In 1830s France, whilst the spirit of revolution is building, two women try to convince the revolutionaries (and criminals) around them to stay calm.
Amelie lives with Jean Prouvaire and Montparnasse.
A street away, her best friend Elisabeth lives i...
Enjolras and R find Elisabeth in the study, writing furiously. Her tears splash in the ink, distorting her words.
"Elisabeth," R says quietly.
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She turns and they flinch at her ruined appearance. Her eyes are red and wide, her face blotchy and tears cling in fat clumps on her eyelashes. Her hair is messed up as if she has been almost ripping it out and her lips look terribly dry. Somehow she still manages to look like a ghost, as if something has died behind her eyes.
"Drink something," Enjolras whispers. She reaches for an unopened wine bottle then flinches away, remembering.
She hesitates for a short moment, then draws in a sharp breath and goes back to her frantic writing. But she presses too hard and the quill breaks; ink blots everywhere, destroying her progress. "Merde!" She cries out. "Dammit!"
R moves over and touches her shoulder gently. She flinches away from him as he looks at the surviving title of what she had been writing. "A will?" He says, eyes widening.
Elisabeth sniffles. "Yes, a will. Because I am going to die. I am going to die of this and it is all my fault."
"You're not going to die," Enjolras murmurs. "We have the best doctors on hand. And it is rather unlikely. You are being a hypochondriac, mon amor. And it is not all your fault."
He reaches to pull her hair out of her face, worried it might be making her too hot. She jolts and turns around with a wild fury in her eyes. "Will you two stop touching me?!" She yells. "Have you not touched me enough already? Is there not proof of that now, growing in my womb?"
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She rises and storms from the room. For a moment, she pauses at the door to say. "I cannot trust either of you, since at least one of you wasn't considerate of the consequences that finishing inside of me could have. I want us to go back to the original sleeping arrangements. I do not feel comfortable in a bed with either of you, not anymore."
She leaves them in silence and does not speak for the rest of the night. She keeps her back turned to R. She can feel him lying awake on the other side of the room, watching her nervously through the darkness. Yet she is too enveloped in her own self-hatred to acknowledge him.
