piece of the illusion, a flat cap. Seizing her prize, she tucked her hair up inside and snuck out just as the sun was rising.

There were so many people already lining the streets, craning to get a look at the procession as it passed by. Eponine had to shoulder her way through the early morning crowd, determined to find her friends. Luckily her small frame worked in her favor and she soon found herself nearly careening into a familiar head of dark curls and red jacket. Stopping herself just short of colliding with Courfeyrac, she stood just behind his left shoulder, keeping her head down as she scanned the crowd. She could see Mylene nearby, the tension in the air evident on her face. Peering across the street, she saw Bahorel and Combeferre, the latter looking like he hadn't slept at all. Her heart went out to him, breaking to know she carried at least part of the blame for his current state. Keeping her eyes trained on him, she pulled the brim of the cap lower over her face, waiting for the spark that would ignite this powderkeg.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly was filled with conflicting emotions. His job was probably lost; he should have been there hours ago, and yet he had not gone. It would not matter. Lamarque's funeral and their cause, this shared and wonderful cause that he believed all of Paris might unite around, was far more important than bread to fill his own belly. I'll be dead before he can fire me. He was too excited about the dawning battle to feel his own hunger, and he suspected many of the others had not eaten that morning either. That excitement, he knew, was perhaps in truth mostly fear—but he refused to let his friends see that. He was filled with a very real grief at Lamarque's death, deepest respect for the one government official who had managed to become a peoples' hero.

He had left no note, for who would read it? The other men with whom he lived were mainly illiterate, and he knew they would waste no time in getting rid of his few belongings and finding another man to take his place on the hard pallet bed should he fail to return for a few days. They knew what was happening, and he hoped a few of them might trickle to the barricades. At least two would be here at the funeral, but he stood with his friends rather than seeking them out. He had never been so close to them, and no matter how often when he lay sleepless beneath his rough, threadbare blanket at night the image of a single pretty girl in Marseille came to him, he knew she likely was long dead.

Nervously, he adjusted the cockade pinned to his jacket, straightened the tricolored sash at his waist. He had dressed as well as he could; it was a mark of respect for Lamarque's memory and for this ideal of a revolution, of a republic. For once, no paint marred his clothing, and very little even his skin—he had scrubbed his hands until they were almost raw from both the cold water and the harsh soap. No doubt the clothes would be stained with blood by nightfall, but to fall defending their ideals in the same clothing he wore to honor Lamarque seemed fitting. Taking another deep breath, he forced himself to stop fidgeting. His friends were beside him, and that was the important thing.

The condition of his friends was the more concerning thing. Courfeyrac he did not particularly worry about, nor even Bahorel—the man looked entirely in his element, his posture relaxed and confident in contrast to the tension all around them. But then, that was typical for each, and Feuilly was familiar enough with Bahorel's incendiary words and tales to know he could handle himself whatever happened. Combeferre, on the other hand, looked exhausted. Stressed even beyond the tension of the situation. It had to be difficult for him, Feuilly thought. As much as it pained Feuilly that his fellow children of France would have to be hurt, even to die and perhaps at his hand... he knew it gnawed at Combeferre's heart as well. So his words always implied, the color of his philosophy that always seemed a few shades softer than that of so many others. And the student was less accustomed to death than himself, Feuilly supposed. Not that watching death had ever ceased to hurt, no matter how many times he saw it.

The crowd grew more restive, and he could hear from the sound of the gathered people that the carriage was approaching even before he could see it around the others in the crowd. He removed his hat, holding it over his heart in a gesture of respect. It would have to be back on his head before they mounted the thing or else he would lose it, but for the moment... they were still on the ground, and this was only a funeral and not yet a revolt.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

What makes this day different from all other days? On this day, Inspector Javert is attending a funeral.

On all other days, death affected him only tangentially. He read about them on the rare occasions when he perused a newspaper; he heard about them second-hand by listening to the conversations of others. But for the passing of police commissioners or convicts, they never touched him personally. Today, though, was different. Oh, he hadn't known the dead man. They had never even formally met, just sometimes been in the same room together for official functions. Now in the general’s death at last their paths might cross, but not in a way that either man could have guessed.

