Do You Hear The People Sing [Group Thread]

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Combeferre continued to lead the carriage to the street, listening to his friends take up the song that he had started. It pleased him to know that the people around them had joined in their rendition of La Marseilles as well, and that was when he realized that they people did believe in the ideals their forefathers had fought for—liberty, equality, fraternity. With their help, he knew that they could wrestle back control from the monarchy. For in reality it would be the people that would have to win this fight.


Alone, Combeferre knew that he and his friends did not stand a chance. They were not trained, outnumbered, outgunned—the odds were stacked against them completely. But with the people of Paris—the people of France—on their side, what could possibly go wrong? He smiled at the thought and yelled, “Vive la France!” as the hearse dragged on. His joy was short-lived for two reasons. He realized that he wasn’t really happy. He had still had his heart broken the previous night and no matter how much he threw himself into this or any other project, the pain would still be there as well as the memory. He felt…inadequate—for not the first time in his life but this was the most poignant—which was why he had no reservations in taking the lead at the front of the column. He had nothing left to lose.


The second reason was he heard Courfeyrac calling his name. His head snapped up rather stupidly to glance at him, and that was when he saw the National Guardsman’s rifle.

Bang!

The horse jolted and Combeferre jumped back, his hand going to his chest instinctively. Well, this was it. He was surely the closest target—and he was dressed so colorfully, of course they would pick him—but there was no blood. He heard screaming and he realized that he was not dying, but someone else certainly was. Horror-stricken, the medical student let go of the horse’s reins and pushed through the crowd. “Move! Move! I’m a doctor!” he yelled, stopping in front of the elderly woman a man was cradling in his arms. “Hang on, you’re going to be all…” It was too late, and he blinked in shock before looking at the man apologetically. He couldn’t find any words to tell him, but he certainly had some for the National Guard. “Murderers!” he shouted, shaking and whipping out one of his pistols to fire furiously at the nearest guardsman.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine could feel the elation in the air. The song had been started by the students, but it was taken up by the people. She joined her voice to the others, unafraid of blowing her cover, sure it would be lost in the chorus. All around her, her friends took up their positions. They climbed the carriage or lead the horses or simply rallied the people in the street. A smile spread across her face as she dared to hope that their half-mad dream might actually come true. Tomorrow might really bring a new France for all of them.

But she also knew that such grand things often had a high price. Eponine could see the Guardsmen taking up their positions from her place at the front of the crowd. Even as the procession continued forward, the Guard never flinched, never made to move out of the way. She could see them leveling weapons at the crowd, both in front and on either side of the street. Her heart lept into her throat as watched the crowd stop in the middle of the street. Her eyes darted around, reassuring herself that her friends were still there. Marius, Courfeyrac, Mylene, Combeferre. Her eyes found them each in turn, even as her heart hammered in her ears. The silence hung heavy, waiting for either side to make the first move and shatter it.

She couldn't tell you where the first shot came from. She heard the screams from her right though and her head whipped around to see a woman near Mylene fall. Fear gripped her as she realized how close she had come to losing her friend. She saw Combeferre run past, trying to reach the woman, to help her. But she could tell even from here it was too late. The dream was broken, the joy and happiness of the people rallying to the cause gone, replaced with a cold, hard reality. People were going to die, had already died, and her friend were right in the middle of it. Adjusting her cap on her head once more, Eponine took up the cry of murder pushed her way through the panicking crowd, trying to keep all her friends in her sights.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly's heart sank at the sudden thunder-crack of gunfire. The acrid smell of gunpowder cut through the air, a grey cloud spreading from the barrel of a musket until it converted into a pool of blood from an old woman's breast.

The riot should not have begun with innocent bloodshed. If anyone should be target practice for the National Guard, it should not be people who had come to honor the memory of a man who had been a hero for all of Paris.

He turned toward Mylene's shout, noticed from the corner of his eye an unknown boy moving forward with panic, with anger, with sorrow in his eyes. He caught him by the shoulder, meeting those stricken eyes. He couldn't have been more than fourteen, and Feuilly felt an immense pity for him. There would be plenty of time for people like him to get involved. “Stay back,” Feuilly warned him in a gentle voice. “There will be plenty of time for that... soon,” he added, as he noticed the bare knife in the boy's hand. He wouldn't last long against the National Guard with that.

