As with the previous installments, some content has been paraphrased & quoted from Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen." And Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. As well as:
- Victor Hugo (tr. Shakespeare)
- Alexandre Dumas (tr. The Snow Queen)
- Louis Moland (tr. The Snow Queen)
- Étienne Avenard (tr. The Snow Queen)
- Jean Lorrain (Neighilde)
- Jack London
- Édouard de Laboulaye (Perlino)
- Christina Rossetti (Goblin Market)
- E.A. Poe
- Pink Floyd
- Genesis
- C.S. Lewis (The Silver Chair)
- ...
La Fée Verte
Une nouvelle en cinq chapitres
Chapitre troisième
L'héritière et son fiancé
And how do you think, dear readers, that Enjolras reacted after finding that his more-than-friend had not returned home to their garret? How did he get along when the lush did not come back? What happened to Enjolras after that disappearance? And how fared he in Grantaire's absence?
Our fair hero began to feel at least slightly anxious and concerned when two or three days had passed without anyone in their little club knowing the slightest of whither their resident sceptic savateur (and drunkard) had gone. Where could he have ended up?
Combeferre and the others had been looking for information far and wide, searching for his trail and asking questions to everyone everywhere in the district, but no one had been able to give any news of Grantaire's whereabouts. What had become of him, no one knew, nor could anyone make even a guess as to his whereabouts.
Eventually, Feuilly, the only member of the Amis who worked for his living instead of studying, and thus spent most of his time at night as a waiter at the Café, behind the counter (for he spent the daytime making hand-fans in a fan manufacture), recalled that, on the rainy evening of Grantaire's disappearance, the half-drunken dark young man had been picked up by a strangely beautiful dark green carriage, that had taken off and drifted down their wintry rue, then left the district in the direction of the Seine. Others told that they had last seen him driven through the streets in the aforementioned carriage, accompanied by a lady of strange and wondrous beauty. No one knew where the carriage had exactly gone, or who the lady might be; for, after that, no one else had caught sight of them.
Feuilly leaned against a lamp-post, bent over double and gasping for breath. He had seen Grand'R come this way, he knew it. The faint sound of a horse whinnying in the distance made him jerk back up, but he could see nothing, and hear no one. The Marseillais was not there.
This was the last time that anyone had seen Grantaire; afterwards, no one knew what had become of him or of the lady who had probably whisked him away.
Grantaire had been absent from the Musain for the past week or so, not that Enjolras had missed him. Were it not for the fact that it was noticeably quieter without the other man there to make a joke of everything, Enjolras told himself, he would not even have registered his absence from his usual corner.
They waited for a week, then a fortnight, waiting for Grantaire to appear all of a sudden from right around the corner, to take them all by positive surprise.
But even the highest hopes begin to waver, and soon, after days and weeks went by and still he didn't return, and there was no sign, the word got round that, doubtlessly, the raven-haired young man, in an intoxicated state, had had to drink himself legless, then got a little too close to the riverbank and, in those white-winter conditions, surely stumbled or slipped into the icy Seine, where it flowed through the centre of Paris, and been washed away and frozen to death before he could drown, and that maybe in the coming days his corpse would be found downstream somewhere; thus his friends told themselves, at the end of the day, that Grantaire must be dead.
Enjolras was halfway through the second of his morning newspapers when he was pulled away from an account of the ongoing trial of Louis Blanqui by the sound of a knock on his door.
Upon opening it, he was not surprised to find Courfeyrac and Combeferre standing together upon his threshold.
“Good morning,” he greeted them. “You are too late to share my breakfast, but are welcome to come in anyway.”
Combeferre did not smile at him in response, and beside him, Courfeyrac was biting his lip with unusual anxiety.
“This isn’t a social call,” Combeferre said. “There’s a serious matter we must discuss with you.”
Enjolras’s stomach lurched, as half-a-dozen different scenarios occurred to him. Bahorel and Feuilly had been arrested by the police, who would even now be seeking the rest of Les Amis de l’ABC to round them up on charges of fomenting insurrection. Bossuet had been in some sort of terrible accident. Joly’s worst predictions had come to pass and one of their number was lying insensate with fever, dying of the influenza. Another Legitimist coup had been attempted.
“Come in,” he said hurriedly, gesturing them all inside.
After another five minutes, he was finally accompanied by both of his lieutenants and Prouvaire, all dry-eyed and neatly done-up.
After another five minutes, he was finally accompanied by both of his lieutenants and Prouvaire, all dry-eyed and neatly done-up.
They filed in silently, all four of them subdued, and Enjolras found himself in the awkward situation of having guests and sparing the empty chair to offer them. He didn’t bother to apologize; this clearly wasn’t the time for social niceties.
“What has happened?” he asked.
There was a long silence, during which no one met his eyes. Then Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a glance, and Courfeyrac blurted out...
Enjolras couldn’t imagine it. He never spoke of women the way Courfeyrac or Grantaire did, though given that almost everything Grantaire had to say on the subject was likely false, that wasn’t much of a basis for comparison. He was a serious, dedicated man of the people, with little time for other pursuits.
“Not seducing,” Combeferre said gravely.
There was a long silence, during which no one met his eyes. Then Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a glance, and Courfeyrac blurted out...
Enjolras couldn’t imagine it. He never spoke of women the way Courfeyrac or Grantaire did, though given that almost everything Grantaire had to say on the subject was likely false, that wasn’t much of a basis for comparison. He was a serious, dedicated man of the people, with little time for other pursuits.
“Not seducing,” Combeferre said gravely.
“Not seducing?” Enjolras echoed, feeling his face heat as the implications of that statement sank in. It had never occurred to Enjolras that he might be inclined that way, and the revelation was… not the unpleasant surprise it should have been.
“Grantaire has told us some very disturbing things,” Combeferre went on. He simply could not understand why the Marseillais would have gone wandering around at night in the dead of winter and he cursed himself for not taking it seriously upon having heard him leave.
“More than disturbing,” Jehan burst out. He spat the words out as if just saying the name disgusted him.
“Surely his romantic affaires are his own, well, affair?” Enjolras ventured, surprised and a little dismayed at the man’s vehemence. “His choice of partners may not be conventional, but-“
Courfeyrac interrupted. He gestured a little wildly in the opposite direction. The lifeless form had not been found, claimed by the dark stream for evermore... if he had not been spirited away by the lady in the calèche, which was something far less likely.
Enjolras felt faintly ill as the implications of Courfeyrac’s words sank in.
“How-“ Enjolras’s voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed. No, he thought. No, surely not. “Grantaire, this isn’t like you!” The words burst out, impelled by a sick sense of betrayal; by Grantaire, by his own psyche, which found the entire idea of his colleagues engaged in the act of manly love much too intriguing. No, not love. If it were true, it had been some sick parody of the act of love. “Why would you make up such offensive lies? I know you’ve argued with him, I know you don’t believe in what we’re doing, but this? How can you say such things?” He knew, even as he said it, that Grantaire would not make such claims baselessly – what man would? – but still found himself hoping futilely that Grantaire would return and confess it all a drunken exaggeration or terrible misunderstanding.
Grantaire was not entirely unappealing, could be infuriatingly charming at times despite his slovenly habits and irregular features, and he himself was both charismatic and handsome. Perhaps it had not been as one-sided as Courfeyrac believed, and his friend had drawn the wrong conclusion after witnessing a lover’s quarrel, or--
Enjolras’s stomach twisted and he felt his face flush hot. Self-disgust was not an emotion he was familiar with, but at this moment, confronted with the defeat, he could quite cheerfully have shot himself. “Grantaire-“
Enjolras felt faintly ill as the implications of Courfeyrac’s words sank in.
“How-“ Enjolras’s voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed. No, he thought. No, surely not. “Grantaire, this isn’t like you!” The words burst out, impelled by a sick sense of betrayal; by Grantaire, by his own psyche, which found the entire idea of his colleagues engaged in the act of manly love much too intriguing. No, not love. If it were true, it had been some sick parody of the act of love. “Why would you make up such offensive lies? I know you’ve argued with him, I know you don’t believe in what we’re doing, but this? How can you say such things?” He knew, even as he said it, that Grantaire would not make such claims baselessly – what man would? – but still found himself hoping futilely that Grantaire would return and confess it all a drunken exaggeration or terrible misunderstanding.
Grantaire was not entirely unappealing, could be infuriatingly charming at times despite his slovenly habits and irregular features, and he himself was both charismatic and handsome. Perhaps it had not been as one-sided as Courfeyrac believed, and his friend had drawn the wrong conclusion after witnessing a lover’s quarrel, or--
Enjolras’s stomach twisted and he felt his face flush hot. Self-disgust was not an emotion he was familiar with, but at this moment, confronted with the defeat, he could quite cheerfully have shot himself. “Grantaire-“
Jehan took a step forward, as if on the verge of shouldering his way between them. “How can you say that?” he spat, cutting Enjolras off. “You?” He stabbed an accusatory finger in Enjolras’s direction. “He practically worships you, you know that! I’ll swear an oath by anything that you care to name that it’s the truth, and if you won’t do something about it, I will.” He looked fully capable of doing exactly that at the moment, for all his slight build and delicate features. Voice rising, he went on, “I’ll not let a man capable of such acts claim brotherhood with me!”
