February 14, 1832

                     What is love, journal?  No, don’t give me a Jehan-ean response.  I don’t have the same notion of love as he does.  There is more to love than walking on air, the lovely scent of flowers, and birds singing, isn’t there?  There must be.

                     I only ask this because of the date, journal.  St. Valentine’s Day, 1832.  I just came from le Musain, and a meeting of Les Amis.  Marius was there, and he made me think on the topic of love’s true nature.  You know what Marius Pontmercy is like, non?  Surely I’ve described him to you before.  He’s a pleasant fellow, or he was, until Lady Love commandeered him.  He was positively floating this evening, lots of sighing and falling into these melancholy fits of euphoria.  How paradoxical, this love business.

                     Raisa was there, too.  She was solemn this evening.  I think perhaps this day makes her a bit sad, having no one to share it with.  When I tried to coax her from her solitude, she only offered monosyllable responses in return.  Unfortunately, Grantaire managed to draw a more animated reaction from her.  I’m afraid she quite lost her temper with him; I’ve never seen her strike anyone before.  He’ll have a rather nasty bruise over his eye for a while yet.  Poor Grantaire.  After that unpleasant little incident, Raisa stormed out and left him on the floor.  He was sarcastic about the whole thing, tried to shrug it off.  It wasn’t until he had retreated to his dark corner to associate with his absinthe that the tears came.  I discreetly watched him cry into his wine, and this again brought me back to the thought of love.

                     Now, I’m no fool, journal.  I’ve seen the way he looks at her.  I know that he loves her, journal, but look at where love has gotten him.  I cannot help but pity the man, in spite of everything.  Every time I reflect that it might not be so bad to be in love, I recall Grantaire to mind.  And yet…

                     Now I am forced to consider Raisa.  Sometimes she makes me so angry…like tonight.  Sometimes I couldn’t be happier in her company.  She and I have so much in common, two separate lives bound together by similarity.  And other times, I want to cry when I look at her.  I’m not sure why, exactly…she saddens me, somehow.  Perhaps…but no, it can’t be that.  I care for her, but not…

                     I don’t know, journal, I’ve never been so confused before.  Do I love her?  How should I know?  All I know is that I will not, cannot abandon her.  Not now, not ever.  Every day, I feel the grand time of revolution draw nearer, and I understand this much about myself: I will be there, by her side, through all of this.  Live or die, kill or be killed, win or lose, I’ll always be there, to defend her with my life.

                     You see, love is different for me than for Marius or Jehan.  With me, love is an untouchable desire, a yearning that will never be fulfilled.  “Romance” doesn’t exist for me, and certainly doesn’t have anything to do with love.  I may love Enjolras, but I’ll not ever make love to her, I can’t even try.  I don’t dare…I might ruin something precious, something pure and beautiful that can never be brought back once it is destroyed forever.  I cannot risk that.  By that token, there is no guarantee that she would even accept me, were I to confess my feelings to her.  My feelings…Great God, I speak of them as though I already know all about them.  I have not even begun to understand.  Raisa-Émilie Enjolras is the love of my life, but could she ever possibly feel the same way about me?  No, I do not believe so…she is devoted to the Republic alone; I have no place in her heart.  I cannot compete with a goddess…Oh, forgive me, journal, I am causing your ink to run.  Allow me a moment to dry my eyes, please.

                     I believe I am sufficiently recovered now, thank you.  Where was I now?  Ah, of course…I hate myself for thinking that I might ever have a chance with Raisa.  It is wrong of me to assume such things…and I shall never declare my love to her, never.  At the very least, it would destroy our friendship, if not everything that we believe in.  The adoration of a single man is less than insignificant compared to the fate of all France, and I would never sacrifice the latter for the sake of the former.  If anything, it must be the other way around.  I should, should abandon these reckless emotions…but I can’t.  I should force myself to look the other way, to blink back the tears and return to the life I once knew, before I met that woman.  I should…but I can’t.

                     So what is love, journal?  Love is a lie.  Love is deceptive and ambiguous, and love shall kill me one day.  Most likely, long before revolution ever does.  Love is the sweetest poison I have ever known, but a deadly toxin, nonetheless.  I shall feel its sting for all eternity; I shall suffer the shame of knowing that what I wanted so, was simply not possible.  I am damned.  I am damned, journal, and I am sick.

                     I believe I am unable to speak on this any longer, journal.  It shocks me, and frightens me, what I have already admitted here, within this space.  Fare thee well, journal.  Tomorrow when I write, perchance, this haze of passion will have passed, and all will be logic and reason.  Perhaps the world will make sense once more.  In the meantime, I am dying; it is killing me, little by little.  And when the end comes, I’ll think of you, Raisa, and, ironically enough, I’ll be happy.

~In the utmost sincerity,

                    Etienne Combeferre