The boy boy met his gaze with defiance. It was unlikely that even kind words would turn him aside, but—almost miraculously—Feuilly saw the boy's expression soften, only slightly. He thought he saw him nod, and patted him gently on the shoulder he had seized.

The sound of Combeferre's voice jolted Feuilly's attention away from the youth, who melted back into the crowd's tumult. He ran toward his friend, afraid for his own safety. They weren't organized enough yet to fire shots, but the swirling crowd was making organization difficult and violence terribly easy.

Though Feuilly had come to believe more in the strength of men than of God, in the promise of justice on earth far more than the hope of reward in Heaven, he found himself praying as he ran. A sharp crack from somewhere to the right told him that more violence had broken out there; the funeral was fast turning into the pyre for many more than General Lamarque.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Although he assumed it to be one of these inexperienced ninnies, Javert missed seeing who had fired the shot, having been preoccupied with maneuvering himself through the jungle of the crowd. He could not have missed the aftermath, however. It was near-instant pandemonium, a melee of confusion and fear with people swarming in all directions, some trying to flee the scene, others trying to reach the heart of it. Javert was closer to the latter, but he kept a safe distance away even as he tried to catch some sense of what had happened, what was happening. Whoever had been shot, they were on the ground and several people crowded around. One was the Thénardier girl's tutor who had barged through the crowd bawling that he was a doctor. Whether or not he was, Javert knew he had better stay back. He was under no illusions that his face was that easily forgotten.

That first shot had opened the floodgates. Now the staccato of gunshots seemed to be everywhere at once. It was an illusion brought on by the general chaos and the crush of the crowd making a veritable alley of the broad street. Javert couldn't even tell just who was doing the shooting, though it seemed to be mostly the students for now.

So, the spark had been ignited. For a time he'd thought perhaps it wouldn't come to pass, all the direst predictions of the préfet and the gendarmerie, but here it was at last. It was nearly time then for him to insert himself... but there was the slight snag that he might be recognized. Well, he would continue watching.

He elbowed several people aside so that he could obtain a closer seat from which to watch, ready to leap in if the situation warranted. The last thing they needed was a dead student on their hands. It would upset all their plans and could even, if the winds shifted the wrong direction, deliver a martyr for the cause of revolution. That must be avoided at any cost, even if that cost was rescuing one of these traitors.

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

It was too much, simply too much for Nicephore to bear. What had been a reverent funeral march just moments ago, had turned into a frenzy in a matter of seconds. Not enough that the students had started to sing, now they were doing the exact thing he had dreaded: they were violating his father's hearse by jumping on it and using it as their platform of display. The hearse had given a rough jerk as one of the boys must have overtaken the reins of the horses pulling it, and now it seemed completely in their hands. What would they do with it?! Would there be any more atrocities to come? He was fearful of the dynamic that was building now, he could almost feel the violence in the air, as the guards formed their ranks against the crazy students and the crowd that had started to leave the peaceful, reverent lines of the streetsides.

He stopped his muttered prayers and set his eyes on the young men waving their flags, shaking his head sadly. „I beg you, stop this!“ he called out, but he wasn't even sure whether his voice could be heard in the noise they made. And then there was the worst kind of noise to be imagined. A gunshot. It pierced through Nicephore's soul right into his very core and for a moment he closed his eyes, willing it to be undone. Why, seigneur... why?. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that a woman had fallen on her back and a cluster of people gathered around her. Even one of the students was leaving his revolutionary business and rushed past Nicephore, yelling that he was a doctor. But a doctor came too late for this poor soul. She needed something else now. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Nicephore threw an apologetic glance at the hearse of his father and quickly moved to the side, kneeling down beside the woman, the people making way for him seeing his monk's robes.

„Requiem eternam dona ei, domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei“, he muttered under his breath, giving the innocent victim of this revolt her last rites. „She will get a burial equal to a man of state!“ he then said to the poor man looking at him still in shock who he guessed was her husband... and now a widower. Then, before anyone could stop him, he crouched and cradled the limp corpse of the woman in his arms, standing up and moving again in his position behind the hearse – a silent memorial of the injustice he had just seen come to pass. He was not a man for many words, but this simple deed, if observed by anyone, must speak volumes. How many, his weeping eyes seemed to say. How many more must die before you see sense?

