St. Juste was carved out of marble and determination. There are rumors he requires food and rest like other mere mortals, but they have never been substantiated. He seems to subsist entirely on passion and black coffee. His tailcoat is always red, because he cares nothing for fashion, and his cravat refuses to stay tied because he worries it when talking. He refuses any vice, taking neither wine nor smoke; he doesn’t gamble, joke, or even flirt with ladies.

So when he glares at me, I face the full heat of his disapproval.

The boys’ eyes fix on my basket of pain au chocolat, and they lose all interest in St. Juste’s latest lecture. There’s a stampede around me, leaving St. Juste to curse me and cast aspersions on baked goods, as if they somehow undermine the boys’ commitment to the cause. He can be melodramatic like that.

I ignore him and give up the basket to one of the boys, then bend to study the map on the table. It’s a detailed plan of the city, with twenty red marks placed at strategic locations. These are the positions the Société’s cells will take. They will arm themselves and call out to the neighborhood to join them, will build a barricade and slowly push outward till the streets of Paris are theirs. Or so St. Juste has stated at least a hundred times.

“The rue Villmert group has moved,” I comment, pointing to one of the red marks.

“The courier said that their position was too vulnerable from the east.” St. Juste points at another street. “They’ve moved to the avenue Ficelle.”

I frown. “But there’s no easy escape from Ficelle, no alleys or empty houses.”

“They won’t need an escape!” St. Juste raises his voice. “The people will join them!”

I roll my eyes. St. Juste expects success in every part of the Great Plan. He can’t fathom the thought that any aspect of their glorious revolution might fail, even though the city has a history of swallowing revolutions whole.

“Will you come to order?” he roars at the boys who are whooping as they try to steal the remaining pastries from one another.

I’ve heard them planning this for two years. I’ve listened to the recital of every tactic and strategy. I have even provided them with guns. And yet I have the strangest feeling as I watch them, as if they are actors at the rue des Meurtres, far away from me on a stage. Like boys playing games. They’re all so cheerful and excited, but I care very little for their politics. I care more about the coins they exchange for guns, bullets, and information. I care about the promises they’ve made to help me when their fighting is done.

I steal Grantaire’s chair. He places a steaming cup of strong coffee in front of me, winks, and, pushing me aside, sits on the chair beside me.

St. Juste frowns at us. They’re so dissimilar. St. Juste the fervent nationalist and Grantaire the romantic drunk. There was a time when St. Juste seemed to despair of his friend, but when Grantaire and Feuilly turned out to be right about the poison in the water, a newfound respect was born. Now Grantaire is allowed to keep drinking and listening to gossip, and St. Juste refrains from anything but the occasional blistering scolding.