Enjolras was momentarily taken aback, but soon recovered. “I’m just refusing to pander to your—“
“Enjolras, enough,” Courfeyrac barked. There was silence in the dining room as Enjolras seethed, holding Courfeyrac’s disapproving stare defiantly, and Prouvaire trembled, eyes bright and jaws tight.
It was two equally rare events when Courfeyrac was so stern and Prouvaire was so angry. For both to happen on the same day was virtually unheard of, but then it was equally preposterous that Grantaire should vanish. Unnerved and too tired to hold a grudge all day, Enjolras conceded and lowered azure eyes first.
Thus victorious, Courfeyrac’s attention turned to Prouvaire, both tired and gentle.
“Don’t you—“ Prouvaire began, but Courfeyrac cut her off, still gentle. “Jehan, may I finish?”
Prouvaire nodded once, acceding.
Courfeyrac kept her arms open, continuing quietly. “You’ve already done a tremendous amount of work for this, organizing the showing, even volunteering to host afterwards. I didn’t ask because I thought you’d appreciate having one less thing to do. I’m sorry, Jehan. Pardon me. I didn’t know how this would upset you.”
Prouvaire had visibly deflated during the monologue, and drifted closer to the offered embrace, until by the end of Courfeyrac’s speech, they had settled together, Prouvaire relaxing and eventually putting his own arms around Courfeyrac. Once the sound of soft sniffling was heard coming from Prouvaire, Courfeyrac turned clever eyes to Enjolras expectantly. Enjolras shrugged, confused, still uncomprehending when Courfeyrac gestured briefly to Prouvaire.
Accepting, Courfeyrac sighed and said to Prouvaire, looking at Enjolras, “I agree that Enjolras’ little quip was very insensitive; when even I can understand the reference, that’s how you know you’ve gone too far.”
“Shush that,” Prouvaire weakly scolded, voice a little damp.
Courfeyrac’s attention turned back to Prouvaire, dismissing Enjolras.
Combeferre laid a hand on Jehan’s arm, silencing him without a word, and said quietly, “Do you think I would lie to you? Do you think Courfeyrac would lie? About so serious a matter?”
Enjolras shook his head. “I-“ he began, a half-formed justification on his tongue, then faltered. “No, my friend, you would not.”
The Grantaire that had left would never get so lost. That same Grantaire who had so inconveniently dashed off last fortnight could always find his way back home. No matter where Grantaire was, he could always get home in less than five minutes.
Pas du tout... he would never leave the arrondissement, in any state, in weather that was as wretched as it was last fortnight. For he knew the place to well for that; he would never even consider it.
That was the subject of many an evening at the Musain throughout those long and empty autumn and winter evenings, in between studying and bedtime. Those "soirées" did seem long and empty without the sound of a drinking song, or a pun, or a quip echoing off the walls of the backroom. The winter seemed longer and drearier than any winter before it. These young people had to be rallied, ready to take up arms against the National Guard when the hour would come, Enjolras thought... but something was always ostensibly missing. No matter how many or how diverse they were at the table, they were missing something, and someone relevant amongst all his comrades, the most relevant in fact, or so it seemed to the fair leader. What was missing? He was not entirely sure.Pas du tout... he would never leave the arrondissement, in any state, in weather that was as wretched as it was last fortnight. For he knew the place to well for that; he would never even consider it.
In a few days, the incident was forgotten, and everyone went on with their lives. Moreover, all the students now had to return to class after the winter holidays, and thus, among their more pressing concerns at the lecture hall, their odd-one-out companion was soon forgotten by the Friends, as mourning gave way to acceptance... for everyone except Enjolras.
The autumn and winter passed like an age, cold and lonely and without hope, until at last spring came, with its vivifying sunshine and warmth that didn't touch the cold inside him.
If Grantaire had waited a week or so before leaving, the fair leader wouldn’t have had to endure a silent and devastatingly blank Lesgle, or a weeping Joly, or sit in a cloud of grief for as long as he did before having to leave if Grantaire had just stayed put before getting the idea to go stomping off before the weather was this manageable...
But he hadn't, and now Enjolras was here, hair so cloudy and loose about his face that it felt it would all fall apart at any given moment. A curtain of golden hair fell forwards and hid his face as he slumped forwards onto his knees, azure eyes drifting from under the fringe, taking in every detail of the room... All winter, he stayed curled up in his bed whenever he could, kicking his feet slowly, whenever his spare time from the Law degree and duties of a rebel leader allowed him, wishing sometimes that he could cry to ease the taut pressure in his chest, but the tears never came, no matter how hard he tried... It didn't seem that there could ever be an end to this pain, so deep did it go, and he wished that he'd never known what it was like to love someone, if this was what it felt like to lose them.
Detaching himself by dedicating himself entirely to his studies and to the Revolution, shielding his chest with an icy breastplate of theory and rhetoric, of learning and warlike austerity, long story short being the usual austere self he had always known, was to no avail, though he thought himself too hardened and battle-worn a campaigner to let down his guard; every night, when he lay in bed, the same taut pressure weighed down his chest, constricting his ribcage and ostensibly crushing the lungs, and even the heart, within.
For the fair leader had never fallen in love in his short life, and not realised the feelings of his lover until it seemed to be too late.
Then springtime came with its vivifying sun, and, after the equinox, the day-star began to shine warm once more, bringing hope and joy in its wake.
And it happened one day, as he looked around, that he realised what was wrong. Now Combeferre had moved into his garret once more, and tended once more to their flower boxes, in Grantaire's place, but it was not exactly the same. Now Courfeyrac came up with some ironic quips or remarks and ensured everyone was always smiling, but it was not exactly the same. Now Lesgle occupied the infamous window seat at class, but it was not exactly the same.
It was only when spring came again, and he stepped outside to feel the first warm rays of the sun on his face, that his restlessness returned, and this time it would not be assuaged by any of his lieutenants' coaxing. He began to question himself about what lay beyond the status quo, about what was missing from their everyday lives that made everything no longer the same, and why they always must turn back before they reached it.
How come that there was not a sceptic, not a realist, not someone who disapproved and would rather not care, but was nevertheless under their tricolore flag at the end of the day? Of course the fair leader felt a pang of regret, for he understood very well indeed what loneliness could do to a man, but his heart was too full of anguish and dread at the thought of what might have befallen the one whose disappearance he recalled time and again; and, one day when he visited Jehan Prouvaire and looked out of the window, he saw the small green stem of a rosebush poking up out of the dirt in his window box, trying its best to grow in the pale spring sunlight.
Feeling once more encouraged by the presence of the leader, the shy boy, who was curled up in bed in a cocoon of wildflowered sheets, got up at last and padded out onto the balcony with the watering pot, a watering-can made of zinc. Upon closer inspection, he saw that there were several tiny green shoots struggling up through the soil, and showing them to the leader, though he knew how detached and indifferent a person the latter was.
"Oh, Grand... R... How could I have forgotten you?" Enjolras whispered, running his hands over the pompom roses on Jehan Prouvaire's windowsill, heedless of the way the thorns pricked his skin, remembering the touch of a stubble of dark facial hair, and that of split-ended whiskers, when he'd held Grantaire as he'd sobbed, drunk as a newt, that night, so long ago. The memory of his hazel eyes, his all-knowing smirk, and the way his hair used to fall over his eyes at just that angle that infuriated Enjolras because he claimed it made him look ridiculous, which was all the more incentive for the leader himself to keep it long.
"Now I'll never know if you're dead, or alive somewhere, believing I abandoned you." Heart clenched with grief and remorse, he knelt beside the crumbling wall and restrained the tears, despairing of ever learning what had become of his dear friend. What would springtime be for if Grantaire was no longer there?
"No, no, Grantaire is dead and gone, and will never return..." sighed a desperate Enjolras to himself aloud, trying on the words for size, white-faced and hollow-eyed and looking very much like he'd been reading all night instead of sleeping.
"We don't believe it," said the paintings in the room they shared.
"Grantaire is dead and gone, and will never return..." the fair leader reiterated that evening at the Musain, having reached the backroom before anyone else, and being now on his own.
"We don't believe it," seemed to insist the empty chair and the quinquet lamp on an empty table at the backroom of the Café Musain, on the spot where the estranged young man had had the custom of sitting down.
"Grantaire is dead and gone, and will never return..." he said to the torn tricolore flag of freedom that was still nailed to the wall, and to the bâtons and firearms that were all that they had for the moment of truth, stacked neatly in a corner of the backroom.
"We don't believe it," they seemed to insist, glancing at him reproachfully, their voices fierce and warlike, and at last the fair leader began to doubt it himself.
Perhaps this was some intuition, some awareness that Grantaire was not truly dead; that he had somehow survived, and had been washed up alive further downstream...