[Deleted]

Marius continued waving his flag, an exuberant grin on his face. He could feel the adrenaline in the air—it was all so exciting. This was it—the Republic would be taken back from the pretenders. “Vive l'empereur! Vive la France!” he roared, swinging the flag to and fro. Enjolras was yelling at the crowd and the crowd was yelling right back—everyone was thrilled and for good reason. They were taking over the government, after all.
Marius was actually quite glad to be a part of it. He didn’t think about prospective death or any of the consequences because he was too busy enjoying the moment, enjoying watching his people reclaim what they had lost since Napoleon’s fall from power. He was able to push aside his stupor long enough to slide the flag up onto the carriage and climb up after Enjolras. He picked up his flag and stood beside his leader with a nod, continuing to wave his flag. “For the new world!”

He lowered his flag when he caught sight of the group of National Guardsman in front of the funeral route. His green eyes widened and immediately his hand went for his pistol and he was in the middle of cocking it when a shot was fired. He looked around for who had been shot, not seeing what had happened but hearing Combeferre shout that an innocent woman had been murdered. Then he shot at one of the guardsmen. Marius trembled but followed suit, aiming at one soldier seated on a horse. “For the Republic!” He fired his weapon and then climbed down from the carriage, pushing his way through the crowds. They needed to get to the barricades—he knew from reading that if you were caught out in the open, then you were more than likely dead. And he didn’t want to die, not when he was getting married to Cosette. He had his whole life ahead of him, there was no way that he was going to lose his life today.

[FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY]

The chaos of the people drove the carriage to slow down, as it tried to navigate through the thriving crowd of people that could almost be described as a mob. Cries of rebellion could be heard from all corners of the street, as people began to swarm towards the carriage and join the group of Amis. From among the mass of people his best friend Lesgle emerged and Joly couldn’t help but grin at his friend as he noted his lateness. Now wasn’t the time for jokes…but Joly was not going to let his friend get off lightly. After all he’d nearly missed the revolution!

Joly could see from the corner of his eye Enjorlras scale the carriage and only moments later did Joly find an opportunity to follow him. His hands deftly clinging to the sides as he manoeuvred himself upon the slow moving vehicle, he quickly gained his balance and drew the flag forward. He turned to his friend offering a hand to help him climb the carriage too, knowing Lesgle an attempt by himself would mean him falling beneath the slow moving wheels, Joly shuddered at the thought.

Today would be a day to remember and he was certain generations to come would talk about the day the people of France demanded to heard by their king. Joly was perhaps a bit slower at noticing the rallying guardsmen further down the street, and it was only after he caught the looks from his fellow men did he realise that tensions were rising. Of course such rebellions had to be met with the force of the guards. Crush the people. That seemed to be the Kings motto. Crush their voices with violence. This was not to be a peaceful protest. Joly was glad of the gun that sat snugly on his belt, although he was loathed to use it, and feared what damage would rein down upon them.

A shot was fired, Joly did not know who had fired the first shot, but from where he was standing it was clear an innocent had been killed. The rage that washed over the people was extreme as shouts of anger and fear bled with the dying woman. He was a prime target, stood atop the carriage and Joly could only hope those above him could cover him, for he knew he was a poor shot. His hands shaking, the flag slipped from his fingers and fell onto the carriage floor as he fumbled for his gun. The guardsmen charging straight for them.

