Enjolras would never expect him to be sorry for it, nor wish him to be. He couldn't bring his friends along, and that's a heartbreaking unfairness; he can't see Paris as Bahorel would, nor any of the rest. All he can do is offer up everything he did and saw to them, in as much detail as he can, and let that be as much as any vicarious sight of home can be.
He answers: yes, he went to the Musain. The street, yes -- it was spring of '33, the newspapers gave the date -- this street, that corner, he didn't go by that building but this is what he saw at the next, that person, a crowd there, a deserted evening there.
Paris.
No longer quite theirs. He walked those streets months after his death, not only a visitor but in another face, another body, the Parisian breeze touching different skin and inflating different lungs, a strange and nagging dislocation; they died, and their blood watered her mud and gutters, and Paris went on. And yet: all the same, their Paris. Their blood sank into her soil, only months before.
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Date: 2015-11-16 05:43 am (UTC)From:He answers: yes, he went to the Musain. The street, yes -- it was spring of '33, the newspapers gave the date -- this street, that corner, he didn't go by that building but this is what he saw at the next, that person, a crowd there, a deserted evening there.
Paris.
No longer quite theirs. He walked those streets months after his death, not only a visitor but in another face, another body, the Parisian breeze touching different skin and inflating different lungs, a strange and nagging dislocation; they died, and their blood watered her mud and gutters, and Paris went on. And yet: all the same, their Paris. Their blood sank into her soil, only months before.