That thought alone made Enjolras waver. The dark-haired lush, whose chair and table at the Café were kept empty as a memorial, and whose footprint was still branded on the map, had to be alive somewhere at the end of the day. By means of noticing the absence of his former roommate over and over again, the fair leader came to doubt that his squire was gone; and he felt his resolve grow. No, there was no way Grantaire would have wandered off that night. He could be foolish but not so reckless! No, he had simply gone off somewhere without saying a word, stealing away from the Musain at midnight. The thought was painful, but not nearly so much as the thought of Grantaire being dead; this sudden intuition, this feeling, brought hope. Privately, the fair leader could only believe that somewhere out there a dark savateur was brimming with life; he simply could not be dead. Enjolras spent the next few days in a sort of shock. It seemed like he was twelve years old again and writing his first composition on the Republic without knowing everything about the Revolution...
"And what about me? I have my creativity, I have my charms, which are sought after by galleries all over France, I have realised my dream, my village thinks of me as a beloved son, my parents never ask me for funds or anything like that, I have good health, reasonable looks, everything a man could want... Do you know what loneliness is?
But you don't know what loneliness is like when you have the chance to be with other people all the time, when you get invitations every night to parties, soirées, opening nights at the theatre... When women are always ringing you up, women who love your work, who say how much they would like to have supper with you - they're beautiful, intelligent, educated women. But something pushes you away and says: 'Don't go. You won't enjoy yourself. You'll spend the whole night trying to impress them and squander your energies proving to yourself how you can charm the whole world. So I stay at home, go into my studies and try to find the light, and I can only see that light when I'm working."
It's like a permanent hole that's been created in your chest. A feeling that Enjolras knew only too well, having lived too many years with that hole. And there's rarely a chance to fix it.
“Come back,” he croaked. “Get back here. Take what’s coming to you.”
By then the fair leader was fully convinced that Grantaire was out in the world somewhere. And the more he thought about it the more determined he became to go out and look for him. Could he give up just like that?
And thus, he remembered everything all at once, and was amazed that he had ever forgotten it. He groaned, and scolded himself aloud, appalled at how near he had come to abandoning his friend; and at last, his second-in-command Combeferre, curious and weary of his constant entreaties, gave in and inquired of him what was the matter.
And the words of that question seemed to strike a chord within Enjolras. After a moment, Enjolras realized with horror that he was crying, muffled, choked-off sobs that were little more than uneven breaths.
For a moment, everyone in the room stood still, all of them uncertain of what to do. Then, at nearly the same moment, at nearly the same moment, Courfeyrac said,
"I will put on my brand new scarlet waistcoat, the gold-braided one with soutaches that I got for Christmas, the one that Grantaire has never seen yet, and I will go forth into the wide world and ask for him, to anyone who may know what has happened to him, seek information about his whereabouts, and search for him for as long as my strength holds!" he exclaimed that afternoon at the table.
“It’s all right. You needn’t tell us the details again. If I had known—“ he broke off, shaking his head, and added, “What you must have suffered all these weeks. If only you had said something sooner.”
“All these weeks?” Sickening as the thought of one violent attack on Grantaire was, the implications of that statement were far worse. Enjolras found himself ransacking his memory for any times recently that Grantaire had appeared at the Musain looking dishevelled or fresh from a fight, trying to recall if there had been any scraped knuckles or healing bruises he had attributed to boxing or savate matches or stick fighting. He couldn’t have said; save for when Grantaire was being actively disruptive or overly loud, Enjolras paid little enough attention to him in the course of things. Too little, apparently. “How long has this been going on under my nose?” he demanded, more of himself than anyone else.
A few moments went by in silence, and then Combeferre sighed, rubbing at the spot at the bridge of his nose where his spectacles pinched him. “That was ill done.”
Enjolras stared at the open door, feeling sick. A fine advocate of the people he was, that even his friends feared to come to him for help. Grantaire had let this occur to him for weeks – weeks! – rather than do so, and he suspected he had only come to him now because one of the others had forced him to. And instead of offering sympathy or understanding, Enjolras had driven him away.
Combeferre was right; it was ill done of him.
Shame was not an emotion Enjolras was well acquainted with, nor was self-doubt, but he felt them both now.
He packed his thickest clothes and few of the little things he had and was ready to go. As he passed the cabinet near the door, he bumped into a book on the top, making it fall down.
A paper slid out of it, it was a schedule he himself had created and wanted to follow.
A trio of dried flowers, a flaming nasturtium, a purple catlike pansy, and a white hyacinth from last autumn, lay on the page and Enjolras pressed his lips tightly fighting away a scream. He would make sure Grantaire would come back. He would walk through the whole wide world just to find him.
With that, the fair leader nearly made a break to run out of the Musain, but instead found himself caught in Combeferre’s sure grip, his friend’s arms wrapping around his waist from behind, sturdy as he struggled.
“Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed, voice damp. “Oh, Enjolras, no. Shush, my dear, shush. Be easy, Enjolras. I do not want to have to move house again. I hate moving house," he was saying, "because your things get all knocked about and mixed up, and it takes ages to get everything straight again, and there's always something you've forgotten and left behind, and then you feel terribly silly. I used to have a very nice room I shared with you here in this arrondissement, where I could tend to edible flowers on the windowsill, before I moved in at the Courfeyracs' across the Seine... I changed quarters when that Marseillais came around and his presence threw me away. Everyone is mean to me. It is because I am so small, I suppose. People don't notice me."
"In my place? You want to tend to my place, and to our plants, when I am gone?" Enjolras asked, and the words seemed to strike a chord within him. And thus, thinking of his garret, he remembered everything all at once, and was amazed that he had ever forgotten it. He groaned, and scolded himself aloud, appalled at how near he had come to abandoning his friend; and at last, his second-in-command Combeferre, curious and weary of his constant entreaties, gave in and inquired of him what was the matter.
Enjolras let out a wordless cry of rage, too angry to do anything but crumple against Combeferre, who turned him around and gathered him close, still shushing.
"Let him do so," Combeferre told the others. "This is surely an inspiration, a sign, a clue... We may miss a dear leader, but I will surely stand in for Enjolras, if the uprising takes place in his absence..." Of course Combeferre knew the broader French meaning of the word "lieutenant", which means more than an officer's rank or a second-in-command; but rather a person standing in for his absent superior, provisionally holding a place which is not his own. And of course he weighed his own strengths and weaknesses against the fair leader's, knowing that maybe, though not as warlike or idealistic as Enjolras, Combeferre himself was wiser and made of the right stuff, and thus, even though he modestly explained his own shortcomings, would prove the best one to pick up the reins of the Friends of the ABC as their provisional lieutenant leader. "He’d need to have this way of curling his lip and narrowing his eyes when trying to deal with some difficult case. And the kindest eyes when talking to people." It was a quite early, good hour to depart; the blond kissed the young scholar on the cheekbone and patted the crown of his head.And thus, thanking Combeferre and approving of his decision, then waving his friends and comrades goodbye, Enjolras tied the ribbon tighter in his golden queue, donned that scarlet waistcoat of his, and walked quite alone through the streets towards the river, all straight on until he reached the riverbank. When he came to the Charenton Bridge, he decided to follow the course of the Seine up north towards the ocean, all the way up to the English Channel. It was as if something within him clicked... if the theory that he had been washed away downstream was a lie, at least the carriage had seemed to take a northward direction, had not Feuilly said so? And, whatever Grantaire was going to do up north, it had most surely to do with the bright green liquid and with his change of heart.
When he reached the riverbank, it seemed to Enjolras that the sound of the current against the wooden abutments of the old bridge might have been the voice of the Seine, whispering and murmuring to herself, and so he thought it couldn't hurt to try reasoning with his image mirrored within the current.
"Could it be true that the stream took Grantaire away last winter?" he asked his own reflection, elbows prodded on the railing of the bridge. It seemed, or so he thought, that the little ripples of flowing water on the murky surface below were gently saluting him and nodded strangely, in a singular manner, that they nodded in a strange way, replying in strange signs, as if to say it was a lie; especially the gleam in the steel-blue eyes of his own reflection told Enjolras, without words, and seeming to have received that particular mission, that the stream had not taken, never claimed the form of the dark lush. By the fixed expression of those eyes, and those mournful lips, that were actually his own, the fair leader realised that it was as if the Seine kept no Grantaire to render in exchange. And, if the stream had not been the one to claim the young lush, Feuilly's account of that calèche speeding up north in the stormy night was most likely to be true... his suspicions were true, and he felt for certain that Grantaire was alive somewhere.
The stream was gurgling below, a hard tinny sound. There was a lot of melt on Montmartre.
Perhaps, he thought, he had at last gone mad, and he was not as alarmed at this idea as he perhaps should have been. If this were madness, it was better than the grief and despair that had gripped him all winter.
And thus, Enjolras, who could be very stubborn once he had set upon a course of action, said to himself: "Since he has not drowned or frozen to death... allons plus loin". He heard the familiar whistle of a fast approaching breeze, watched as the waters of the Seine became choppier and began to rush faster. With a brisk pace, he turned his back to his reflection and crossed the Charenton Bridge. His throat felt very hot. A breeze blew by, over his queue and the nape of his neck, a note of warmth; he felt his hair lift on the thin arms of the breeze.
