Do You Hear The People Sing [Group Thread]

[Deleted]

Combeferre threw himself into the present, willing himself not to think about his accidental confession the previous night. This was his life now—or the end of it, if fate so desired. If he fell here it would be in service of a free and liberated France. The drumbeats grew louder and his heart pounded faster. His blue eyes flickered across the street, regarding Enjolras with a supportive nod as he smiled at him and the others. This was it, this was what they were here for. In a swift motion, the medical student tugged his hat over his disheveled blonde hair and threw a fist into the air when Enjolras ran out into the street.

“Vive la France! Vive la republique!” he shouted vehemently, sprinting across the street after the carriage. He clapped Courfeyrac on the back briefly before taking the reins of one of the horses, cooing into its ear soothingly, as he knew that all the commotion had gotten it all jumpy. For a moment he was reminded of his lessons of horsemanship in his boyhood—horses were fascinating to him. Horseback riding had never been his favorite activity, but the horses had liked him. His gentle voice and demeanor had put them at ease. He had liked them too—they were intelligent, loyal, compassionate creatures. His life was so much simpler then, when he was still learning to ride a horse.

He guided the lead horse through the streets, raising his free hand which was curled into a fist into the air as his voice joined the chorus of yells from the students and the crowd lining the streets. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he marched with the others—this was truly happening. They were going to get their republic—democracy would replace tyranny at last. He smiled back at his friends, the pain of the previous day momentarily dulled by the triumph that he was sure would be theirs. Before he knew it, he was singing spiritedly,

“Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé
Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras.
Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

The drumbeats were quickly drowned out by the shouts of the crowd. Eponine never saw Enjolras give the signal, but she knew he had as Courfeyrac darted into the street. She followed, close on his heels, pulling on her cap to be sure her secret was secure. The boys surged into the procession's path, surrounding the carriage and quickly taking control. The people lining the route moves with them and she spared a smile. No doubt some of the boys would have liked to have said "I told you so" after her admonitions that the people were too afraid or weak to rise up with them. Between the powder Mylene and her managed to get to them last night and the people coming to their side this morning, they might just be able to pull this off. She swiftly took her place next to the carriage, a vantage point where she could see the most people and get to them should they need help. And truthfully, climbing atop the carriage made her knees go soft. She'd never liked heights in the first place.

Ahead of her, Eponine could see Combeferre take the reins of the horse and frowned. Leave it to him to be out in front, right in the line of fire should things go to hell. Glancing about she tried to pinpoint Marius, Courfeyrac, even Mylene. Her instinct to watch after her friends was kicking in, keeping her calm in the revelry around her. She didn't dare raise her voice or pump a fist into the air, fearing it would give her away. She couldn't risk being recognized, in case things did turn violent and the barricades rose. She needed her disguise to make it among the boys, to see that they all came out of this alive.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

“Viva la republique!” Feuilly echoed Courfeyrac's shout, “For Lamarque!” The movement of the carriage seemed almost surreal to the fanmaker, a behemoth from another world. Larmarque's death itself was still surreal, something Feuilly understood perfectly well but yet was distant and almost unknowable. He was careful to avoid the horses' hooves and the carriage's wheels, knowing they could wound him before the fight might even begin.

The whole world seemed ready to ignite in the flames of revolt. This, with the potential to do what the brave Warsaw cadets of 1830 had not quite managed! It took him only a moment to recognize the song Combeferre sung. A quick grin split his face, and he joined in on the second verse, his voice wavering at first but then strengthening. The surreal situation was quickly, so quickly, becoming intoxicating.

“Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!

Que veut cette horde d'esclaves
De traîtres, de rois conjurés?
Pour qui ces ignobles entraves
Ces fers dès longtemps préparés?
Français, pour nous, ah! quel outrage
Quels transports il doit exciter?
C'est nous qu'on ose méditer
De rendre à l'antique esclavage!”

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

The hearse was nearly to the point where Javert stood and nothing had happened. In spite of all the undeniable tension, he was almost decided that the procession might pass by without incident when a flash of red broke through the funereal somberness. It drew the eye immediately, this crimson flag; that was its purpose. So the rumors had been true. The students were going to exploit the occasion of a man's death for their act of treason. Whatever Javert's opinion of Lamarque himself, this method of sparking a rebellion did seem fittingly objectionable to him.

