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( june 1832 )
"HE'S ALIVE!" CORINNE LIFTED her head from Enjolras' bloody chest and stared down at his body in utter amazement. She looked back at Lucien, tears welling in her eyes. "Christ, Lucien, he's still alive!"
Her companion said nothing. His eyes were glued to Enjolras' unmoving body with shock evident on his features. It was then that she remembered he hadn't any idea that Monsieur Guillaume's son was a revolutionary. But she knew there wasn't time to explain. Enjolras was alive, but he was also badly injured. Who knew how long he'd been lying there on the brink of death?
Suddenly met with a burst of adrenaline, Corinne sprang to her feet. "We have to get him out of here," she mumbled, half to herself. Her heartbeat hadn't slowed, and the grief she'd previously felt was quickly replaced with panic. She could still lose him, she realized with a start.
I can't, she objected with a surge of determination.
She turned to Lucien with pleading eyes. "We have to get him home and find help—"
"Corinne." Much to her surprise, Lucien grabbed her by the shoulders and shook his head sadly. Gesturing down to Enjolras' body, he said: "Look at him. We don't even know if he'll survive the journey."
"We have to try!" Corinne snapped without any hesitation. She couldn't understand why Lucien wasn't more eager to at least attempt to save Enjolras' life. He evidently didn't feel for him as she did, but he was still the son of the man they served! Surely that would've been enough motivation for him. When Lucien still looked unconvinced, she gripped his arm tightly in her hand and added: "Please, Lucien. We have to try."
After another moment's hesitation, he nodded. "Okay," he said. "We can try."
Together, the pair managed to lift Enjolras' limp body between them. Lucien wasn't a large man, nor was he particularly strong, so carrying him quickly proved to be quite a challenge— but Corinne wasn't going to give up. Even if it took all day, she was going to bring Enjolras home. She was overly conscious of the multiple bullet wounds in his torso, worried that one wrong movement would seal his fate completely. Her eyes never left him as they carried him out of the room and down the stairs to the alleyway below.
On the street outside of the Cafe Musain, it seemed as though the people of Paris were finally beginning to stir after last night's massacre. Some were there to claim the bodies of those who had fallen— mothers, wives, sisters, or merely friends, all grieving for the lives that were lost. Others were taking the time to scrub away the blood from the cobblestone streets. Corinne could hear them talking quietly to one another, saying things along the lines of "they were only children" or "they were far too young to be fighting such a battle."