Everything on the Left Bank, across the Seine, was bright and festive that afternoon; throngs of carriages with six or four horses were rolling up and down the Champs-Élysées, the waters of the jet d'eau fountains in the gardens of the Tuileries and the Place de la Concorde were dancing in the sunlight, with children in their finest little clothes playing around the basins, as their nannies listened to the confidences of some dashing young officer in uniform, while old bourgeois sat down on their customary benches, reading their right-wing newspapers or smoking their pipes. Enjolras paid no heed to any of these grand sights, not even stopping for an instant, humming La Marseillaise to himself and striding down the wide arcades of the Rue de Rivoli with his usual aloof air, while sometimes adressing a cold, piercing sneer at this splendour and display, and general atmosphere of life and prosperity.
More quickly than he could have thought possible, he had left the town behind, and was rambling at a steady pace past fields and woods and green, mossy riverbanks. Some of the scenery was so beautiful that he wished for Combeferre by his side, with charcoal or ink at hand to draw it, but of course he had none of those things with him, not even Combeferre or Jehan Prouvaire who would have appreciated the beauty of the landscape so much more... any one of those two would doubtless have noticed the banks on either side of the river were actually rather pretty, and watched in wonder all the beautiful things they passed. In fact, the two riverbanks in this stretch of the Seine were magnificent. The scenery was lovely; on both banks, the wide green fields had given way to rolling hills, upon whose slopes carpets of brilliantly coloured, lovely wildflowers alternated with thick copses of century-old trees, and with fluffy hillsides that afforded vast grassy meadows on the slopes for the cows and sheep that ruminated peacefully, and willow trees that dipped their tangled roots into the water's edge like a toddler would with their toes... but not a single person was in sight. One had to look for a while all around, but not to be seen was there any human being.
The scenery around him was pretty on either side, lovely flowers, old trees, the odd hillsides and pastures full of cattle and sheep.
But Enjolras had yet to see an actual person.
The landscape was beautiful on both sides of the river. The scenery was lovely; beyond both riverbanks, which were covered with pretty flowers, there were meadows, wide fields, slopes with cows and sheep grazing upon them; but there was not a human being to be seen anywhere. Wherever one stood looking at the green shores. And so the hours went buy.Here and there he spotted a deer or rabbit, but not one single person could he see; Jehan Prouvaire, indeed, would have regarded this landscape as a beautiful display and watched the lovely verdant riverbanks for a long time as the hours passed, hour after hour, watching the clouds pass by against the blue sky, and sometimes the dappled play of sunlight through the arching branches of trees.
This stretch of the river seemed to run through a great, beautiful cherry orchard, its treetops great clouds full of pink and white blossoms, their fragrance filling the air. Enjolras himself had just drawn a deep breath of that sweet odour...), and so he could only sit there and watch, objectively, the beautiful verdant landscape. The metaphorical blinkers at his temples kept on urging him straight forwards, away from any distraction. To Enjolras, the quest downstream seemed endless, and he tried to calm down by thinking that surely he must be following the right track. It took him several days, perhaps a week even. Each time the night arrived he stopped all exhausted and allowed himself a bit of restless sleep.
The sun was shining brightly, warming up his gold-covered waistcoat. The sky was clear with lazy clouds and there was no sign of the winter in sight anymore. As if the months passed by within just minutes. He smelled heavy sweet fragrance and it reminded him of honey and syrup. Right in front of him, there was a large shrubbery in the shade of tall blossoming linden trees, and he came across, then decided to walk all day beside a stream, as soft and silky as blue fur, that stretched to each side, with no end in sight.
At midday he stopped and bathed his sore feet in a shallow place, plunging down to his ankles into the water, and the light danced along the glittering blue stream and made Enjolras think of the paints he had left behind in the room he had once shared with Grantaire, and he wondered, all of a sudden, what would become of his degree, and of Grantaire's future as well, with both of them gone away.
At twilight, after many hours walking without a stop, Enjolras was faint with thirst; but, luckily, he was surrounded by nature and the sound of splashing from a nearby spring. It was not long until he found a pond as still and clear as a mirror; perfect to refresh himself, a crystal-clear pond with soft spearmint all around instead of reeds or canes, and he quaffed with great pleasure — the water in that spring tasted sweeter than the finest wine or lemonade, so thirsty was he. In time he started to feel lethargic and a bit dizzy. Most likely from heatstroke, he thought. Even in the shade of the trees, his own shirt was sticking to his back and his feet were prickly with heat in his boots.
When he had satisfied his thirst, he sat down and, with the warm scarlet waistcoat for a cover against the cold, began to brush his shining gold hair with slender ivory fingers. He closed his eyes and felt the soothing motions of the brushing, and thought that it had been a very long time since someone had been kind to him; his hair dropped in such curls, the long locks curled prettily around his temples and framed, in a ravishing shade of blond, that gentle, fair heart-shaped face, and took on such a golden sheen; he lovingly smoothed the golden hair that perfectly framed his face, which looked as fresh and lovely as a white rose in full bloom. Soon he was sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling his feet in the water. Sweat dampened the heavy linen of his shirt and gleamed on his forehead. He paddled one foot in the water, ripples stretching out across the pond, glinting in patches of sunlight. The dragonflies were out, flashes of stained-glass colour over the water.
And, as he combed his own hair, he began to think less and less until he could not recall anything the slightest. And the dizziness increased until he had a slight headache. He slumped forwards, freshly brushed waves covering his face like a curtain.
Weary with the long ramble of the day, he fell asleep by the pond, his head resting on his folded arms, and for hours he slept the pleasant sleep of youth and weariedness; and when he woke up with the sunrise, gasping for air, he was shivering cold, drenched in morning dew, but nevertheless he steeled himself, with the resolution that it was too early to leave the quest; he tied the ribbon in his golden hair, then wiped his face, squeezed out most of the dew from his queue and clothes, shod himself, and got to his feet.
If anyone wouldn't look for him, Grantaire would be forgotten completely. The more time passed, it was more likely a human whisked away by magical creatures had their existence from the real world erased. And Enjolras was determined to not only keep the savateur's memory alive, but to bring him back as well.
"I mustn't rest any longer!" -- and he got up to go on.
No, he couldn't give up just like that. He swallowed his tears and stretched his tired body, taking a deep breath he walked ahead. The cold air filling his lungs woke him up a little bit and he started to think more positively. If the path disappeared, he could look for other clues and anyone who might have seen the carriage pass by.
On Enjolras walked and walked, until he had left the towers and eaves of Paris far behind the horizon. Everything around him was dreary and cold, how could and bleak everything was round about... The budding shoots that would soon become leaves were all drenched and a damp dew dripped-dropped with fog and rains, and let the dew and the water from the cold mist fall, drop by drop, into the surface of the water below. From the long blades of grass, the dew dripped drop by drop, as if it were rain. Only the crab-apple trees at the edge of the woods yielded green fruit now, but it was so sour that it set one's teeth on edge, that it made one wince and purse one's lips, so acidic that it was impossible to swallow them (but still, it was better than nothing to eat). Oh, how somber and gray seemed the wide world. Oh, how grey and gloomy it was in the wide world. Oh, how grey and cold and bleak and dreary everything in the wide world looked. He thought about how far he had left to go, and how close it was to winter, and the whole wide world appeared dark and weary to him. The farther he walked, the colder it became, until sleet swirled around him and the sky overhead became the colour of lead. He walked until the soutaches on his red waistcoat began to come off, and his boots were worn and cracked, and his feet surely were sore and blistered.
And so he set off across the fields of freshly turned soil in his bleeding feet, out into the wide world. Three times he looked back, fearing that any gendarmes had recognised him and decided to come after him, but no one seemed to be following him; fortunately, not a person was there to set off in his pursuit. Three times he turned to look back, but no one seemed to have noticed his flight, he did not see a gendarme once, nor would he ever again during his quest. At last he could not run any farther, and sat down on a big stone to rest.
"Have I wasted so much time?" he asked in despair. "I can't rest any longer, I must continue!"
He ran for as long as he could run, until he was out of breath, looking every now and then over his shoulder, though no one was in his pursuit; in the end, finding it impossible to breathe, he sat down on a large rock, something like a milestone by the wayside, for a rest. Exhausted, his heels racked with pain, he felt his feet being sore and stopped to rest on that milestone. He was so very tired and his feet and lungs ached from running such a distance so quickly. Everything seemed cold and bleak. The world around was dying, the ground still half-shut in its own coffin of winter. And in that moment how very dark and weary the wide world seemed! The dew drenched the moss, he felt the wet moss underfoot, and the mist wrapped and swirled around him. It was too early for any fruit-trees to bear fruit, and the few green ones that had popped up in advance had either too bitter or too sour, in either case too sharp a taste; sharp enough to make one wince.
He slept under hedges and beneath pine boughs, and he ate no food but handfuls of nuts he had brought from the Musain, and quenched his thirst in the springs and brooks that crossed his path, having been warned as a child that taverns in the middle of nowhere were most likely to be manned by people of ill repute; then, when his provisions had ebbed completely, his meals consisted of whatever he could scrounge up and his bed was any dry place he could tuck into at night. Where he found soft moss to lay his weary head, said a Marseillaise and went to bed.
Something hard was pressing against his face, yet he didn’t find the strength to raise his head. He was so very exhausted and really needed the rest.