He had never seen the man who bore the flag out into the street nor the one who followed on his heels, but the next face to separate itself from the crowd he was familiar with, and that surprised him. It was the man who had claimed to be tutoring the Thénardier girl. Javert watched as he joined the other two without letting his surprise break across his face. In the growing commotion no one would likely have noticed, or if they did it would mean nothing to them; but there was still an art to the disguise, one which he practiced well. And so his role, a man who had remained outside politics up until this moment—and certainly nothing to do with the police—remained intact.

The carriage was moving on, and Javert had a decision to make. In an instant he calculated that there was too much going on, with the crowd joining in with the students' shouts and now one of them was trying to strike up a song. His choice was utterly predictable though—La Marseillaise, that misguided paean to revolution. Inwardly Javert scoffed and drowned it in his head with a verse or two of 'Vive le roi Henri,' which had more relevance today than ever. Sanity thus restored, he submerged himself along the edge of the throngs and kept up with the carriage and its seditious passengers, keeping a close eye on the National Guardsmen; but they still held their ground. So far the students' conduct had been disruptive, nothing more. If it continued, however, they would have to step in.

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Nicephore was engrossed in silent contemplation and praying as he followed his father’s coffin on the adorned hearse, but he was not so deeply gone that he did not notice the slight unrest in the crowd. Oh no… please! He had only time to think when suddenly he heard people starting to sing and shout, leaving the sidelines of the street to run towards the hearse. He could hear some youth exclaiming “For Lamarque”, a cry which a few people quickly adopted, piercing the reverent silence like a horrible disharmony. And as if that wasn’t horrible enough, suddenly someone else started to sing. The Marseillaise. So this was what this was all about. Not his father, nor his death, they had only needed a podium for their revolutionary madness. A big audience. It was shameful, and it filled Nicephore with sadness.

This you do not for my father, you do it solely your own gain he wanted to shout, but he knew whatever he said would not be heard. My father would never had wanted a riot in his name! For this would turn into a riot, if no one could stop these rascals. But Nicephore on the other hand still harboured the hope that after the song was through, they would simply stop. A single song and a few chanted paroles to satisfy their anger, and then they could continue with his father being transported towards the cemetary with due respect for his death. Maybe the best way to get rid of these foolish young men was to not give them the attention they craved, and so Nicephore continued walking in a steady pace, head bent over his folded hands and prayed for his father’s soul, just like for the soul of these poor excited men who would not see the foolishness of their behaviour. They provoked only violence and bloodshed, and these city streets had seen enough of that already.

God, give them the forbearance they lack, so they may await the coming of Your kingdom in its own good time. When men try to change the world, they need violence, but you only need your neverending love.

[Deleted]

Despite his regret that he could not follow Cosette to England, Marius could feel the excitement in the air as Lemarque’s hearse was pulled down the street. His face remained as impassive as the others’ were, but he could feel his heart racing in anticipation. This was it—this was the revolution. As much as he loved his angel, he could not miss this for the world itself. It annoyed him how several of his friends thought him to be disloyal to their cause, but truly, his enthusiasm had never been this boundless.

When he saw a flash of red in the street, Marius echoed Courfeyrac’s cry. “For Lemarque! Pour l'empereur! Vive la France!” He yelled, waving his own scarlet flag that he had brought with him. The people soon began to echo the students’ chants, which boosted the law student’s spirits. When Combeferre started singing La Marseillaise—the Grande Armee’s anthem, Napoleon’s anthem—Marius boisterously joined in. As soon as Feuilly finished the second verse, he continued with the third,

“Quoi ces cohortes étrangères!
Feraient la loi dans nos foyers!
Quoi! ces phalanges mercenaires
Terrasseraient nos fils guerriers!
Grand Dieu! par des mains enchaînées
Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient
De vils despotes deviendraient
Les maîtres des destinées.”

[followedmyheart]