Rumors had been circulating for months, whispers strengthened by the appearance of cholera in the masses' midst, growing to a murmur in recent weeks. The police and the gendarmes, who had a keen sense for this sort of thing, they were in agreement—there was a chance that trouble would erupt at the funeral. What trouble? Who knew... but with the student groups becoming restless like packs of stray dogs, it wasn't hard to guess who might be responsible. The government would not be caught flat-footed, oh no. They were ready, National Guardsmen in place in case they should be needed. And there was also Javert.

He was not in uniform for this. As a staunch monarchist, he would have volunteered for special service even if he had not been assigned—but to his satisfaction, he was. So here he was dressed in workman's clothes, one among the throngs lining the street. He was a man transformed, police inspector no longer, but police spy. He would play his part to the hilt. Just the simple act of a smile was enough to render even a face as well-known as his nearly unrecognizable. Add some pleasantries exchanged with those around him and few would think immediately of Javert when they saw this unassuming worker with the cap pulled down low over his eyes.

But disguised as he was, he could still taste the tension in the air. It did not bode well for what was to come. He too was tense, though for a different reason from all these people come to pay their respects to Lamarque. He didn't care one way or the other about the dead general; true, he had been outspoken in criticizing the king, but he was gone and could not instigate anything personally anymore. It was only what might spring from his death that concerned Javert. So he waited and watched with what seemed like half of Paris for the funeral procession to arrive, wondering if those drums he heard, distant for now, would soon turn to cannon fire.

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Frère Nicephore had felt out of place all his life when it came to his father, but he probably never had felt more out of place than now, walking behind the cart that carried his father’s coffin. If it had been his decision, his father would have gotten a small and silent funeral where he could be laid to rest in the family tomb, not this… prostration through the city. Yes, his father had been a good man, but he had neither been a king nor a god to justify such a devotion to his remains. His soul was with God already, and up there he would not care for being adored. Only God deserved to be adored, who were men to assume His glory? The mass of people lining the streets in reverent silence were moving, though, and at least they WERE silent, doffing their hats and caps to honour the dead General. More than anything, he feared that someone would desecrate his father’s entombment with a riot, starting something in his name that had never been his will. They called him the People’s Man… the Father of a Nation’s poorest.

If he had such a big heart for all those people, Nicephore thought sadly as his gaze wandered over them, How come he needed to be on his deathbed to finally let his only son back into his heart? But then, it was not his way to think badly of other people, and especially not the dead. What was done was done, and his father had tried his best, for sure. These people, however… had they really known him, like he had been? Had he known his father, and had his father truly tried to get to know his son? There was no use in crying over spilt milk, but the thought could not be banished from his mind completely, what they could have achieved had they only known each other better and accepted each other. His father had been elderly but not extrenely old, if the Cholera had not got to him, they might have had more time. God had decided differently, now, and as happy as Nicephore usually was to subject himself to His will, he knew this might take a little longer, and he asked God for forgiveness even while he walked.

The rolling of the drums, coming from the military guard of honour accompanying the cart unnerved the Franciscan Brother, he had the weird notion for a moment that it was him that was accompanied somewhere, maybe to his own execution, and he almost laughed about that silly thought. Still, some religious chants would have been more befitting for a funeral march than this show of military force, it reminded him too much of the man his father had been, the warrior, not the peacemaker. Walking inside this procession, Nicephore felt like he was giving a statement against his firm beliefs. But this was his father’s funeral, he was the closest still living relative. Of course he could not just stand back.

[Deleted]

Marius had chosen his best coat for the funeral—which was still by normal standards pretty shabby. It was a dull brown tailcoat, and underneath he wore one of his newer vests and cravats. It was out of respect for the man that was to be buried today that he had done this. He would have worn his black one, but he had had to sell it in order to pay for Cosette’s ring.

She was going to England—and he could not follow, even if he wanted. Not unless…no. He loved her, but he would never take money from his grandfather again. Regardless of what others thought, he still was committed to his ideals, and he would not abandon the revolution for even the girl he loved. He was going to take his examinations and become an advocate so that he would have enough to provide for her, and then they would marry—after this ended.

