To Hide the Sword - Chapter 3
Two days after Combeferre discovered Enjolras' secret, Enjolras called on Combeferre in his tiny apartment adjoining the Necker Hospital. It was eight in the morning; Combeferre had just sat down with a newspaper and a pot of the concierge's execrable coffee, intending to read the reports of the riot's suppression and see if anyone he knew had been arrested, when Enjolras turned up on his doorstep.
With Enjolras actually present, all of Combeferre's harebrained theories vanished into thin air and he began to feel downright ashamed for thinking them up in the first place. Enjolras' presence was so very familiar and unchanged that it seemed unnecessary to call everything into question, and outrageous to apply such wild speculations to this serious young man with the face of a girl. A dozen self-recriminations crossed Combeferre's mind in the time it took him to invite Enjolras into his flat.
He opened his mouth to question Enjolras and finally get the facts laid on the table where he could examine them rationally, but Enjolras cut him off.
"We have a problem." He—she—he, it was a great deal of work to think of Enjolras as a she—looked distracted, haggard, and not at all as though he wanted to discuss why he wasn't wearing skirts. "A Friend of the ABC was rounded up after the uprising the other day. One of the workers who sometimes meet us at Corinthe. An acquaintance of Bahorel's; Courfeyrac knows him too. If the authorities are up to their usual tricks, they will use a procedural loophole to detain him indefinitely: an annoyance for a student or a man of independent means, loss of wages and eventual loss of job for a worker. They wish to intimidate the people away from public protest, through starvation if necessary. Odious enough in the abstract, but now it is being used against a member of our Society, and I will be damned if I let it be said that the students abandon the workers, that we encourage risks among those who have more to lose than we do and then refuse to jeopardize our privileges in order to help them. And I will be damned if I abandon a Friend of the ABC."
Combeferre stared at Enjolras in shock—she wanted to talk business as if nothing had happened?—then immediately checked himself. Why should he expect Enjolras to put personal matters before business in the aftermath of an insurrection? Bad enough to think he could wring heartfelt personal confessions out of him—her—in the first place; worse to expect such a thing when they had a wave of mass arrests on their hands. "What are we to do?" he found himself asking.
"We must post bail for him before we worry about any legal defense. He was arrested last night, Friday. He will perhaps not be missed on the Saturday after a riot, but if he isn't in his workshop on Monday. . ."
"Bail? How much?"
"Five hundred francs."
"Can we raise all that on such short notice?"
"I came here to ask you for the last thirty-seven francs." Seeing Combeferre's stupefied expression, Enjolras smiled and began rattling off sums. Another man might have consulted a slip of paper, but Enjolras carried it all in his head. Her head. God, this was difficult. "The Friends of the ABC have one hundred seventy-one francs in reserve, collected from the members at various points, for any expenses deemed necessary. Given that the case is urgent and the money will be refunded if this fellow shows up to the judicial proceedings, it's reasonable to use this money for his bail. Courfeyrac has already scraped together one hundred fifty francs by representing to three different relatives that his dearest friend was wounded in a duel and needs fifty francs to pay the doctor. From various other friends of the ABC, one hundred seventeen. I sold my Roman law textbooks: twenty-five francs. Total: four hundred sixty-three. We need thirty-seven francs and this man's job will be saved."
"And Courfeyrac and Bahorel think he can be trusted not to run?"
"Would I be here if they didn't?"
"Very well," said Combeferre. "My allowance just came in. I'm sure several of the booksellers I frequent will be devastated not to see me for a while, but that's a small price to pay for a man's livelihood." He unlocked a drawer in his desk and fumbled around until he had found two gold Napoléons, then pressed them into Enjolras' hand.
"Thank you." Enjolras gave him one of those fleeting, overwhelming smiles and turned to leave.
"Wait—" Combeferre cried as his brain caught up to what was happening. "Don't leave yet. This isn't the conversation I expected to be having with you. How is your wound? How am I to address you now, after what I discovered? What should I even call you? How are we to treat each other now that the secret is out between us?"
"My wound does not trouble me," said Enjolras impatiently. "As for the rest, I should very much like it if we could go on exactly as before."
"But that's impossible. I don't even know—Enjolras, who are you?"
"The same man you've always known."
"But you can't be—"
"I am. I hope that knowing the truth about my physical form will not make you believe that the rest of me is a mere act, and I certainly hope you will not soften yourself around me, or think me less than I was, or try to come the gallant." There was a wry twist to these last words, and Combeferre realized that Enjolras too was aware of their covert flirtation over the years. "Believe me, Combeferre, a continuation of things as they were is the best either of us can hope for."
"But—"
Enjolras looked at his watch, his patience clearly running out. (Combeferre temporarily gave up on thinking of Enjolras as 'she.' It was too difficult when Enjolras was there in front of him in trousers, with his familiar manner and the morning sunlight catching in his cropped golden hair.) "Combeferre, a man's livelihood is at stake. We have no time for this. If you wish to continue this conversation, come with me and we can talk along the way."