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just don't go without me

Cosette had awoken to a dull grey sky, overcast with clouds. How was it that it was summer? Where was the sun? The blue skies and puffy white clouds? She thought that perhaps England was fairing better, but the thought of England only darkened her mood.
She ate an egg and a piece of toast with butter, not really up to stomaching much. The funeral was today and even the weather knew it. She chewed slowly, watching her father over his bowl of porridge. Valjean never liked to eat extravagant things, he barely ate food except for Cosette. When they had first moved to Paris, he'd barely eaten crusts of bread. After she threw a temper tantrum, saying that she would only eat what he ate did he improve his meal plan.
Cosette tried to distract herself that morning by drinking tea with sugar and reading a book that Combeferre had leant her. There were a few spilled coffee stains that made her smile. No doubt they were from some late night studying in the Cafe, she wondered if Grantaire and some sloppy accident was the reason for it.
Despite trying to keep her mind occupied, she kept coming back to thoughts of Marius and his friends. Where was she meant to be? Here at home safe and sound, or at the funeral? Flustered, Cosette decided to attend church. She felt she was suffocating in her house, even the gardens were a cage.
Kissing Papa on the cheek, she let him know that she would be out to pray and then return. The streets were quite occupied as Paris marched to where the funeral procession would take place. She went along with the crowd for a bit before making her way to a quaint little church she sometimes liked to visit on her own. It was small and perfect for seclusion. There were less people here than usual, no doubt crowding the streets for the funeral. Only a priest wandered down the pews and then disappeared as she took a place to pray.
Cosette decided to light a candle for Marius and in holding the whick to the flame, she spotted Jean Prouvaire enter the church. She had always taken a quiet interest in Jean. Mostly because he shared a name with her father. All the Jean's seemed lovely in her life. This Jean liked flowers and wrote poems: he was certainly someone Cosette pictured herself getting along with. Perhaps he liked butterflies too. She blushed, it seemed silly to ask such a question of a young boy. He'd probably be embarrassed and wish her away.
He seemed rather nervous about something, which wasn't like the young lovestruck man. She usually saw him scribbling away in notebooks, or twirling flowers between his fingers. Cosette wanted to give her condolences to the war hero he had looked up to. But before she could reach him he was gone. Flitting out the door and on his way.
Curiousity getting the better of her, she took to following him. If it was in God's home that she had spotted him, surely that was where God wanted her. She wasn't breaking her promise to Marius...right?
Meshing back into the crowd, Cosette had to only walk a block before she spotted Enjolras' halo of golden curls. He was quite far from her, but if he was there then his friends - meaning Marius - must be. Cosette bit her lip, unsure whether or not to move in his direction. He had specifically asked her not to be here today. While he loved her to pieces, he would not doubt be displeased that she had ignored his pleas. Marius had warned her that an event similar to what had happened at the parade might happen today; he meant to keep her out of harms way.
But what harm? She sensed nothing similar to the parade's horrific happenings. No sooner had Cosette thought this than shouts ran out and familiar faces darted into the crowd. Vive le France? The revolution?
Cosette recognized Courfeyrac's voice shouting amoungst the crowd, quickly joining by Mylene's. She spotted the pair and in an odd moment thought of mourning doves and how they paired for life.
The feeling of a leaden stone dropping from her chest to her feet filled Cosette with despair. The very events of which Marius spoke: he and his friends were instigating them. They could be killed! Was this what Mylene spoke of in the market? This "change" for Paris? She was angry and terrified - had Marius thought of her at all in this planning, what if he died!? Of coarse he had thought of her.
The national guard was still riding ahead, but a few were turning around. They seemed to have noticed that the carriage was not heading in it's intended direction. People around Cosette were beginning to shout and push out onto the street where Marius' friends had bounded out to, following thier lead.

template by sophia. Graphic by mag.

[/style]

[FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY]

Joly had picked up a French Flag earlier in the day, which he held firmly in his right hand, as he gazed down the street towards the spot where the oncoming procession would soon be appearing. His heart beat wildly in his chest and he feared it would take off out of his body as he stood in the crowd waiting. The frontline of the drummers approached, the drums echoing the beating of Joly’s heart as he counted each second they approached. Jolys eyes met Enjorlra’s for a moment and he knew it was almost time. His hand clung firmly to the flag, as if the flag represented life itself.

Joly watched as Enjolras marched out beside the carriage waving the large crimson flag proudly, followed by several of the other Les Amis’s. For a moment it was as though he had been glued to the spot, watching as each of his friends made the revolutionary steps to walk defiantly beside the Generals carriage.

Joly was jolted from his dream like state as Marius moved close by him toward the carriage, and with a spring in his step Joly took a deep breath and followed, raising the large flag above his head and waving it proudly. He followed alongside the carriage looking for a opportunity to climb it and wave his flag high for all to see.

'Vive la republique!' Joly shouted among the other cries.

Que veut cette horde d'esclaves,
De traîtres, de rois conjurés ?