He had neglected to tell Cosette the particulars of what was going on at the funeral. She had asked to go with him but he had attempted to dissuade her from it—and he thought it worked. He at least had not seen her, and she said that she would stay home. At least that’s what he had taken her statement as. His angel would never deceive him, she was too pure, too good to do that. He knew that she would wait—what he didn’t know was if he would survive.

It was a completely different world before he met Cosette. Before her, he only really loved his cause and his dream of becoming an attorney. He supposed that wasn’t even love to begin with…so in all honesty he had never known love until he had known her. That made it infinitely harder for him to face what may be his last hours. Although he had always wanted to become a lawyer he had been wrapped up in the excitement of a free France, and he had been rather zealous for the cause—not as zealous as their leader of course, but he believed in it completely. But now…now he had only just begun to live! How could he die now when he had so much to live for, so much to look forward to?

He would fight, but he would have to keep his head down. Maybe if he didn’t do anything stupid, he would make it through the day unscathed? Thinking of her gave him reason enough to survive—and his determination had to count for something. Besides, with the people’s help, they would overcome their foe—there was no doubt in the young student’s mind. Once they commandeered the hearse, the people would rush to their aid, and no one would stand in their way. The day would be theirs.

[FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY]

The day seemed strangely fresh; Joly was up with the sun preparing for the day that would possibly determine his fate and future. He was oddly calm, his hand steady as he fixed his cravat and cockade, a firm honorary gesture to a man who had so many peoples respect. It seemed unnatural for a day that held sadness to so many people to be so fair, but the sun was shining brightly on the city of Paris as the people stirred to face an historic day. He left early, taking to the streets with determination in each of his steps as he neared closer to the spot they had been ordered to gather at.

Today was a day for revolution.

Enjolras’s speeches the night before had stirred Jolys heart and given him the strength and determination to face his fears. He would stand and fight with his fellow comrades today. They planned for a peaceful protest, but they knew the reaction from the soldiers would be hostile and it would be foolish of them not to be prepared to fight and to die for the cause. Joly felt empowered as he realised how his actions today could mark a change for the poor citizens of France. The people were no longer going to suffer in silence and although they had lost their voice with the death of the General, they were going to stand with him today to make sure his death and his message would continue to be heard.

Joly slipped between a young family, who were waiting patiently for carriage to pass by, but it was still early and he suspected they were claiming a spot so they could have a good view of the carriage as it passed them. The crowds were gathering and Joly found a position close to Courfeyrac who had a prime position and a strong view of the street ahead. His eyes drifted over the crowd spotting several other members of the group, each one waiting as was he, with baited breath for the carriage to draw near.

