Thirty Days Later: Steaming Forward: 30 Adventures in Time

by Harry Turtledove

  General Jean Maximilien Lamarque was dead, taken by the cholera. He’d died in the old hospital; Lariboisiere had not yet been built when the epidemic hit. You may know that hospital; it is still in use today. It is in the 10th arrondissement, although they didn’t call it that at the time.

  Henri Grantaire could scarcely credit it; it seemed as though Lamarque would go on forever. So much larger than life he’d been; hell, Grantaire had served under him in ‘30, right next to Jean-Claude Enjolras. Little they’d all known; even Lamarque had said they’d been in the wrong, putting Louis-Philippe on the throne.

  Grantaire’s feet dragged along the rue Saint-Denis to the tavern. He’d agreed to meet Enjolras there, as well as some of their fellow students from the Sorbonne. How old Grantaire felt when he considered the youthful enthusiasms of Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly: all of them were children in his eyes — even the well-spoken Jean Prouvaire, with his idealism. The eldest of the group, Lesgle, was a duke’s heir; the entire lot was vehemently anti-royalist. Really, it was their only common bond.

  They called themselves the Friends of the Abaissé, an adjunct of the Society of the Rights of Man. To Grantaire’s cynical eyes, they were just another Sorbonne fraternity: wealthy young men playing at philosophy and high-flown ideals of revolution and war without having the slightest idea of the true cost of either. Each time they agreed to meet at the ABC Tavern (“I’ll see you at the Abaissé”), they reveled in their own cleverness at making a pun.

  If Combeferre was the group’s guide and Courfeyrac its center, as they’d all often opined, Enjolras was its Chief. When the other men spoke of their mistresses, Enjolras claimed that la Patrie — the Republic — was his only woman.

  Of course, Grantaire thought that was another glorious pun. Enjolras’ love was the plump, delightful Marianne, whose parents had named her for the spirit of the Republic. She shared a flat with Olympe, who had nearly as much a hold on Grantaire as his beloved wine.

  Wine. Yes, he needed more wine. Perhaps a lengthy toast to the people’s general would be in order once he got to the tavern.

  Bahorel bought another round of wine for the group; it was his turn, after all. At least Grantaire was late; that meant the bottle would last longer. The veteran-student was always drowning his sorrows.

  Combeferre and Feuilly were playing dice, while Courfeyrac and Prouvaire loudly debated a point of philosophy. It looked to be just one more night in the dingy tavern on the rue de la Chanverrie.

  Until Grantaire entered, his face solemn as a judge, followed by an equally subdued Enjolras.

  Grantaire picked up the nearest glass — which happened to be Bahorel’s.

  “A toast to fallen comrades, my friends,” he intoned. “General Lamarque has gone to his reward.”

  Before we learn more about our friends on this particular evening, first we must know about how they arrived at this place. Grantaire and Enjolras are the elder statesmen, although not the eldest of the group. They are the seasoned veterans…the ones who fought under Lamarque just two years previously in order to put Louis-Philippe on the throne. At the time, they believed in their cause.

  But now, that Louis has proved as dissolute as many others of the same name. The people of Paris are starving; there are no animals to be seen, as pets and zoo animals alike have been eaten. The same thing happened during the Reign of Terror; starvation kills ethics just as surely as it kills the hungry. Crime increases when people grow more desperate.

  And Louis-Philippe does nothing to help the hungry.

  Grantaire and Enjolras discuss these problems frequently during their visits to Marianne and Olympe … to the disgust of the young women, who would like their beaux’s attention to be undivided. Unlike the monarch, the two men cannot look upon suffering and remain silent. And so, they began to talk of revolution.

  Let us first look to Henri Grantaire. He and Enjolras have known one another since childhood, after all, and are nearly as close as brothers.

  But do not presume they were equals in the nursery. On the contrary, young Henri was the son of the majordomo. His father served the Enjolras household.

  Henri was a quick boy, but not always quick enough. His father was swift with physical punishment, most particularly when he though the boy was putting on airs above his station.