‘Have courage’ Joly said quietly as his arm straightened and he took aim at the oncoming forces.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]694 WORDS FOR Everyone. No notes at present. BARRICADES [/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;] In an instant it had become a scene which had played over and over in Jean's worst nightmares. He had been afraid of something like this. The only difference seemed to be that this was worse. Flashbacks to the May Day parade played through his mind. The flower seller Gypsy girl who had died, and her little girl hiding under a market cart as he attempted to remove her in order to take her back to her own kind before she wound up in some Paris orphanage where she would be maligned for her heritage. He remembered trying to keep his eyes of the corpse of her mother and to make sure she didn't see it either, even though he suspected she'd seen it before she ran. He'd been dreaming about it ever since - in a mixture of true memories from that night and anxiety and apprehension for future conflict that had become tied into that night because of the conversation of les amis later that night about this being the time to strike and, later, Gavroche's warning that Lamarque was dead. It had felt like everything since that night had been on hyper speed. There wasn't time to think or feel or hardly even breathe. There had been classes which all of them had kept attending for whatever reason (it hardly seemed necessary or important in the wake of the events of that night and in the face of what they were planning). But, Nevertheles, they -were- students and they were planning and what they were planning was very important. After classes there had been time to choke down a little food - but lately he'd entirely lost his appetite. And, for whatever reason, it was as though his muse was in overdrive, determined to spill out every last drop of poetry that was inside of him like getting the last drops of tea out of a pot before what they were planning took hold and the world went to hell in a handbasket. And now here they were. It was happening. Right now. The book of Revelation was opening up before their very eyes in the middle of a street in Paris. At least that was kind of how it felt. The whole morning had been surreal. His hand in his pocket fingered the cold hunk of metal wrapped in a handkerchief that he'd prayed he'd never have to use. His hand felt too cold when he wrapped his long fingers around the weapon and swallowed. He would not be afraid to use the present his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday if he needed to. But God how he had hoped never to have to take a life. However, if the choice was murder or one of his friends murdered - he knew what he'd choose. He tried to keep himself from looking at the body of the old woman laying on the cobblestones, tried not to look at the expression on the priest's face. For one second he looked toward him and whispered "I'm sorry." His blue eyes were alight with fervency, and he hoped that the priest understood he really -did- regret having to have it be this way with a man's funeral. It felt a little like being a hooligan really. Something he'd hoped never to have to be. Too late for that now though. He turned his head back quick before he could regret his decision, and when he did... it was into a sea of National Guardsmen. Terror riddled his body for a second, and a lesser man would have lost control. Jean did not. Could not. Would not allow that. Terror however might have been too small a word - not for himself, but for his friends. He could see Combeferre, first with the horses and then with the woman - in a place he'd never ever wanted to be... practically leading this riot. -He- had had to shoot. "We have to get to the barricades. We cannot be out in the open!" He exclaimed, hoping his friends would hear him. "To be caught out here is death for all of us." [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[Deleted]

[/b] He yells, about the rabble of the riotous crowd, above the pops of gunpowder flashes. This is not the place for a tactical battle, they need to retreat to their defensible position. Fighting in the open square will do nothing but lead to confusion. [/ul]

[FABIEN BAHOREL]

Bahorel was posing as quite a nice target up there on the hearse, he realized as the bullets started to fly. One was even whizzing sharply past his ear so he could hear its whistling, screeching tone, sending a quick shiver down his spine. But immediately afterwards, he grinned again, feeling the surge of adrenaline washing through his veins. Call me crazy, but there’s no place on earth where I’d rather be right now! And luck favours the bold. GOD, I feel so very alive! He thought to himself, looking at his friends, his brothers to see how they were holding up and if he could see similar sentiments on their faces. But there was little other than grim resolution and hardness in their faces, some, like Lesgles or Joly even looked a little scared. He couldn’t begrudge them that, of course, but he would have loved a little more optimism on their parts. Didn’t they feel it in the air? Didn’t they hear the future, the glorious future in the singing of the people, and their chanting of Vive La France? They were right here, the Friends of the ABC had gotten the ball rolling and now the people were taking it up. All they needed was a direction, what to do and where best to channel their anger to… and then Paris would rise!

But the tide was turning against them slowly, and even as he thought that, Bahorel saw anothet guard aiming at the hearse, and could see the muzzle of the gun pointed straight at his own chest! Oh, that just would not do, to die before the fun even had started. Glad for his pistol, a token from his uncle who had made money in the manufactoring of firearms, he raised it and in turn pointed it straight at the guardsman, raising a brow. You or I, lad! his determined, yet also mildly challenging expression seemed to say. He could see the man swallow, but then his finger tightened around the trigger. Too bad, Bahorel thought, then quickly shot, averting his eyes the instant he heard the bang, as he did not want to see the man he probably had just killed. The scream was loud enough as it was…