[/blockquote]

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]861 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 could hardly believe it. It was happening. For really and truly it was actually no-going back happening! A part of him, he realized, had never believed that they would get to this stage. So many times he was sure that something would stop them. Discovery. Betrayal. The bursting in of that bloodhound, Javert who had arrested so many he had known and had them punished in the name of the French Government! In the name of the King. That was what he'd expected. Not the success which seemed to be happening. His mind was still turned on the negative side of things for the moment though. It turned Jean's blood cold and his mood sour even to think of that. Jean would have to admit if questioned that he was not sure a Repblic could work. He was not sure that France was better off without a monarchy, but they were certainly better off without the current arrangement! He could not, truthfully, blame the boy king - nor did he wish him harm - but those controlling him like a miserable marionette being dangled over a stage and toyed with.. those men - whoever they might be - for all of their names were not clear clumped together under an amorphous cloud called the Chouannerie - a smart move for, not clumped together, they'd already be long gone! - Those would be long long gone if they had known their names to destroy them like an unpleasant infestation of insects - something destructive like locusts or grasshoppers. He'd heard of plagues of grasshoppers coming to places and wiping out whole towns because they and their progeny stripped places of every green thing - every blade of grass, every leaf, every tree. That was akin to how he felt about what the current government was doing to France - except the leaves were the people and the government was the insidious insect picking them off helpless to defend themselves against it one by one. Before long, there would be none of the spirit of France left if they kept things up at this rate. People were dying of starvation while the rich lived in luxury. Part of him felt a little guilty because he knew that he too was living in luxury - at least his family was.. but that was different. That was reasonable - not to the excess of some of the government leaders! A nice home, a few servants.. those things were not excessive or unrealistic to hope for. That was not what was going on in the government as the destroying grasshoppers loaded their pockets with more and more silver and gold while the people of France became skinnier and skinnier. The famine was killing them - literally and metaphorically. There could be no question about what he needed to do even though he had not been sure it would actually get to that point. He needed to join in - to fight for his beliefs on the necessary changes France needed to experience - and experience soon before they were washed away on this tide of corpulent excesses! In a moment's notice he followed his friends' lead, secretly glad that he did not have to be the one to charge the carriage first. Dear Combe, 'Relien, Joly, Marius, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly had already gone. He could surely be brave enough to follow these his closest friends. For a second he hesitated watching them. His legs felt too heavy to move and the drums seemed to echo his staccato heartbeat. He expected it must be faster than that of a hummingbird. He was scared. His leaden legs wouldn't allow him to go. No, he was not scared of death - but of a combination of failure and of the deaths of his friends - for without them he was not sure he would have a true desire to continue living at all. But it was for their sake and for their causes sake that he needed to go! He needed to do whatever he could to help their cause! He finally brought himself to move as he heard the words of Marseille ring out behind him. He had to turn his face away from Nicèphore, however. He knew that the man's father's funeral was probably not the most fitting of place. Well.. it was.. but.. on a personal level.. to the poor priest... it must be awful. He could not imagine the anger he'd be filled with if someone used -his- father's funeral as a protest /riot. But it had to be done.. now was the time.. their cause was greater than the death of one man... it had the ability to affect the deaths of hundreds of thousands.. to change all that for the better... He flung himself forward before he could change his mind, sparing a single glance at Lamarque's song before he hefted himself onto the rolling carriage beside his childhood best friend, hoisting a French flag in one hand. "Vive la France!" He exclaimed, but found, jubilantly, that his voice was drowned out by the roar of others chanting exactly the same thing. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[Deleted]

[/b] He shouts from his perch, voice carrying in a lull between the verses. He is aware of the pistol at his hip, there will be violence. He wishes it were not so. Already up ahead he sees the National Guard starting to rally together, on foot and on horseback. There will be the start here, this square will see the first spark and standoff of their revolution.

Aurélien regrets already, that the price of freedom is in the spilling of so much blood.[/ul]

[FABIEN BAHOREL]

Oh it was magnificent! It was wonderful, better than he could have ever imagined it! All around him, the people had started to sing the Marseillaise, the old hymn of glorious times. Ah, yes, that emperor Bonaparte had liked it too, but you could use the verses also against your own country, for it spoke often of enemies which could also be enemies within. Bahorel had felt all his anxiety evaporate, now he was beaming brightly, from ear to ear and he joined his voice with that of the others, feeling the words on his lips and in his heart as he condemned the works of treacherous kings, that needn’t be those of foreign lands, like the next verse would suggest it.
“Français, pour nous, ah! quel outrage
Quels transports il doit exciter!
C’est nous qu’on ose méditer
De rendre à l’antique esclavage! »

Ancient slavery, yes ! The ancient slavery of the kings that sucked the marrow out of their people’s bones until they died of hunger and plagues because they did not know it any better. Them, those royalists, they dared to put them back into the old bondage of which the First French Revolution had tried to free them of. It was a slow, sneaking process and therefore many had not even realized what had happened to them until it was too late. But it was time to throw off that ancient yoke and walk erect like true, proud citizens again. France was but a shadow of her once glorious self, but in due time and with enough incentives, it would be restored to former fame very soon!