Rain was trickling down the shelter he hid in. The hollow trunk of a tree served as his hideout from the unkind weather. He traveled for a week in mad rush, trying to catch up the lost time. Even though he knew the momentum was lost, he did that because it was the only thing to silence the doubting voices in his head.
His sore feet walked over many muddy puddles and stepped over many fallen trees and branches. The ever present rustling of leaves above his head seemed to urge him on. At first he admired the bursting colors around him. The nature was colored in vivid creams, yellows, and various shades of pink. But soon enough, the sky was overrun with clouds. They arrived as angry indigo rams and their angry battles resulted in ominous thunders. Lightning flickered all around.
He had to seek out a place to hide and wait over the worst. He knew he shouldn’t stand under the tree in case the lightning hit it, but he didn’t see any cave or overhanging cliff he could take refuge underneath.
The large shrubbery and gaping, moldered tree seemed as the best choice in the moment. He hoped just to catch a break, perhaps rest his eyes a little. And here he was, gasping for air, woken by the uneasy dream.
Enjolras watched the rain drum on the ground and sparkle in the puddles. He saw the clearing sky in them broken in little pieces like an ever moving kaleidoscope. His clothes were moist, barely dried on the surface in the humid air. The waistcoat felt heavy around his torso and he could feel the cold seeping right through it and settling deep inside his bones.
Upon awakening, he shook his head, filled with determination and stood. His feet hurt and everything around him was cold and bleak, but he still pressed on. The world was dreary and gray and winter was still lingering, but still, Enjolras forced himself to move.
He would find Grantaire and take him home.
Taking his time was unconceivable for the fair leader.
No. No. He had to hurry.
He adjusted his backpack which became lighter as he spent his supplies and made his way through the foggy forest.
He wasn’t sure how long he walked, but the rain subdued and night pulled its curtain over the land, bathing it in darkness. Then he was sure he saw some lights on the horizon and thus he grabbed deep inside his reserve for the last bits of strength. He didn’t feel so cold anymore, perhaps it was the heat from moving and the effort or excitement. Hope filled his heart, he couldn’t wait for finding the nearest person and ask the questions which burned in his mouth.
He rested but little, fearing to waste any time on his journey lest he arrive wherever Grantaire might be too late, but even the most iron-willed of men may grow tired, and so it was that he found himself, many days after leaving the capital, to the place where the forest ended at low walls that bordered cultivated pastureland, neatly plowed fields rolling away as far as the eye could see, with beautiful wildflowers and fluffy lawns or pastures where cows and sheep ruminated peacefully, and willow trees that dipped their tangled roots into the water's edge like a toddler would with their toes. And along the stone wall that divided the farmland from the forest, wild thornroses grew, a tangle of pink and crimson blooms and thorny stems. On that fated day, he found himself compelled to sit on a granite stone by a fog-covered heath, at the edge of a quaint little village, and rest his feet, for the boots were quite battered and abused by now, and the dew was staring to seep in through the cracks in the leather. He had run for as long as he could run; in the end, finding it impossible to breathe, he sat down on that large rock by the wayside for a rest. He was so very tired and his feet and lungs ached from running such a distance so quickly. For a fortnight he ran, ever further from the lands he knew. As he traversed vast expanses, each time he thought he could run no longer and sank down onto a large stone by the wayside to rest, he would look around and the advance of springtime would remind him of how much time he had lost. Then he would leap to his feet again and press onward, determined not to let hunger or thirst or weariedness or the bleeding of his feet stop him from finding his friend.
With a heavy heart, Enjolras took up his journey once more. More and more often did he have to rest. The closer he got to the lights, the clearer it was that it wasn’t any ordinary land. The next time he was forced to rest, on that very day on the outskirts of that very village whose lights had led him to the place, when Enjolras had reached the northern country (or so he thought, because it was still the Île-de-France, though the border to the North was closer for each day), there came a cold and blustery afternoon when, in the end, he was obliged once more to rest, feeling his strength begin to fail, and that, if he tried to take at least a little step, he was most certainly likely to collapse on the ground. It had been two days since he'd had anything to eat, and he thought that maybe he would lie down on the ground for a while. It would be so easy to just lie down, reclining on that large stone of dark granite, and wait for the sunlight to fall and cover him in a blanket of warm silence and oblivion.
Somewhere in the months since he had left, the unwelcome idea had occurred to him that perhaps he was partly responsible for the fate that had befallen Grantaire, that if only he had spoken sooner, trusted his roommate more, none of this would have happened. Such thoughts kept him going when nothing else could, when faith and hope deserted him and he was certain that Grantaire must be dead, or lost to him forever; they kept him going now, when every aching muscle argued that he should just drop where he was and not get up again.
Just opposite the place where he sat, willing himself to get up, a person in black came hopping at him across the path. Right in front of the spot where he was sitting down to rest, there came strolling, at a leisurely pace, a dapper young man in an opera hat (worn according to the fashion of the decade, cocked to the left to make place for a quiff of raven hair on the right side) and a black three-piece suit, classy cravat and all, and a long scar running down his left cheek. This dashing fellow sauntered towards the fair leader, and, once they stood before each other, he turned his head from right to left, towards the blond, whom he considered curiously, and stood looking at for a long time, until he finally remarked:
"Quelle surprise, Enjolras! B'jour, b'jour".
He could not express himself any better in those circumstances, with that half-strong Gascon patois or accent of his, but it was not needed; for it was evident that he wanted to do Enjolras good, and he could not be less well-intentioned. Even his duelling scar looked as though it had been freshly scrubbed, though the leader didn’t immediately recognise the young man who was striding towards him with a wide smile (and in clothes that, while stylish and expensively cut, were somewhat ill-fitting on his slim frame). He pronounced the words as plainly as he could, because he meant to be kind. The blond, in turn, recognised the dapper features and dashing mien, and the well-kept attire of the dark young gentleman: it was his classmate the suave Gascon aristocrat, that arbiter elegantiarum whom Enjolras had not seen ever since he left Montmartre (and how long was that?). He spoke plainly and deliberately and had just a touch of an accent. But he looked very friendly...
He looks well enough with his dark curly hair and his nose that he’s always complaining about. He’s not even that tall, really. Gentlemen take to how earnest he looks. Ladies fall for his eyes. And I’m always happy to say that he’s the most honest warm soul around who draws so many friends to him, like the sun to a star system. A young man who sees the world as something to revel in. The centre of any party, the teller of tales, and the heart of every warm touch. Even I walk alone, I still am surrounded by his presence.
And thus, the fair leader gave him, in response, a gentle nod of the head as he replied in his most courteous voice:
"Bonjour, Courfeyrac".
After they had recognised one another, Courfeyrac stopped a long time to look at Enjolras again, and inquired what his dear leader was doing out here in the great wide world all alone, instead of rallying the others at the Café Musain. He was kind, and felt friendly and felt kindly towards the leader, and asked whither he was going, and why the fair leader was out there. where he was off to, so alone in the wide world... where he was going all alone in the lonely wide world, with no one else to look after or chaperone him. "What are you doing out there by yourself? It's very dangerous! Something bad could happen..."
The word "alone" Enjolras understood only too well, knowing the value of loneliness well enough from experience, and felt how big a word it really was; and thus, because he was so tired, and near the end of his strength, Enjolras, realising the meaning of this question, found himself telling the whole story of his journey, which was still an account of but a few adventures, and of their mutual friend who had gone away, whom he was looking for; his sudden change in demeanour, and his even more sudden disappearance, and asked if he hadn't seen Grantaire by any chance. "Courfeyrac, mon ami, you are known to ramble criss-crossing all over the wide world, or at least over France," he said, when he had finished his tale. "Perhaps your sharp eyes have seen our friend?"
The socialite nodded his dark head most thoughtfully, with a grave air and a wistful smirk; he nodded a bit uncertainly after a pause, and said, after pondering for a good while, "I think I know: perhaps I have — it may be, maybe, maybe! Maybe I have crossed his path — maybe I have not — maybe I have..."
Hope sparked once more in Enjolras' weary spirit, and he gasped with delight and leaned forward, seizing his sharply-dressed lieutenant, who had approached him, by the slender waist.
"Oh, he is alive! No, do you think you have? Are you sure?" screamed the fair leader, and, had Enjolras been a more affectionate person, he would have kissed him, and hugged him almost to death with joy... even fearing that he would nearly throttle, or rather suffocate Courfeyrac with that tight clasp of the waist. "Don't toy with me now. Do you really think you have? Could you please take me to the place? Is he anywhere around here?"
“Parlons raison. Sensible, sensible. Gently, gently. Careful, careful! Un peu de raison, un peu de calme... Je crois, je sais, je crois que c'est peut-être... cela pourrait bien être. I believe I know. Je crois, c’est-à-dire je suppose, cela pourrait être. Oui, oui, il est possible que ce soit Grantaire, je ne dis rien de plus. I think it may be Grantaire I have seen... he is still alive, indeed, je ne dis rien de plus; I think it might, I think it may be our friend, even though I am not entirely sure... and I don't mind taking you there, it isn't too far anyway... but in the meantime, if it is so, I am afraid by this time he has certainly forgotten, even forsaken, us at the Musain and our cause by this time for the sake of this heiress, after meeting her; for now, ever since he met her, he can only think of her... he thinks of nothing more than of his fiancée!”
