Memoirs of Les Amis de l'ABC

Chapter Twenty-Three: Snow Angels

As sure as a promise, three days later Sybill Fauchelevent penned a reply to the rebellious leader.

Into the night, Sybill spent many hours writing drafts of essays till the candle burned so low the wax swelled on the page. Her hand ached from the words that flowed, but she had to capture her meeting with General Lamarque and find a way to convey his promise of their future meetings. She found herself uniquely positioned as a central political player in the soon-to-be rebellion, and she decidedly would become the most vocal supporter if that meant more people may rally to the cause. If it meant she might be able to save them....

Their faces flashed before her eyes. Feuily. Jehan. Combeferre. Even Grantaire. She imagined Courfeyrac's easy smile and gentle humor fading from the world.

And last, she always drifted to Enjolras. To the pale eyes that would one day shut forever, their beauty lost to the world. She thought of those curls matted with red and continued her efforts.

But she took immense joy in her reply to Enjolras.

Dearest Nadie,
There are not enough words to cover the depth of my apology; it weighs like an anchor finding no end. Jealousy is a cruel spider that has wound me in its web, and I cannot seem to stop causing you distress.

He went on describing his feelings: describing how it felt when she so suddenly reappeared to Cafe Musain, when she became a constant companion to Courfeyrac, when she questioned him in front of them.

Sybill never knew such kindness from a man other than her father. She never knew they were capable of empathy, of passion, of understanding.

I could live a thousand lives and never deserve a love so vast as his, she mused. But she would try.

* * *

Music flooded inside of the second-floor apartment from below. The sounds of a violin and piano filled the entirety of the Café Musain, and the thought of accomplishing any work that evening immediately disappeared. The first snow of the new winter fell on the 4th of November when no one suspected it. Outside, ice infiltrated the streets, the people, and the buildings to the point that travel seemed an impossibility.

The men of the Café Musain divided their time that evening between running downstairs to join the gaiety and remaining upstairs to discuss their plans. Every member of the company was accounted for and present besides the noticeable absence of one Monsieur Enjolras. No one received a note or any other message from the man to explain his absence.

"Courfeyrac, I speak only as a friend," replied Grantaire. "I swear to you, my words are only to talk sense into your senseless mind."

"You're incorrect, my dear drunkard," countered Courfeyrac with a flash of anger. "I choose to ignore your words for they do not pertain to my predicament at present."

"You do not love that burlesque woman," replied Grantaire. "You are aware on that front?"

"Yes, commander," teased Courfeyrac with a sigh. "I suppose that battle was fought only with half a heart that declared it futile from the onset."

Grantaire stared at the man once more. "You do not love her."

"I do not," conceded Courfeyrac.

Grantaire nodded, pleased. He took a swig from the bottle of fine wine before him and decided to test his luck. "What of your relationship to Sir Sybill?"