Before Bahorel had known it, his friends had already preceded his plans and were jumping the cart with Lamarque’s coffin on it, like they would climb a rampart to siege a fortress. And they were laying siege to a fortress, weren’t they? Ah! He was feeling so very alive right now, he feared he was going to burst if he did not find a good venting spot for it. Tensing his leg muscles, he sprang upward and mounted the cart as well, rising himself to the very top of the large coffin, exclaiming: “Onto this grave we shall build our new life, our new France! Vive la novelle France, mes amis!”

Then, before anyone could start to intone that wretched third verse of the Marseillaise which had nothing to do with their cause, he quickly started on the fourth, raising his voice as loud as he would dare – and Bahorel was always daring.
“Tremblez, tyrans et vous perfides
L’opprobe de tous les partis,
Tremblez! vos projets parricides
Vont enfin recevoir leur prix! »
Yes, tremble, you wretched tryrants ! Your last day has dawned on you! Les Amis de L’Abaisse will rise from the lowest lows and the people will rise with them. You will pay. Pay dearly!

[FÉLIX LESGLE]

Lesgle was late for the funeral and it wasn't even his fault. Someone who knew him well might have suspected he'd lingered too long dreaming, asleep or awake. That was probably what Joly thought, if there was place in his thoughts for anything besides their most solemn mission. Lesgle hoped that was the case, that everyone had been too caught up in the excitement to notice his absence, because this time he really couldn't help it.

Despite getting plenty of sleep the night before, the solid sleep of one who has accepted his fate, he woke up later than he'd intended to find Joly had already gone. He could still have made it on time if that had been the end of it, but of course it hadn't been. His razor broke as he was shaving; several minutes were wasted looking for a spare, because he couldn't go to a funeral, let alone an uprising, with a half-shaved chin. He had drawn blood trying to pin on the tricolor cockade he’d picked up several days earlier. Then as he was leaning out the window, breakfasting on a piece of bread, a crow swooped down and stole it from his hand. Lesgle had a knowing smile ready, but unusually for him he was uneasy. He'd been hoping for better omens today of all days... well, he should have known better. Just as long as the omens were for him and not the rest of his friends, nor the cause for which they were risking their lives.

And then an empty stomach hadn't been the end of his troubles. He’d stumbled on a loose cobblestone and nearly dropped the French flag he was clutching protectively to his side. Further on his way, a cart had been upended across a narrow street, causing a crowd to form, milling around like a nest of hornets. It wouldn't have made a bad start to a barricade, he mused as he squeezed past the end without the horse, but right now when he was late for something that was actually important, it was nothing but a nuisance. He didn't dwell on it, carried on walking, but today he couldn't quite laugh at it either.

His ears perked up at the sound of drums. He wasn't going to miss it, not entirely! Lesgle abandoned his usual pace for a march, and at last he turned the corner onto a broader street. The sight that met his eyes immediately made up for all the morning's missteps, and he broke into a smile. The hearse was punctuated with red and white and blue, surrounded on all sides by the students. It didn't yet look like the crowd had grown bold enough to join them, but some were singing along with the students' rendition of the Marseillaise, and echoing their shouts. The latecomer threaded his way through the mass of people and, finding Joly, strode along beside him; but now was not the time for speeches. Feeling suddenly as though things might finally be going right, he added his voice to the others.

"Vive la république!" He wasn’t going to waste his eloquence when it wouldn’t be heard. But now that the day was finally here, he no longer felt detached from the movement. He was caught up in the storm just the same as his friends, and just as deadly serious about it. And he had a flag to prove it. Unfurling the precious cloth at last, he clambered onto a relatively inconspicuous part of the carriage and proudly displayed its familiar but stirring colors.

[Deleted]

Courfeyrac watched Enjolras climb up onto the carriage. They had planned for another to climb up onto the carriage as well. He would not be one of them; he needed to have his eyes on the streets, there only needed to be one or two people waving their flags and pointing the pistol. They would be a target, with the red banner, he knew. He glanced up, watching his friends in concern. This look to the sky revealed that clouds were coming in; it looked as though it would rain.