“Est-ce qu'il demeure chez...? Demeure-t-il chez une... Does he live with...? Il demeure chez une...!” Enjolras gasped before he could finish the question, as well as before he could finish uttering the shocking realisation. "Does he live with her? Right, he surely does..." He felt a sorrowful pang in his heart at the thought that the sceptic might have forgotten him, but he reminded himself that after all, his stubbly friend was most likely straight, no matter how many grisettes and wenches gave him rebukes and thought him homely, but maybe all this frog needed was a kiss from a princess for his true colours to shine through. Somehow, the thought of the awkward savateur being married couldn't sit in Enjolras' mind. Grantaire as someone's husband? He was just a struggling bohemian, how did he manage to win a bride of rank? Oh, what did Enjolras care? At the least, it was better to imagine Grantaire living happily somewhere without him than suffering unknown agonies. The thought of finding him again made both students just too happy to care about whom he lived with.
The fair leader's heart sank; it was too close to the kind of fear he'd held for a long time, but hadn't really admitted before now. Still, if it meant that Grantaire was safe and sound and well, Enjolras would learn to live with it. He just had to see it for himself, if it really was the Marseillais in his first place, in order to be reassured.
"Perchance he does, yes if it is the right man. I do not know exact-ly, yet I have heard an interesting tale out of that great palace. Listen, listen, this is what I heard in town." Courfeyrac admitted. "He may, but then again, perhaps it is not him. I will explain as well as I can, no matter how wrong my tale will turn out, while you rest yourself and listen as you recover, promise; je tâcherai de faire le moins de fautes possible. Mais il faudra m’excuser si, comme je le crains, je pèche contre la grammaire ou contre le style. I know you will forgive me all of my trespasses, won't you, Enj? Écoute. Yes -- hark! And you will understand it all, certainement. I will escort you for a while on the path and explain what I already know. Upon that I rely, and thus, I may now commence en toute tranquillité. I shall do my best, which is a lot more than most people do. I'll tell you as good as I can, but it'll sound a bit of a mess; I will try my hardest!" Then, he pointed towards the landscaped grounds of a large domed white neoclassical two-story mansion that rose at the other edge of the village, and, clearing his throat, in a mix of Gascon-accented French, the Queen's English, Basque, and Catalan, he thus began to tell Enjolras of all that he knew -- all this that follows -- which should have sounded like this:
"Now this estate which we presently see, in the very heart of this shire and not quite distant from this very spot, was purchased a decade ago by a nouveau riche gentleman from the northern provinces, who is as tall and broad as he is gentle and kind; a rather kind-hearted fellow, who has never left the miserable in pain... and of whose past it is known little to nothing. Single as he was and is, and too old to even have grandchildren, and just longing for a baby he could call both a successor and a companion, he adopted the most wretched orphan he could find, back up north. An indentured maidservant, a frail little blonde whom he rescued from brutal stepparents; and not only did he raise la petite Cosette right, but he made a proper lady out of her, an accomplished, well-read debutante of unusual cleverness, of extraordinary intelligence, with as much esprit as an Enj himself; an infinitely instructed rightful heiress to the fortune he has attained through mysterious means and lavishes still upon charity. In this château which we can now see across the village, on the top floor, beneath the great dome, there they still live and thrive to this very day. The gentleman made this adopted daughter his sole rightful heir, you see, because of a promise he had made on her real mother's deathbed, and thus ensured that Cosette would always lead a better life here than with her first guardians, so he had her trained in economics and statescraft as well as the usual occupations of young women of rank, such as musical instruments, and dance, and opera song.
She is not only charming, but far cleverer than you could possibly imagine — and quite beautiful, too; they say she owns as many books as I have paramours, so many books that she cannot count them, and studies philosophy and art and other such things, and speaks Latin and Spanish and English as easily as you please. She loves to read; she would read all day if she could. She loves to learn, you see. She was and is so bright that as soon as her girlhood tutors spent an hour with her, they were learning from her! Since she loves to read about all the things that other people have imagined, she has a library with shelves that reach to the ceiling. As you may realise, not only has her guardian trained her for life as a businesswoman, but also in the usual accomplishments of young women of rank; for she has closets stuffed with dozens of beautiful dresses and accessories, where her porcelain dolls had so many lovely things to wear they needed closets of their own. In the room where she had her etiquette lessons, she acts out plays and has her tea, always at five o'clock, always Earl Grey with butter scones; and the menu at the estate is always exceedingly refined, believe it! And at night, she is tucked into a big canopy bed wrought with flowers of silk, and her guardian reads her to sleep, telling her stories about magic and mysteries. She often accompanies her guardian, who has long procured peace in our land, beyond the garden walls, to speak to those in need and give alms and friendly smiles. Much of what she buys, she donates to the poor; she keeps for herself only the items that she considers particularly special.
'Tis as sure as my surname is Courfeyrac that she is as clever as she is kind and she is beautiful, and that she loves to read about all the things that other people have imagined; she reads book after book and learns so many interesting things — although most of them she forgets the moment she puts the book down. She loves to read; she would read all day if she could. She loves to learn, you see. She reads that quite much to keep herself intelligent and informed. She reads her books, and then chats excitedly about the things she has read with her ladies-in-waiting. She even reads the newspapers and talks about that. She tries to share what she learns in her books and newspapers with her ladies-in-waiting, but the ladies just giggle and agree with whatever she says — they are only interested in dresses and perfume, and have heads full of air." He glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. "To be honest, I don't think there's anything in those heads of theirs. Other than air."
"And when does Grantaire feature? If he has just been betrothed to her...?"
"It was a strange thing indeed. I'll never forget how it all happened. You see, this heiress is incredibly wise and bright, extraordinarily clever, immensely intelligent, and no one could possibly have been wise enough for her. Most young men of rank were quite dumb in comparison to her and she didn't like that one bit."
"Was she that smart? I know men like us are trained to be clever..."
"Not as clever as she is," Courfeyrac chuckled. "She can play any song you ask and play it backwards too! She is even able to play Bach fugues on the piano, believe me! Her calligraphy is impeccable, and her diction is perfect. She is uncommonly clever, and from what they told me it's no wonder! She's wonderfully immensely unusually clever, and so incredibly wise, so prodigiously and extraordinarily intelligent, that it's true and it comes as no wonder that she has read all the newspapers that exist... that are published in France and the United Kingdom, and that twice in the morning, for we have to say as well that her guardian is subscribed to all of those papers, and then, being so clever, she's forgotten every word printed on them again, and all about them too; and that's how clever she is! That is the part that proves how intelligent she is, tellement elle est intelligente, quel savoir! 'Tis true that the greatest proof of her intelligence is the fact that she has so much esprit that she forgets what is printed on the papers as soon as she has read them - that's how clever she is."
"What is so clever about forgetting newspapers?" Enjolras asked, not unkindly. The newspapers vs. libraries debate still lingered, in spite of everything that had changed.
The darker student gave an understanding look that said he was more than willing to explain. "You see, most people who are smart are smart enough only to learn and then blab information that people really don't want to hear to begin with. But Cosette is so smart that she forgets them until they are needed. Not to mention all these trifles of no consequence which the press constantly publishes about; c'est surtout qu’elle a eu la sagesse d’oublier tout ce qu’elle y a lu. Il est vrai qu’elle a tant d’esprit qu’elle les oublie, tous ces journaux, aussitôt qu’elle les a lus. Not that there's ever much news in them, mind. Mostly just gossip about royalty! She is wise as well as smart. Do you see how that works?"
It made sense. Enjolras nodded as Courfeyrac continued: "So this smart heiress decides that she is lonely in all her brilliance and should like to have a husband. But she doesn't know where to find a suitable one..."
Enjolras breathed a heavy sigh and looked the sharply-dressed young gentleman in the eye, then explained, "I can already picture myself what both this heiress and her guardian look like. I have a feeling she has a bit of a familiar story behind her." As a brilliant only child of privilege, he had led a sheltered and lonely childhood as well, eager for the day that the Enjolras estate in the Camargue, whose reach turned more narrow for each year, would be traded for a Parisian lodging, no matter how humble, where he could make true friends and bid his customary weariness farewell. To reinforce those memories, the Château Fauchelevent, large, domed, white, and neoclassical, and surrounded by a well-kept French garden, resembled the Manoir Enjolras to such a high degree... Furthermore, like Combeferre, she loved learning, spending her time in the estate library among thousands of books; how unusual she was!