Joly picked up on Courfeyracs signal from across the street, and nodded back to him, indicating he knew it was almost time. The anticipation was unbearable and Jolys nerves floundered as he stood agitated waiting for the signal to move. There was a general mumble a feeling shared by the entire crowd, a feeling of determination, anger and sadness at the great loss of a man who had heard their cries.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]702 WORDS FOR everyone No notes at present. BARRICADE [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean had slept poorly the night before, though the reason for this was clearer than it might have been on other days or evenings. Normally, he didn't have a great trouble sleeping, though insomnia was also not unfamiliar to him as poet. Truth be told, often times if he was awake at odd hours, it was to write and he'd forgotten the time and was on a spee of words as they flowed from pen nib to paper - not because he found himself unable to sleep. The few times where he had experience true insomnia, he had never known what had caused it and he had been back to normal the next night, if a little overtired from the day's events on little to no sleep The night before, however, had been different from others so far. There was something to happen today which he knew to be the cause for his anxiety-driven inability to sleep all the previous night. Instead, he'd tossed and turned all over his small bed in his little flat. He had gotten up and down, stared out of the dormer window down to the city beneath him, made some tea, attempted to write and found himself incredibly stymied, and finally given it up for a lost cause and gone to sit resolutely, lost in his thoughts, in a chair near the dying embers of the evening's fire, poking at it with the wrought iron fire tools. He hoped that fire was not going to be symbolic for the lives of himself and his friends in the coming days. He hoped they were going to survive the next day. He knew that this stress and anxiety about the next day was what made him like this, but he also knew that the passage of time would not improve until it was all resolved and done with. So, he sat in the chair unable to write or do anything of use until the sun had risen in the wee hours of that morning. He wondered, vaguely, as he forced himself to choke down a cup of coffee and some bread and jam whether this would be the last sunrise he would ever see on this earth. He made no deception of himself in realizing that that which he and his friends had been planning over the last few days was dangerous and, by some merits, positively suicidal. And it wasn't that he feared giving his life up for the cause by any means... though he did worry about his family and how that sacrifice might affect them... and it was this that made him wary and thinking things about whether they were going to die. Jean did not like violence in general. He preferred to use the weapons of wit of word and pen to fight his battles. However, this time he knew such things would not be possible. It had tried and failed too many times before. The time had come for action rather than words, and truthfully he knew what Aurelien said was the truth in that matter, but he, like Combeferre, had wished it hadn't come to that - had wished for a peaceful resolution.. not the hijacking of a war hero's funeral and a stand to make in which many many people migt lose their lives hoping to prove a point in the injustice of the monarchy. Jean just found himself hoping that it would not be too many. Praying, in fact. On the way to the funeral, he wandered into a small church where he made confession - just in case.. and prayed silently - both for his friends' success but also for their safety and for the changes that they would seek today. Finished there, he headed toward the place he had told them he would be - with Feuilly, arguably the second member of the group of friends he was close to - the other of course being Enjolras with whom he had grown up. There was a leaden feeling in his stomach as he stepped into the crowd beside Christophe, his stomach doing flip flops. He nodded to him, too tense for actual words at this point while they waited. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[FABIEN BAHOREL]

If there ever was a feeling of deja-vue in Bahorel’s life, he experienced it now. A funeral… and a rebellion close to happen. He remembered the feeling all too well, lining the street in a makeshift guard of honour – though the crowd back then had maybe been one tenth of the mass it had now – adorned in his best clothes, the somber mood and the anxiety inside that made every muscle sing like a taunt string. He stood amongst his friends like that time also, to his left was Combeferre and to his right the impossible poet Jehan Provaire. Next to Provaire there was Enjolras, who would hopefully give the signal soon that they would raise their voices and advance on the hearse that carried General Lamarque’s coffin. Just like he, Fabien Bahorel himself, had given the signal to start a riot at the late Lallemand’s funeral. Oh how grand it had been! He was waiting for something equally grand now, or even grander, since they had been planning it for so long. The people would rush to their side, they would throw off the yoke of monarchy – finally something happening in the streets of Paris again, just like in the old Glorious Days!

Like many of his brothers in the societé, he was hiding a rolled up flag behind his back, ready to wave it proudly once they would storm into the street – and such a wooden stick made a formidable weapon too, if you thought of it. Alright, he was more into this for the fun of the revolution itself than for the outcome they wished to create, but as long as they were working hand in hand and the result was positive, who could blame him? He was making something of himself today, was even wearing his faluche, which he most of the time avoided, because it reminded him of all the studying he should be doing. And of course there was the cocarde pinned proudly to his chest, the symbol of those who wanted the republic, who wanted to see France back to her old glory.

They all could see the front line of drummers approaching now, and it was as if the drumrolls counted down the seconds for something to happen. And Bahorel knew it would happen. Lamarque’s death was the fire signal for those who were tired of being subdued, they would bury the People’s Man… and raise the republic on his grave. Quite a wording… hmm… maybe he should keep that thought for later, when he would be trying to rally the masses along with Enjolras. The people needed not only to see, they needed to know to what end the students were overtaking the hearse, or else they would shy away from the trouble. They needed to know that this was made for THEM, and not just some students running rampart – like it had, partly, been with the Lallemand riots. Oh well, if Enjolras had half his wits about him, he would make sure of exactly that, that the people knew what was at stake. And if Enjolras did not, Bahorel would. For what was a revolution without the people revolting too? That’s right – a desaster, a fatal one even.