This was the last thing Combeferre had expected for their first meeting after the discovery. He had prepared himself for revelations, confessions, disappointments, even arguments, but not the possibility that Enjolras simply did not want to talk about it. In hindsight he felt foolish for it, because what could be more characteristic of Enjolras than to ignore personal questions when there was something to be done for a higher cause? He had expected change and found none, and it was strangely comforting, because it made it easier to believe they could indeed go on exactly as before. Combeferre was not entirely sure that going on as before was the right thing to do, but it was certainly tempting. It was easy to believe Enjolras when he said nothing had changed except a few unfortunate physical realities—especially when Enjolras didn't leave him the time to contemplate those physical realities before hurrying him out the door. Combeferre barely had time to grab his hat, roll up his newspaper, and stick it into his coat pocket for later perusal before they were on their way.
The Boulevard des Invalides was quiet and empty that morning. Its broad expanse stretched further than the eye could see, a cloud of dust hanging evenly over it, undisturbed—this was not one of the places touched by the riots. The two young men who set out from the Necker Hospital had no worries about being eavesdropped upon, for other passers-by were scarce and easily avoided, and hardly of a mind to stop and listen to them.
"Will you at least satisfy my curiosity on the practical details?" Combeferre was saying as they crossed the boulevard.
"Like what?"
"Well—" Combeferre studied Enjolras' form for a moment as they walked. Long strides, as though he'd been wearing trousers all his life—no resemblance to one of those mincing mezzo-sopranos stuffed into breeches for an audience's enjoyment. The barest hints of a fashionably feminine silhouette, although Combeferre knew the body hidden under that waistcoat to be much curvier than the cut of the suit implied. "Well, how did you get the clothes?"
"I went to a tailor," said Enjolras blandly. "Do you want his name?"
"He must be very discreet."
"He is either unobservant, or so discreet as to pretend he is unobservant."
"He must be discreet, then," said Combeferre. "An unobservant man would have cinched in your waist to make you look like a dandy and emphasized the bust to make you look like some Prussian officer. The clothes you are wearing, on the other hand, show remarkable good taste as regards your—well—proportions—" He trailed off uncomfortably, aware that he was blushing. He did not want to think too hard about Enjolras' body, or draw Enjolras' attention to the fact that he thought about it.
Enjolras did not seem particularly comfortable, either, with this evidence that Combeferre paid attention to his proportions. "I thought Courfeyrac was the sartorial expert."
They walked on in silence for a while, as Enjolras led them off the boulevard and plunged into the sleepy Faubourg Saint-Germain. It was the first time a flash of their strange unspoken intimacy had ever made things tense and uncomfortable between them.
Eventually Combeferre tried again. "The other practical things, though. How on earth did you become a student?"
Enjolras shrugged, but seemed more willing to answer this question. "The law school is not like the medical school. They don't ask for a pile of certificates and attestations of good moral character, only a birth certificate and a diploma. I had a twin brother who died in infancy, and so I simply brought them a copy of his birth certificate and enrolled under his name."
"And the diploma?"
"Obviously I took the test without having been to secondary school."
"But how did you get a proper education?" said Combeferre, surprised and rather impressed. They were alone in the street, so he felt safe to continue, "I've seen the excuse for an education my sisters were given. I tried to supplement it when I could, but there's only so much you can do for someone who is being trained to be an ornament and nothing more." He had a sudden, incongruous image of Enjolras at a provincial ball, too tall for the men to want to dance with her, too regal and severe for her ridiculous pastel gown, and yet beautiful in a stern, imposing way that nobody there would ever appreciate. All the beauty in the world would never make Enjolras a suitable ornament.
And yet Enjolras didn't appear interested in the abyss that he had avoided. "I spent a great deal of time in my father's library," he said simply, "and had a number of indulgent tutors."
"But that's amazing," said Combeferre, "it's incredible, that you could educate yourself like that. The education that is given to women has nothing to do with the empty facts, dogmas, and parlor tricks that are drummed into their heads; indeed, they are taught never to look at the amassed knowledge of the world as anything more than a collection of empty facts, dogmas, and parlor tricks, and the education they receive is one in unquestioning obedience. How many little girls have their father's library available to them, and yet remain empty-headed because nobody has ever given them the idea that they should want more? Without encouragement—without guidance—"
"I was not a little girl," said Enjolras, with a severe look that made Combeferre realize he had let his passion carry him away and had raised his voice so far as to intrude upon the silence of the neighborhood. A man was staring at them from the opposite side of the street.
"I was not a little girl," Enjolras repeated quietly. "Even then, I knew I was something else entirely. You find it remarkable that I am not feminine, yet it is no more remarkable than the fact that you did not accept for yourself the maimed education that was given to your sisters. Do not admire me for using what was available to me."
They walked on in silence, Combeferre pondering Enjolras' words: Even then, I knew I was something else entirely. Soon he started catching glimpses of the river in the gaps between buildings, and he finally thought to ask:
"Where are we going?"
"The Conciergerie."
"And who is this man we're bailing out?"
"A fanmaker who lives near the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Bahorel says his name is Feuilly."