"Well, when she came of age, they left the nunnery boarding school where Cosette has learned all the fine arts and the social graces, and came to live at this estate. Now she's of marriageable age, having just turned eighteen, having just earned a reputation for intelligence beyond her years... of uncommon talent and renowned for her beauty and her remarkable cleverness, she is immensely clever, infinitely instructed, and no wonder; and, having perused the complete library of the mansion and explored all over the estate grounds, she was quite unsure of what to do next, and feeling quite lonely in all her brilliance. She was and is so bright that as soon as her girlhood tutors spent an hour with her, they were learning from her! On most afternoons she could be found discussing one subject or another with the masters who have been her tutors, and people from the village and strangers alike would gather around to listen, marvelling at her brilliance. Tis decreed by any of the academics who have met her that such an intelligence as Cosette's has never existed in the world, and likely will never exist again... Though this is some on-the-nose hyperbolic flattery, there is, as I told you, a kernel of truth within this statement. She is charming and so intelligent that she has read all the books in the Western canon, but she was bored to death and did not even have a single friend. She is so learned that no one knew what to say to her in conversation. That's by no means as fun as people suppose, and as you well know; so thus, not long ago, in fact a few weeks ago, lately while she was listlessly --Lisztlessly, get it?--, not wanting to play any tune yet sitting before her piano, and that’s by no means as much fun as people suppose --it seems that that, people say, is not such an amusing or pleasant place to sit all day long, no matter how many ladies fawn over Liszt, that isn't enough, so it seems, to be happy!--, to distract herself, she happened to start humming an old folk tune, and then to chant, for they heard her singing, when she started singing a little folk song to herself, and that song was by chance the one the old tune that goes precisely like this, and the refrain of it happened to run precisely like this, for she sang and spoke the following words... It goes like this, the last and most relevant stanza of the chanson they heard her sing begins precisely with these verses:
'S'il fleurit, je serai reine,
avec mes sabots...
S'il fleurit, je serai reine,
avec mes sabots...
S'il fleurit, je serai reine,
si non, je perdrais ma peine,
oh, oh, oh,
avec mes sabots...'
Suddenly interrupting the lyrics, she said to herself: 'Mais en effet... This song is not without its meaning... Why, that's an idea! There is something to this song; voilà an idea worth of being thought of!' she told herself; and that gave her an idea. 'Tiens cela me donne une idée! Voilà une chanson qui signifie quelque chose!' She had had enough of weariness; she had got sick of all her pretend acquaintances. She wanted someone to talk to — a fiancé, then a husband, she decided. And all she needed was a fiancé. For being a clever heiress can be lonely, as we both know from first-hand experience, and boring too. So then she said 'Why not indeed?' So she began to dream of a husband, but he had to be a man who was able to reply wittily whenever he was addressed; a spouse who would not be contented to have a distinguished countenance and just stand there in society just like a mannequin in a shop window, all dolled up and sharply dressed, which is rather annoying. She became determined to find and marry a man who knew what to say when spoken to, and speak well. She wanted someone who could do more than just look grand, for that is apparently tiresome to someone who grew up surrounded by such people.
Yet the coda of this song was not as easy to sing as the first verses, for Cosette did not only want a fiancé like there are many others, c'est a dire, one who only knew how to wear fine clothes right and thus look good in uniform and/or civilian attire, how to behave himself in society, smile à propos, and say yes in response to her every opinion; for these fellows come a dime a dozen, and all of them wind up being tiresome at the end of the day. Neither did she want one of those pretentious, stern, ennuyeux, and solemn curmudgeons who are so full of themselves: for these are too annoying, aren't they?
Well, there's something to be said for that, she thought and then said to herself upon interrupting that little song. So she decided to find a partner, but she wanted one who could speak to himself when he was spoken to — one who didn't just stand and look important. That's very dull.
‘There’s something in that,’ she said, and then she wanted to get married, but she wanted a husband who could answer when you said something to him, not just one who stood around looking distinguished and could just stand there in society just like a mannequin in a shop window, all dolled up and sharply dressed to the nines, because that’s so boring.
She was not interested in someone who would just stand around looking dignified either,
because that would be really dull, nor in one who could only look grand, for that is so tiresome, in her own humble opinion. And so she determined to marry, but only if she could find a husband who knew what to say when he was spoken to, one who knew how to reply whenever one addressed him, and not one who could only look grand with a distinguished mien, for that would be ennuyeux, in her own humble opinion; she wanted a husband who could give a good answer to any question addressed to him, and wasn't boring. She needed a man who was her equal in wit and knowledge, who could engage in lively conversation with her and keep her company throughout the long winter nights. All she yearned for was a companion who was articulate and well-read, one who knew how to speak, carry out quick-witted conversations, give her replies. A man who could give her clever replies, and who would only express himself in well-chosen words, and who would display as much wisdom and wit as elegance in his discourse. Oui, she wanted a man who could answer to her questions, to any question addressed to him, and who understood how to answer when he was addressed, not one of those so dashing and attractive but who can't say anything; for one who is only elegant and stands there speechless, just like a mannequin in a shop window, all dolled up and sharply dressed to the nines, is too wearisome!
Her fiancé, the one she wanted for a spouse, should be good-looking, brave, intelligent, able to encourage patronise the arts during peacetime, and to lead a regiment at its head in case of war; enfin, she needed someone of equal wit and knowledge to talk to her intelligently and keep her company through the long, cold winter nights, as proof that she had completely cut all ties to the tragic past in which she had never been a child. Long story short, enfin, she wished for something like a Prince Charming, such as, among all her male acquaintances in high society, she had never seen anyone.
Mind that she has only had acquaintances, most of them flatterers or sycophants, and no proper friends, until this time; she was bored to death and she didn't even have a single friend. They tolerated her well enough, although clever girls are never much appreciated. She is charming and so intelligent that she has read all the books in the Western canon, but she was bored to death and did not even have a single friend. If someone ever remarks that another society heiress is the least bit clever, then she never sheds bitter tears, but merely turns her back on everyone else and locks herself in her room to hone her mind even further. She is so learned that no one knew what to say to her in conversation! She is never without a book or a crossword puzzle at hand. She discourses learnedly on the origins and the conjunctions of various astrological signs. She has an answer for everything, and is considered by all her suitors to be wondrously wise. Though she is pale and slight, she shines with wit. So much that she dazzles everyone. Thus, the damsel decided to wed the first man who would speak to her about something else than her beauty; anything else except her beauty. She wanted a husband who found it easy to answer for himself, something more than a distinguished mien, enfin un homme aimable. She helped herself with her crossword puzzles, and heard odd questions arise from deep in her mind when she sang. 'What is life?' she would wonder. 'What is love? What is man?' This last gave her a good deal to ponder, as she watched her guardian shower her with chocolates and taffeta gowns and gold bracelets. The young gentlemen who came calling seemed especially puzzling. They sat in their velvet waistcoats and their silken shirts and their leather boots, praising Cosette's mind, and all the while their eyes said other things. Now, their eyes said: Now. Then: Patience, patience. You are a flower, their mouths said, you are a jewel, you are a rarity, you are golden dreams. Their eyes said: I eat flowers, I quaff rarities, I burn with dreams, I have a tower without a door in my heart and I will keep you there...
She seemed fearless in the face of this power--whether from innocence or design, she was uncertain. Since she was wary of men, and seldom spoke to them, she felt herself safe. She spoke mostly to her guardian, her saviour, who only had a foolish, doting look in his eyes, and who of all men could make her smile.
How many men had not been smitten with her charms and fallen into misfortune, when she had not been able to return their love? She still had a certain aversion to marriage, and still loved to read and to learn, and still read quite much to keep herself informed and intelligent.
She was still puzzling and brooding over that question ten days later when those thoughts returned. Cosette was in the library, dozing over the philosophical writings of René Descartes. Upstairs, she woke herself up midsnore, and stared dazedly at Descartes' famous words and wondered, for just an instant, why they sounded so empty. 'Common sense is the thing that appears to be most righteously shared among all humanity, since no one wishes for more of it than one already has...' That has nothing to do with life, she protested, and then went back to sleep. In her dream, she was left alone with her despair in a familiar bedchamber, which now appeared as twilit, far emptier and, for the first time in forever, actually dire... for she was sobbing, even drying up her bitter tears on the bed-curtains, beside her bedridden guardian, who was breathing his last, as pale as his bedsheets, stricken by what appeared to be either a stroke or a heart condition; there was no more hope for his life, and, from the physician's hat laid on the covers above his rattling chest, she understood that death would not tarry to claim him. Leaving her on her own, helpless, alone with her suffering and without an idea of what to do or where to go, and there were other greedy men and women who lived in the shadows... just like it had once been for her as a waif, years ago and worlds away. Alone in a hostile world, with only her beauty, her innocence, and her generous kind heart for vain assets, she was more than likely to share the fate of her late mother, which her guardian had sometimes hinted at as a forewarning. This cautionary tale of real life was and is the reason why she's never cared for beauty; because beauty fades, there's no loyalty in it. Her guardian had and has thus advised her that it is better to cultivate her wit, her intelligence. In order to make her strong. A woman needs to be strong to survive. And still she was not ready. The sheer shock of the realisation that he would one day be no more, and have to leave her, just like her real parents had once, leaving her in the same precarious situation, was enough to rouse her into awakening, startling her back into consciousness. Cosette sat down in bed, that old nursery song on her lips, her long Titian-golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders. 'C'est pourtant vrai!' she screamed to herself. 'Why not, indeed?' And thus, casting her dice in favour, she made up her mind and gathered all her resolve to tie the knot, but only if she could find a husband who had an answer ready when a question was put to him, one who knew how to reply whenever one addressed him.
