II.

I'm sitting in the sweating darkness of a tavern; surrounded by men and boys of various ages, complaining about the government. Grantaire's breath, ten times more humid than the summer air and reeking of brandy is hot on my neck, muttering in between scoffs at their complaints and his own complaining about his existance. I listen to him and the others with one eye closed, trying to lose myself in their talk- revolution. Death to polignac. Constitution of the year two. Sufferage. Worker's rights. Napoleon is a scarecrow; Lafayette is a pumpkin, Louis-Phillipe is a pear. Rent is up, food is up, work is down. Prostitutes are people too.

Oh yes.

The name of the tavern is the Musain. It's my monday and friday night retreat. I listen in the darkness of my corner to seditious lines from youthful mouths; and to the hapless drunkard behind me; I sit and listen for hours collecting guilty little secrets until I think I will explode. I eat them up with a loaf of crusty bread, I sip them, with the bottle I am sharing with Grantaire; and grin with the knowledge that I could report them all; maybe, maybe I will, report every word, every one.

The grin is because I am not going to. That would simply defeat the purpose. I close my eyes and soak everything up. Treason this. Revolution that. Holy September, mother of Fructidor. I open my eyes.

Oh no.

Maybe if I don't see him, he won't see me. The old white haired man just come in the room with the searching look and ironically benevolent stare. If I'd come upon him anywhere else, anywhere but here, his presence would be a nice juicy steak, served up with garlic. It would be luscious.

He sits across the room and his eyes trip over me. Merde. He looks down and away. Damn him.

This man is NOT a revolutionary. This man is not a traitor, inasmuch as his crimes, while equally weighty, are not of a seditious nature. What's more, he knows full well that I am not either. Yet he weaves in among the revolutionaries as if he is in his own damn bedroom. Like he is one of them.

He can't be.

He's just a big Tourist.

A Faker.

His lie reflects my lie and all of a sudden, I go cold. I can't relax. I can't anything. I grip my nightstick beneath my coat and close my eyes.

If I don't see him, maybe he'll go away.

Listen to Grantiare. Sweet drunkard, fill me with your sensless babble. Beautiful dreamer, sleep unto me.

"Chronus' aching grandfather who first concieved clocks; great noisy indecency that was with all the nefarious ticking and such; let alone the criminal capacity to catalog these deciduous minutes we should let fall un-recorded; faith! To ignore time is to be a god; because the god's don't eat by the clock and they don't have anywhere in particular to be..."

NO, no, no!

"SHUT UP, winecask." I snarl at the startled drunkard and rise, hurrying from the room. The coal gaze of that convict, of Jean Valjean, it follows me blazing out into the night. I wish he himself would follow me; the ticking turned back on in my head like a timed powder keg wants to break something. If he follows me; it will certainly be him.

But he doesn't, and I have to ring in.

I wonder how much he knows. Enough? I wonder if he will tell them what I am.

Tick tock. Damn drunk. I walk along the river, towards the police station.

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