𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑪𝒀 || 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐫𝐚𝐬

04. 𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒓 𝑶𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆

Chapter 4.

✎ᝰ

March 15, 1832.

THE AIR IN THE café was tinged with the faint aroma of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries, a comforting embrace amidst the chaos that plagued the Parisian streets outside.

The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing lazily in the air. It all felt surreal to Elizabeth as she sat across from Enjolras.

Elizabeth looked down at her manuscript, pages scattered before them like fallen leaves in autumn.

She absentmindedly stroked the tips of her fingers over the rough edges of the paper, her heart beating in a rhythm harmonized to the rhythmic tapping of rain on the windowpane.

With her ink-stained fingers, Elizabeth fiddled with her quill, tapping it against her parchment as she stole glances at Enjolras.

His golden curls framed his chiseled profile, lit softly by the flickering glow of the nearby candles.

She admired his intense focus as he jot down notes, brow slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a line.

It was a look she had seen too often, and yet it struck her anew, pulling her from her own writings.

"What have you got?" she finally asked, her voice breaking the delicate calm.

Enjolras looked up, his blue eyes meeting hers with an urgent spark. "I've been considering ways to inspire the people," he said earnestly, leaning forward. "The fires of revolution need to burn brighter. They need to understand not just the what, but the why of our struggle. What do you think?"

A small smile crept onto her lips.

"You could write more pamphlets that address their fears directly, things like loss, poverty, and injustice, then relate them back to our cause. Make it personal."

"Personal," he echoed, nodding thoughtfully. "And perhaps not just pamphlets. We could use art."

"Yes!"

Elizabeth paused, gathering her thoughts before continuing, "What if we told stories of those willing to fight, to those who have been silenced? They could become our rallying call. From the cobblestones of Paris to the hearts of the people."

He nodded, clearly fascinated. "You've captivated me, Elizabeth."

Encouraged, Elizabeth pulled a worn manuscript from her satchel, the pages frayed at the edges, each marked with ink stained by the fervor of her writing.

"I've started a description of each member of L'ABC, and how each member plays their own part in this revolution." she explained, flipping through the pages until she arrived at the section. "Would you like to hear about them?"

"Absolutely," Enjolras leaned back, crossing his arms with a slight smirk, excitement illuminating his features.

She took a deep breath and flipped to the beginning of her character sketches.
"Let's start with Courfeyrac. His laughter is a constant presence, often slicing through the tension that can envelop our conversations. His heart beats in time with the pulse of Paris, each beat a reminder that joy can exist in revolution."

Enjolras listened attentively, a hint of admiration in his gaze. "He sounds like a true friend."

"He is," Elizabeth continued, grinning, "though perhaps a bit too easy to fall into frivolity at times. But we need him, especially in dark times. Combeferre. He's the thinker, the philosopher, always questioning and dissecting ideology with a quiet ferocity. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders yet addresses it with grace."