The sky was getting dark. Mon Dieu, it was going to rain bullets too. But as Gavroche would say, La nuit on ne voit rien, Le jour on voit très bien, D'un écrit apocryphe Le bourgeois s'ébouriffe, Pratiquez la vertu, Tutu, chapeau pointu! But how many people would die before the night was over?

He kept his eyes on the National Guardsmen, even though he continued to cheer and sing along with his amis. There were people eyes everywhere now walking with the carriage; they were beginning to move closer to the carriage. It was a good thing that they had not planned to take the carriage too much farther past the Bastille before they turned off to go towards one of their barricades. Multiple had been planned.

The crowds of people would not do them any favors, however, now that the National Guard was starting to get anxious. “Enjolras! Marius!” he warned. Blaise was in the worst place. “Combeferre!” Joly, Bahorel, Lesgle... they were all on the carriage. Please let luck be on their side for this moment.

[LA MORT]

L E T S - J U S T- N P C

STAFF CONTROLLED CHARACTER

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style,background-image: url('http://i53.photobucket.com/albums/g79/Juliart/background_black.jpg');,true][cs=2] THE OFFICER

[atrb=width,240] The day would not end well. Fidele already knew. The singing by the students was haunting; he knew it would be in his ears even when he went home to his wife and children that night. Assuming that he did get to go to home that night... or any night. He swallowed, remaining with his men. They would do nothing for the moment. After the events of the parade, the last thing he wanted was for one of his soldiers to make a pre-emptive strike and hurt an innocent. But he had heard one of the students saying that there was a man, one with a red beard, who was supposed to give the order to fire. He would have to keep his eyes open. It was a waiting game. It was uncertain who fired the first shot. It was impossible to see in the crowds. But a moment later people were flooding the street; there was an outcry. A woman had gone down. Another old woman. O God, how many innocents must die? And they would be to blame. He had no control over his own men, even though that was supposed to be his purpose here. How could one have control over such a mas of people? He continued glancing anxiously at his men. But there were shouts from the students; complete chaos ensued. There were students rushing at them, many with guns. "Charge!" he ordered. The soldiers rushed at the carriage.

[atrb=width,100] NAME, FIDELE RANIER AGE, 32 CONTROLLED BY, FRATERNITE

TEMPLATE BY THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE MIKEY @ CAUTION 2.0

[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] Mylène felt a shiver run down her spine as Combeferre started to sing the Marseillaise. This was it… there was no better way to form a community than through a shared song, a song that would rally them. While the text of the Marseillaise initially went against a foreign enemy, ursurper powers or so to say, the power in its verses could very well be turned against their own monarchy itself. She did not know all the verses by heart, but she joined in with as much vigour and passion as she could muster, slowly pushing through the crowd now towards the way the lads would lead, towards their barricade. She just did not want to lose sight of the cart, she did not want to miss a moment of what they were doing, and she wanted to look out for them, in case some unforseen danger arose. With a frantically beating heart, so strong it nearly burst through her ribcage in a mixture of overwhelming pride and anxiety, she watched as some of the students climbed the cart, while others, like Courfeyrac, stayed on the ground and rallied the people there. Shouts of ‘Vive la France’ where everywhere, echoed by a hundred voices from behind the Guards lining the street,s and she could see them shift nervously. Sometime soon one of them would lose their nerve again… and they would fire. Sang de Dieu… she was only glad the lads were armed too, right now they were posing as perfect targets! The tension grew, there were shouts and singing voices everywhere and the people started to push against the guards, who tried to stand their ground, hindering the people from bursting into the street as well. And then— Another shot, almost drowning in the cries, but Mylène could feel an elderly woman right next to her jolt and falter, and with a look of utter astonishment on her face, she felt for her bodice where a large red stain was rapidly spreading, then she fell backwards, right into a man who instinctively made a grab for her, crying out for help. Dieu…! For a moment Mylène could feel her own knees waver as the impact of the sudden incident sunk in. A few inches to the left and it would have been me…! Then, however, rage took over the shook. “They did it again!!” she roared, her voice nearly breaking in her agitation. “They shot an innocent woman!” But the worst was yet to come. Just as the people began to summon their mass strength into a stampede, she heard the clear command: ‘Charge!’, and saw a few guards rushing towads the cart and the students. Seigneur, les preserve! Mylène thought desperately as she kept pushing through the crowd. She was not an overly devout person, and yet she had now uttered three devout ejaculations in a matter of moments. There was no specific place for her here, no task she had been given, but she was following her own will: For what it was worth, she would give them any support she could think of, with every opportunity that presented itself, and for that she had to stay close to them.

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