The ground was getting too dangerous for them by half, he agreed with his brethren there. Time for someone to sound the retreat from the open place, but it certainly would not be a real retreat. Oh no, their charge had just begun! Of course, they all waited for Enjolras to sound the real command, and it came, swiftly enough. Just that Bahorel felt there was something missing. A simple ‘to the barricades’ was not beckoning the other people to follow! If they didn’t address the people now, they would lose the spirit of the moment! If it was only them ten or so building and maintaining a barricade, this would be their death! All his friends had already jumped down from the hearse, and Bahorel knew it was high time to do so, but right now he still was about ground level, which gave him the advantage of being seen and heard.
“To the barricades indeed!” he roared, waving his flag proudly as if daring anyone to make him a target now. “And let every honest citizen of Paris follow us! Aux armes, citoyens!” Then, and only then, did he jump down, making his way towards where they needed to be : The street near their headquarter, right next to the Corinth wine shop ! Gladly, it wasn’t too far.

[FÉLIX LESGLE]

As reluctant as he'd been to begin with, now that he was in the midst of it, Lesgle found himself caught up in the rising tide. However, his luck could not be expected to hold, and that tide soon turned from one of elation to panic and chaos. Someone, he didn't see but nevertheless believed fervently it must have been one of the National Guard, lost his head and shot a citizen, a woman who wasn't even involved. Her only crime had been to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Lesgle felt sorry for her, but there was nothing he could do. A thought occurred to him though, and he risked a glance below him to see if Joly had clambered from his perch to help.

He was still there, and he could see from the set of his friend's jaw that he intended to remain there and fight. Well, at least he could see Combeferre's blond head bent over the woman, so she wasn't completely without aid. Lesgle let his gaze return to the wall of armed men advancing on the carriage. He had brought a gun—hadn't they all, just in case?—along with his flag but he'd almost hoped he wouldn't have to use it. Had that been foolish, naïve? Whatever, it was time to draw his weapon and pray that it wouldn't explode in his face.

Before he had time to find out, however, a cry came from below. It was Enjolras' voice, summoning the people to the barricades. Yes, he was right, they must seize the moment, strike the iron while it was hot. But still, as he hopped down from the carriage he couldn't help noticing that no one was following. His friends, the ones who proudly called themselves the friends of the abaissé, they would follow Enjolras and his red flag anywhere, the barricades, even the gates of hell if it should come to that. But the people weren't stirring. Lesgle stared aroud; his eloquence was for the courtroom, not this confused stew of terrified citizens.

Bahorel though, bold, brash, brave Bahorel saved the day. He was still high above the fray, unafraid, leaving himself wide open to attack as he leapt in before there was time for doubt or hesitation or, although it might well be legitimate, fear. Now that he had both feet on the ground Lesgle joined in the shouts. One bald head more or less wouldn't make a difference, but he was determined to add his voice anyway. The tide was now flowing towards their headquarters, where they would build their barricades from whatever the good citizens of Paris would provide...

All of a sudden, between this and the death that had already occurred, it was beginning to seem very real. Swallowing, Lesgle pulled out his flag, looking around frantically for Joly. Had he simply been lost among the crowd, or had something more terrible befallen him? He wouldn't be easy again until he knew that his friend was safe. Then he would march to the barricades, and gladly.

[Deleted]

He had been there from the start, trying to push his way past the crowd. He was, obviously, shorter then nearly everyone else at the parade and he was having a difficult time seeing anything at all. But eventually, he was able to squeeze between butts and under legs and he planted himself at the front edge of the crowd. He found himself next to Marius, which he was glad for. At least he would know when everything was happening.

Slowly and softly at first, the song started up. He joined in easily (it was a well known song) and he let his small voice rise with the other's. When the signal to go out into the parade was given, he ran forward with the rest of the ABC guys and picked up a flag. It was way to big for him, but he did his best to wave it anyway until one of the older men came to relieve him of it. With his burden gone, he continued to sing as loudly as possible and punched the air, attempting to get the rest of the crowd to join in.

Then the shot was fired.

An innocent woman had been hit. Gavroche's eyes widened in terror for a brief second. This was a war, he knew people had to get hurt, but it shouldn't be the innocent. But someone was attending to her and she would be safe (probably). The order to retreat to the Barricades was given and as others started to turn to run toward them, Gavroche did as well. He was shorter then everyone else and couldn't run as quickly. He needed a head start to make sure he would get there before it was closed off. With all of his strength he took off toward the Barricade.

[LA MORT]

THIS THREAD WILL BE CONTINUED HERE!