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Death strides back and forth across the top of the barricade, howling with laughter. He seems almost drunk with glee, and Enjolras is glad that no one else can see him. He only wishes that he couldn’t either.
“Vive la France! Vive la Republique!” Death cries out into the night, “And death for every mortal here tonight!” The National Guard’s bullets rip through him, and he only laughs all the harder.
Enjolras does his best to ignore Death’s antics, and looks instead towards their flag – his flag – standing tall upon the barricade. It’s been torn by the stream of bullets, but it’s still flying proud and strong. His heart swells a little when he looks at it, tattered but not beaten, just like Paris herself. The numbers may be against them now, but when the people fight they cannot be brought down.
Death follows his gaze, and a manic gleam lights up his eyes. Enjolras feels his stomach sink as Death walks over to his beloved flag, and tenderly gathers the material in his hands. He holds it up to his cheek, and kisses it, sensually, with his eyes trained on Enjolras the whole time. It’s shocking and filthy, and Enjolras is equal parts aroused and horrified. He knows all too well what Death’s kiss feels like, and he can’t help but imagine those kisses pressed against his skin instead of his standard.
Then Death gives him a sharp, predatory smile, and pulls. The top of the flagpole snaps, and Death casts the broken flag down to lie at Enjolras’ feet. He swings himself around to sit on the barricade, facing Enjolras, and grins madly.
Enjolras feels angry rebellion begin to stir in him. As painful as it is, there’s relief, too, to know that Death can go too far, that’s there’s still something Enjolras won’t tolerate. Perhaps he isn’t entirely Death’s creature yet. He hears Courfeyrac shouting out orders to hold fire, and the part of his mind that he can make focus is glad of it. The rest of him stares down at where his flag lies fallen on the ground.
“Let us raise the flag again,” he says softly. Then louder, more confident, sure now of what he must do, “Above all, let us raise the flag again!” This night belongs to him and to his people, not to Death, and he will not give it up without a fight.
“Yes, sweet boy, come up here with your little toy cloth,” Death sings at him, “Come sit by me and let me kiss you while your blood dyes your flag even redder. A fitting end, darling Enjolras, don’t you think?”
Enjolras snarls back at him. There is a part of him that wants to climb the barricade, to raise his flag high and show the world and Death the strength of his resolve. A moment of utter glory, then final rest. That’s what Death wants from him though, and this time Enjolras plans to fight for what he wants instead. The barricade still needs him, and he will not let Death trick him into abandoning it. He lifts the flag above his head, and sees every eye turned towards him.
“Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the barricade again?” he cries. No one comes forward – of course, he tells himself, no one here has been courted by Death himself, and no one else has seen his vicious taunts. They will not sacrifice themselves for a struggle they can’t even understand.
“Does no one volunteer?” he tries a final time. He already knows the answer, and he shivers with something that might equally be dread or anticipation. It will have to be him. This will be his final stand, and Death will finally claim him.
Then the crowd parts, and an old man walks up to him, the fires of revolution burning in his eyes. His snatches the flag from Enjolras’s hands, and begins to climb the barricade without a word.
“Oh, Enjolras, what a lovely present!” says Death, still perched on the edge of the barricade. He looks at the old man, clearly delighted. “I remember you! Have you missed me, dear M. Mabeuf?”
Mabeuf does not reply, but he gives a nod of acknowledgment in Death’s direction as he climbs. He can see him, Enjolras realizes, utterly shocked. There’s never been anyone else before; there’s never been anyone he can even tell about the morbid apparition who haunts his life. He longs to call Mabeuf back, to beg him to confirm that Enjolras isn’t mad, and to share with him everything he knows. He’s found a kindred soul in this man he’s never met before, and now Death is going to steal him away before Enjolras can even speak to him. The injustice of it nearly takes his breath away.
Mabeuf reaches the top of the barricade and raises up the flag. Enjolras feels as proud as if he himself were the one standing there.
"Long live the Revolution! Long live the Republic! Fraternity! Equality! And Death!" shouts Mabeuf. His choice of words hits Enjolras like a punch to his gut. He can’t help but remember Death whispering those same words in his ear; perhaps he whispered them to Mabeuf too, forty years ago. Mabeuf survived, and the revolution flourished; he is living proof that Death does not win every round. Death will take him now, but he has lived a long life and dies with courage and honor. Enjolras envies him. Enjolras admires him. Enjolras already mourns him.
He does not look away as Mabeuf shouts “Long live the Republic!” again, nor as the National Guard begins to fire on him. He watches avidly, eager to take in every moment of this magnificent soul while he still can. He sees Mabeuf fall, and sees Death rise to catch him. Death looks on fondly as Mabeuf struggles back up to his feet one last time; when he falls again, Death does not intervene. He tumbles down onto the pavement, spirit departed.
"What men these regicides were!" Enjolras cries out as the crowd moves around the old man’s body.
Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras aside to try to whisper in his ear,” This is for yourself alone, I do not wish to dampen the enthusiasm. But this man was anything rather than a regicide. I knew him. His name was Father Mabeuf. I do not know what was the matter with him today. But he was a brave blockhead. Just look at his head.”
Courfeyrac is a thoroughly good man, and normally an excellent judge of character. But he did not see Mabeuf nod to Death like an old acquaintance, someone worthy of acknowledgement but not of deference. It is not Courfeyrac’s fault that he cannot understand. Only Enjolras knows what really happened.
Mabeuf has given him back the will to live, if only long enough to fight and win. How can he put that into words?
He does his best anyways; he wants to share with the crowd a little of the priceless gift Mabeuf has given him. He speaks to his followers, summoning every bit of rhetorical power he can. “Citizens! This is the example which the old give to the young. We hesitated, he came! We were drawing back, he advanced! This is what those who are trembling with age teach to those who tremble with fear! This aged man is august in the eyes of his country. He has had a long life and a magnificent death! Now, let us place the body under cover, that each one of us may defend this old man dead as he would his father living, and may his presence in our midst render the barricade impregnable!”
The flag which Mabeuf gave his life to raise has fallen along with him. With new eyes, Enjolras sees that Death was right about one thing. His flag really was no more than a bit of toy cloth, and blood is the only dye worth paying for. He bends down to kiss Mabeuf’s dear brow, and gently strips his jacket off him. The blood that stains it is worth more than a hundred red flags.
He holds up the jacket for the assembled crowd to see. It’s bloody and torn and full of the defiant spirit of ’93. “This is our flag now,” he declares.
The crowd yells its approval, and it isn’t until the voices die down that Enjolras can hear slow clapping behind him.
“Bravo! Bravo! What a show! I am thoroughly amused.” Death has come down, and is standing right behind Enjolras. Enjolras does not let himself show any surprise or weakness.
“You do not belong here. Tonight belongs to those who will live tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after. Leave us be,” he tells Death.
Death drapes himself across Enjolras’ shoulders. “Beloved, what do you think the fate of future generations is? It all comes down to me eventually. Past, present, or future, it’s all the same. You all belong to me sooner or later.” He breathes into Enjolras’ ear, like a lover’s sigh. “Sooner, I think. For you and for your tomorrows.”
It’s hard to think of anything else when Death holds him and whispers what he already believes. He closes his eyes and pictures Mabeuf’s final act, then opens them and looks down at the bloody jacket in his hand.
“Later,” he snarls, and he tears himself from Death’s embrace.