  And how might the little Grantaire be doing this? Why, by befriending the solitary Jean-Claude, scion of the bourgeois household that gave the elder Grantaire his living.

  Henri had noticed the solemn boy, who seemed to be near his own age. A shy offer to pet a precious dog on the young master’s part soon led to sharing Henri’s rolling hoop, the two boys running after it. Their laughter echoed across the lawn, with a joyful dog barking counterpoint and nipping at their heels.

  Jean-Claude begged his father to allow his new friend to sit in the nursery during sessions with the tutor. Thus, the butler’s boy and the gentleman’s son had identical educations.

  For his part, Grantaire was always the more grounded of the two. He had an eye toward the practical. He saw life in all of its ugly reality.

  It is no wonder that he took to drink at a relatively early age. Wine and brandy dulled all manner of pain, whether from the bitter reality that he would never be more than a servant’s son to the physical pain of his father’s fists landing yet another blow.

  Perhaps you are thinking that Grantaire’s father should have been grateful for the generosity shown to his son. However, you must also remember that pride is a very peculiar thing. A man does not always like the idea of his son surpassing him on the world’s stage. Such a son might look down on his father.

  And so it was that the elder Grantaire determined to keep young Henri humble, by any means necessary.

  It did not help that Henri looked so much like the mother who died giving him life. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, the lad had been the recipient of the scullery maids’ sidelong glances since his days in short pants.

  For contrast, look upon the dreamer, Jean-Claude Enjolras. As dark as his young friend is fair, this lad prefers his books and his dog to rowdier sport. It is because of this that his father, a well-to-do draper, encourages his friendship with the less-polished Grantaire boy. Life must be lived, not dreamed about in a classroom.

  So it is that the unlikely pair become the very best of friends and are soon inseparable. Each of us has had just such a childhood friend; even when the slings and arrows of life move us apart for a time, we always come back like metal to a lodestone. So it was with Grantaire and Enjolras.

  As they got older, their antics grew apace. Grantaire it was who took Enjolras to a Montmartre crib for his first encounter with a whore. Grantaire had, by that time, had nearly every scullery maid belowstairs. At least one had been dismissed with a big belly and no reference.

  Enjolras was delighted by the pleasures of the flesh to be sure, but could never hope to be his friend’s equal in debauchery. This young Enjolras, it must be said, saw himself as destined for greater things.

  The boys’ tutor was wont to complain that young Jean-Claude had his head more frequently in the clouds than in his lesson books. Yet, each assignment was completed, on-time and correctly. The schoolmaster deemed it a puzzle.

  Enjolras steeped himself in history books; deeds and exploits of the past were his true religion, no matter how many times he attended mass in the family chapel.

  It was in this vein that, his head filled to the brim with heroes, Enjolras went to war at the tender age of eighteen. Grantaire, not to be left out if drinking, wenching and fighting were in the offing, followed suit.

  Two years on, this same Grantaire and Enjolras study at the Sorbonne. Enjolras reads the law and Grantaire philosophy. They have seen more of life than their fellow students ... far more than they wanted to see. Grantaire most often views life through the distortions of a wine bottle as he tries to forget the fetid stench of the battlefields.

  As for Jean-Claude Enjolras, he puts on his eleg
ant suit of clothes and goes through his day. What cannot readily be seen is the fervor for justice and equality that burn in his heart. Each tale of his country’s revolutions has made him determined to see better times for all of his countrymen.

  It is this same belief in equality that saw him offer to let the butler’s son pet his beloved dog.

  As I said, there are seldom any cats or dogs to be seen nowadays. As with the zoo animals in 1789, there has been too much hunger in the streets. The starving cannot afford to be sentimental over pets.

  And so it is that Enjolras’ soul is aflame with a fanatic desire that none should know hunger or want. The child of privilege has seen far too much of both, between the pages of his books and on the battlegrounds.

