𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑪𝒀 || 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐫𝐚𝐬

01. 𝑳𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒔 𝑭𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑫'𝑬𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒉

Chapter 1.

✎ᝰ

April 7, 1832

LE CAS FRUSTRANT D'ELIZABETH

January 3, 1832.

LE CAFE MUSAIN has long been our sanctuary, an inconspicuous refuge.

Its weathered wooden tables and worn stone floors seemed to breathe with the testament of countless dreams and discussions, yet here and now, it falls silent, save for the rhythmic scratching of our pens.

When we first ventured into this makeshift sanctuary, I hardly imagined it would become our personal retreat, an unlikely haven for two so seemingly dissimilar.

I, a fervent idealist driven by the aspirations of a greater France, and she, a passionate writer with a penchant for stubbornness to rival my own.

I cast a glance across the table, a familiar sight that has somehow morphed into an uneasy constant in my life.

Elizabeth Pontmercy, my opponent in so many verbal skirmishes, is lost in her world.

She sits with her head bent over a sheet of paper, her striking red hair spilling over her shoulders like a waterfall aflame.

The rain outside pelts against the window in a rhythmic chant, a constant reminder of the dismal state of the city, a city that longs for revolution, which I long for, yet I'm finding myself unsettled by another kind of yearning altogether.

Her blue eyes, a striking similarity that both irks and captivates me, are locked in concentration, focused on the words that demand to spill from her pen.

A smattering of freckles dust her nose, dancing lightly over her cheeks as she furrows her brow in that way that both irritates and fascinates me.

It annoys me, this involuntary pull she exerted over my senses, and I despised that I could lose myself so easily in the depths of her gaze.

I have never known a girl quite like her, not just for the way she looked, but for the audacity with which she approached life, the unyielding passion that radiated from her every word and gesture.

How strange it is, to think how quickly a stranger might become indispensable.

I have known her just months, yet within those fleeting days, she has burrowed beneath my skin, igniting an inexplicable warmth that I could neither comprehend nor extinguish.

An infuriating presence, yet deep inside, I'm glad for her brashness and the way she challenges me to explore parts of my own conviction I have neatly tucked away.

I should be writing about the revolution, about rallying our comrades and fighting for our cause.

But inevitably, no matter how deeply I delve into strategizing pamphlets or plotting the next uprising, my mind wanders back to her.

Why? I don't know.

In my memory, her emergence into my life happened all at once, though I can't recall the precise moment or the circumstances that had led to her becoming an essential part of it.

It was as if she had slipped between the cracks upon me when I was least aware, quietly becoming the tempest that stirred in my stable sea of ambition.

Elizabeth treats me as a man, as a human being, rather than the idealistic figure that my comrades build up in their extravagant imaginations.

While they elevate me beyond the realm of simplicity, placing me upon a pedestal of their own making, she grounds me in reality with the authenticity of her presence.