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[atrb=border,0,true] I OFFER YOU A LOOK INSIDE, I OFFER YOU THAT TRUST I NEED YOUR STRENGTH TO FIGHT THE BATTLES I MUST I NEED YOU TO REMIND ME OF THE LIGHT WE BEAR WITHIN THERE'S MORE TO LIFE THAN THE THINGS WE SEEK TO WIN

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[style=height:330px; overflow: auto; text-align:justify; background-color:00235E]Joly beside him, Feuilly across... a strange boy who looked oddly familiar. Courfeyrac had no time to think on it. Everyone was here. He felt himself quiver in anticipation as the carriage drew closer, closer. Enjolras' smile made him tremble more and he steadied himself, ready to leap into the street after their fearless leader. As soon as the carriage was close enough and Enjolras had strode toward it with the red flag waving, all Les Amis had planned to follow into the street, intercepting the funeral carriage, overtaking it. It was meant as a distraction, to get people's attention, and then they would direct people towards the place where the barricade was to be formed.

“For Lamarque!” Courfeyrac shouted, joined by the shouts of others in the crowd of For Lamarque! and Vive la France! “Vive la republique!” Courfeyrac walked beside the carriage, expecting Enjolras to leap aboard it once it was rolling slowly enough for him to do so. He kept his eyes on the streets – particularly on the National Guard. He prayed that things would go smoothly and that there would be no one hurt, but he could not be sure of that. The National Guardsmen had their weapons ready, though they did not yet stand in a threatening posture, and Courfeyrac was conscious of his own, both sword and pistol.

The carriage continued to move slowly, and he glanced up with a smile at the red flag, nodding to the leader who held it before glancing out soberly again at the crowd.

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[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

[atrb=border,0,true] WHEN THE CIRCLING AND STRIKING ARE DONE AND I LAND LET ME COME BACK TO YOUR HAND, BACK TO YOUR HAND [style=height:340px; overflow: auto; text-align:justify; background-color:00235E] The anticipation and anxiety was only growing with the seconds trickling by and the hearse approaching on the waiting line of students. Everyone of the Amis was there, this was their big day, and Mylène could only hope and pray that this day would not be their last. You didn’t mess with higher powers – unless you had a damn good plan working! Building a barricade was one thing, easily done in the heat of the moment, but a completely other thing was maintaining said barricade, to actually be the foundation of something new, not just a flash in the pan. Some might say that France was not ready for such a thing as a republic, and that was why the several tries had all worked into a monarchy again sooner or later. The first French Revolution had brought Napoleon, an emperor even, not just a king, and the second revolution two years ago had brought the July monarchy… with little improvements for the general public. How could it be different this time? And yet, she had to hope for it, as difficult as it was for her to trust in anything for real, she had to trust the lads to really bring this change around and turn France into a better place. Why else would they be standing here together after all! She had done her part in trying to give them better chances, now it was their turn, their moment to shine. There were other things on Mylène’s mind as well, gnawing at her and trying to distract her, but she would not have it. She would not grant Lucille that much power over her! Tht was probably exactly what she wanted to achieve, make Mylène wary of each of her own steps, almost waiting for this girl to appear and spoil something for her. But maybe she wasn’t here at the funeral, maybe she would leave her alone for once! What was her problem anyway? Why was she so mean?! But she pushed that thought far from her mind as suddenly Enjolras was moving forward towards the carriage – the signal for every of his amis to follow suit! Mylène saw Courfeyrac step into the road as Enjolras began waving his red flag proudly and she heard him sound the first rallying cry of hopefully many. Yes… this is for Lamarque, she thought, bowing her head reverently for a moment. But this is not for the dead, but for the living. For France…! “Vive la France!” she exclaimed, throwing encouraging glances to the right and to the left, animating the spectators to follow suit. “A la volonté du peuple et pour la republique !" Gladly, the cries were echoed and maginified with every person that dared to speak up. Some of the horses were already prancing nervously,the tension mounting. Where was the spark that would make everything explode? Mylène hoped it would come soon!

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