  So, too, one General Jean Maximilien Lamarque had seen too much. When Louis-Philippe could not be bothered to keep his promises to France, Lamarque spoke out. Once a supporter, Lamarque became an outspoken critic of the crown.

  And of what did he speak? Lack of meaningful work. Lack of homes. Lack of food.

  And what did the well-to-do of Paris say to this lack?

  Nothing.

  To Enjolras’ view, it was almost as bad as Marie-Antoinette’s legendary, albeit inaccurately quoted, let them eat cake.

  There was no cake, and little bread, to be had. An income from Enjolras père kept clothes on the younger man’s back and a roof over his head.

  And Grantaire? Each month’s modest pension from the king’s army bought a garret room and cheap drink.

  How, then, do these youths have mistresses like Marianne and Olympe — beautiful young women who might easily seek wealthier company?

  Both girls sew for a dressmaker. They are fortunate that the lighting is good and the hours fair for the wage given. Not all are so fortunate.

  Olympe’s own mother, after all, had sold herself to make ends meet after the child’s father abandoned them.

  All too common a tale in this place and time.

  And where did these four meet?

  In the gathered crowd during one of Lamarque’s speeches. The moment Marianne’s blue eyes fell on Enjolras, she declared herself smitten, and nothing would do but that she must sidle closer while dragging Olympe in her wake.

  From that moment, Grantaire declared himself Olympe’s slave. She returned his regard joyously.

  Many a night saw the four of them together, dining in the women’s rooms before retiring to their respective bedchambers.

  Each night, after their lovemaking, Marianne prayed that Jean-Claude would ask for her hand. Being a lawyer’s wife was a step up for a grocer’s daughter.

  Each night, that same Enjolras would talk of France’s future — but never his own, with or without Marianne.

  It seemed that he could only envision the former.

  Olympe doesn’t worry so much about a future with Grantaire. She worries more about getting through until tomorrow. This is her mother’s legacy. Her father left no legacy, of course. Perhaps this is why Olympe takes such an epicurean view of her lover, and of her life.

  And so, these are the major players upon our little stage. And what, you may well ask, does our stage look like?

  The winding, narrow streets of the Latin Quarter inform our tale. The cat’s-head cobblestones lead to stone buildings, some elegant dwellings and some mere tenements. The students live in the latter, for the most part; even Baron Pontmercy’s heir has humble rooms, so that his fellow students will not know him for an aristo.

  But this is not young Pontmercy’s tale, and so we will leave him there.

  As we have already observed, there are no pets left in Paris; there is, however, another kind of animal. There are droves of hungry children, the grubby little gamines whose parents send them out to beg for a crust of bread ... if they have parents at all. Many of them are expert cutpurses and pickpockets, melting into the dank, narrow alleys with the booty taken from unsuspecting passersby.

  As with any large city, the backstreets are filled with whores and mountebanks, wigmakers buying desperate women’s hair, dentists buying anyone’s teeth ... in short, the usual sorts who prey on those most in need of kindness.

  At least the wigmaker and dentist give coin instead of taking it.

  There are also the priests of nearby Notre Dame, providing a bowl of soup and small loaf of bread to each hungry Parisian who stands in line, until the provisions run out.

  And so the stage is set, and our actors gathered.

  But wait: there is first one more person with whom we must be acquainted. That is Robert Enjolras, second son of that aforementioned family. Though Napoleon’s law says that all children inherit equally, there are still some who hold to older ways. Thus it is that this same Robert goes for a soldier. Had there been a third son, he would have been for the church; however, Divine Providence has seen fit to send only Jean-Claude and Robert to monsieur and madame Enjolras.

  So, young Robert moves through the ranks swiftly, riding the back of a bought commission. At the time of our tale, he is a captain of the National Guard, every bit as passionate and handsome as his elder brother.

  And now, my friends, let us return to the tavern. Young men with old souls are plotting!

  “A toast to fallen comrades, my friends. General Lamarque has gone to his reward.”

  Grantaire drains Bahorel’s glass and smacks his lips in satisfaction as he returns it to his dismayed companion.

  “What do you know of the funeral plans?” Combeferre inquires. “Surely there will be a procession, with catafalque and all.”

  “Indeed,” Feuilly joins in. “The people of Paris will want to pay their respects.”

  “We must find out,” Enjolras speaks with authority. “For we may well use this somber occasion to make a change for the better, all over France.”

  Grantaire sees the familiar light in his friend’s eye and shakes his head.

  “Innkeeper,” he calls out genially. “More of your wine, and good meat pies, for all. Plotting has ever been hungry work.”

  With that, he throws some coins on the table. The innkeeper’s daughter snatches them up when she brings the requested items, barely acknowledging Grantaire as she slaps greasy trays on tables.

  And so it is that the night wears on, in discussion of weapons, gunpowder and treason. Revolution has ever been thus.

  Of all of those clear-eyed idealists, Grantaire is the one with a secret: he wishes he were a father. Where others of his number might give a cuff and a “Be gone with you, brat!” to the filthy gamines who steal to stave off starvation, Grantaire is the one who shares his bread. Grantaire is the one who provides a penny here and there, though he has little enough himself.

  Though he has never known serious need, he has known what it is to look upon those who have more and to feel the pain of lack.

  But for the grace of God, thinks he, I could be one of those ravening little boys eking out their living on the streets by any means necessary.

  Grantaire thinks, from time to time, of marrying Olympe ... or of throwing both caution and precaution to the winds and getting a child on her. Either scenario will cause her to lose her situation with the dressmaker, though. And, in times such as these, perhaps it is best not to bring another babe into the world. There are mouths enough already crying for food. Thus, this particular desire remains unspoken.

  Grantaire wonders whether he truly recalls hearing a story of a man jailed for stealing bread ... or if it was an illusion found in the bottom of a wine bottle.

  He shakes his head to clear it and heads out into the night, handing a coin to a lad of about six years in age and sixty in countenance and demeanor. He is around the tavern nearly as much as the students.

  “It is late for you to be about, little Gavroche,” Grantaire tells the boy. “Go buy your bread and cheese, and hide away safely.”

  “My thanks, monsieur,” the boy replies. “This will feed me and the other two boys I’m helping. My babies and I thank you.”

  With
that, the gamine melts into the darkness of the Saint-Michel slums as Grantaire makes his way homeward.

  For his part, Enjolras goes neither to his home nor the waiting arms of Marianne. Instead, he makes his way to a certain army barracks. There he speaks with the handsome young captain he calls brother and learns of the plans for Lamarque’s funeral procession. Now he knows the route, the hour...all.

  He also knows that Robert will be amongst the honor guard.

  Whether this is an ill omen or good, only Divine Providence will tell.

  Enjolras arises from Marianne’s bed far earlier than either of them desire. His bodily needs have been slaked; neither of them knows of a certainty what the day will bring, and it may well be their last time together.

  The guns have been hidden in the tavern; today they will be unpacked and handed to men who, except for Enjolras and Grantaire, have never shot at anything other than game animals ... if even that.

  May God have mercy on all of their souls, prays Jean-Claude Enjolras, as he prepares to lead men into battle once again.

  From the Ground

  by Justin Andrew Hoke

  “I can say with most certainty, that we were never meant to live in the sky.”

  —T. D. Bishop, Farmer/Council Member

  We broke from the caves when we no longer feared the dead of night, and now we reach for the sun as it creeps away from us daily. A world born from fear has ignited a passion to reach for the black that chases our wheel away. Each day by day we take to the effort to climb. We climb to expand. We expand to increase our reach.

  Our reach will know no limit as we feed the machine of all-kind.

  Today we strike the ground to build from nothing: the era of Man. All who carry a shovel own the earth they move. From the silt comes a song of angels, telling the heavens to prepare for our arrival. Foundation will give way to frame, to form, to atmosphere, as we grace the sky with our presence and build a nation above the cumulonimbus.