'There's an idea,' she said to herself, and she made up her mind to marry as soon as she could find a husband who would know how to respond when spoken to. 'There's something in that,' she said, and so she decided that she would be a bride, but she'd only have a husband who knew how to answer with esprit when one talked to him, a husband who would not be contented himself with having a distinguished air -- not one who just stood there looking handsome, because that gets very boring. She was not interested in someone who would just stand around looking dignified, because that would be really dull. She was so eager to get married, and thus she made up her mind to wed as soon as she could find the sort of husband who could give a good answer when anyone spoke to him, instead of one of those fellows who merely stand around looking impressive, for that is so tiresome. Neither a yes-sayer, nor one who could only cut a figure in uniform and behave himself in society, nor a stern curmudgeon. 'But if I am to get married it must be to a man who can speak up for himself.' She didn't want anyone who just stood about looking distinguished, for such a fellow is boring. Anyway, Cosette made up her mind right there and then to marry someone, as soon as she could find the sort of person who could give a good answer when anyone spoke to him, instead of someone who stood around looking impressive.
No; she wanted a fiancé that was good-looking, brave, intelligent, able to patronise and encourage the arts during peacetime, and to lead a regiment at its head in case of war. She needed someone of equal wit and knowledge to talk to her intelligently and keep her company through the long, cold winter nights. Someone pure, clever, free, eloquent, ready-witted, not timid in society, able to discern time and place, unsurpassed by his fellow students, skilful... Long story short, enfin, she wished for something like a real Prince Charming, such as, among all her male acquaintances in high society, she had never seen anyone.
All of a sudden, she was the one who decided to get married. But she wanted a husband who could answer when she spoke to him -- not just someone who stood there and looked respectable, for that would be deadly dull. So she wanted a husband who found it easy to answer for himself, something more than a distinguished mien, enfin un homme aimable. He had to be of equal wit and knowledge so he could talk intelligently and debate with her. But all the young wealthy boys she'd grown up were rather dim. And finding the right one is not easy! Some lads are good-looking, for instance, but their heads are full of air. Others are wealthy, or full of military panache, but ill-behaved. Others are gentle, but not fond of books... in stark contrast to her own literary passion! The quandary, long story short, was quite complicated.
But Cosette never despaired in finding what she sought, determined as she was not to stoop before her guardian if he should arrange her marriage, but to choose herself, no matter of which rank he might be, a spouse worthy of her.
She decided to marry and there was only one thing that she wanted!
Long story short... So this smart heiress decides that she is lonely in all her brilliance and should like to have a husband. But she doesn't know where to find a suitable one. After a lot of thought she came up with a contest. Whichever young man in all the world who didn't cower at her remarkable cleverness, whichever man would talk back to her and not just take everything she said lying down, would be her husband.
She longed to marry, casting off her wavering and that aversion to commitment she had in spite of feeling that lonely. Yet she did not want an ordinary sort of husband - one who would be charming and handsome and say only what he thought she wanted to hear. No sirrah; she wanted a husband who was as clever as a cat. She was interested in marriage only if she found a... She wanted a man who knew what to answer for himself; she wanted a husband who could give a good answer, both clever and witty, to any question and wasn't boring. She did not desire a storybook prince like there are countless great pretenders, but a man with her same intellectual level, one able to carry out a conversation with her without being afraid of her status. She wanted a husband who found it easy to answer for himself, something more than a distinguished mien, enfin un homme aimable. He had to be of equal wit and knowledge so he could talk intelligently and debate with her. But all the young wealthy boys she'd grown up were rather dim. Cosette herself isn't dim — no, she devised a clever idea that would get her a husband.
And thus, having made up her mind, à cet effet, she knocked at the door of her guardian's study one afternoon and told him of the idea that had just come to her, and of her intentions, that she supposed it was time to get married; old M. Fauchelevent reacting with such elation when he learned of what she had in mind and heard what she wanted that he had to dry up unchecked tears of joy: 'What a splendid idea! C'est charmant, ma petite! Why hadn't I thought of that myself? Cà, çà me plait, j’y avais déjà pensé. C'est très bien; I was just thinking of that very same thing right now, and of something of the kind just the other day! And I have had the same ideas yesterday, and that is what I say to myself every day since six months ago... That's exactly the thought that robs me of my sleep every night in bed: why does my girl not get married? And in the end our fond hopes are fulfilled... I trust you, Cosette, to make a wise choice of spouse,' he finished his tirade of making remarks like these with words of wisdom and of trust. Of course, when he heard her exposé of her plan and learned what she had in mind, he was as worried as he was delighted, having grown attached to his little girl ever since he had adopted her, and, though an iron-fisted old tyrant who had clung to her, her guardian knew that this moment had to come, sooner or later, and felt thankfully reassured by the conditions she had imposed upon her choice of husband, even though he at first expressed surprise at this unusual method of selecting a husband.
Then they assembled their entire entourage together in the palace gardens, and told them of her intentions, to much rejoicing and acclaim. When the rest of the palace heard what he had in mind they were delighted!
So her guardian contacted the director of the local newspaper, and the next day and from that day on, an announcement immediately appeared forthwith in the press, taking up a whole front page, framed in with borders of filigree designed by Cosette herself, framed for the occasion with flaming hearts entwined with garlands of white roses, the Fauchelevent monogram or initials in silver thread at the bottom. Straight away the newspapers were printed and immediately came out with a border of hearts designed by the heiress herself, framed for the occasion with flaming hearts and floral garlands, all round the edge of the pages, and her initials at the bottom; and the full name of Mademoiselle Anne-Euphrasie dite Cosette Fauchelevent (her name was thus underlined in print) centre stage on the front page. Isn't that cute? Adorable, right? Inside there was a proclamation which Cosette had written out herself, as well as her signature, in her own flourishing calligraphy. The decision of her adoptive grandfather and their advisors was to put an advertisement in the paper, for that would eliminate quite a great deal, as many in the kingdom didn't even bother reading the newspaper. They only looked at the pretty pictures or else read only the headlines. Though her guardian and advisors had suggested putting notices in the newspapers, the heiress herself feared that this would attract too many men of the ordinary sort. Though she did not decline M. Fauchelevent's and the advisors' suggestion on the grounds that it would attract too many ordinary suitors, and rather encouraged the publishing of that announcement in the press, yet she had, in parallel, an agenda of her own; instead, she took that very proclamation which she had written out herself, in French, in English, and in Latin, and had it copied out and affixed to the doors of every Faculty at the University of Paris.
Proclamations were sent out immediately to private estates as well, framed for the occasion with a border of flaming hearts in gold filigree and the initials of the heiress, not to mention her signature, woven in silver thread right by them as well. The notice, which was the same one sent out to these estates, published in the local press, and affixed to the doors of the Faculties, stated and announced that a contest was open to attain the hand of the heiress, and gave notice and alerted the people, for so obviously it was there to read in black on white as one could read that announcement, that every and any dashing, presentable, young male reader who was good-looking of appearance, fine of physique, slender of waistline, and attractive of countenance (d'une taille prise et d'une jolie figure), and of age in between twenty and thirty, regardless of birth, as long as he was single and attractive enough and regarded as intelligent, was free and welcome to come up to and visit the Château Fauchelevent and would be admitted therein to meet and speak with, or parley with, to have a talk with Mademoiselle Cosette (her name was thus underlined in print), in order to try to win her hand, and speak to her no matter what his background was. At the château, where all the suitors were to be warmly welcomed regardless of rank or profession, she would carry out an interview with each and every suitor, and those who could show themselves to be intelligent when spoken to, and those who could reply loud enough to be heard when spoken to, were to make themselves quite at home at the palace; but the one who knew, in spite of the splendour surrounding him, how to express himself in the most natural way and was at the same time the one who spoke best, the most distinguished one when it came to eloquence, the one who could impress her the most with his wit, knowledge, and discourse, the one who spoke in such a way that one could hear he belonged there and seemed most at home in her company and who spoke the most eloquently, the one who was the quickest-witted in conversation, and gave her the most sensible replies, and, at the same time, could express himself in the best way and the most confidently as well, wearing his heart upon his sleeve... and the one who talked well about what he knew, was the quickest-witted in conversation, and spoke the best, would be the one the heiress would marry! The one who displayed the least embarrassment and the spirits the most at ease and the most natural, the one whom one could hear felt the least out of place there, the one who seemed most at home in her company and who spoke the most eloquently, the one who displayed the most self-control and the sharpest wit, and the one who talked back so that you could tell he was at home there, and talking at his very best, the one who spoke in such a way that it could be understood instantly that he was everything but out of place in a château, in short the one who spoke the best, he was the one who would win the contest and be chosen by the heiress herself as a lawful wedded spouse for her. The advertisement said that whoever could impress Mademoiselle Cosette the most with their wit, knowledge, and discourse would win her hand in marriage and thus become her lawful wedded spouse. The heiress was planning to marry the man who seemed most at home in the castle, the least out of place in her presence, and who spoke the most eloquently. She would give her heart and hand in accord to the one who reunited, in his person, the highest amount of intellectual and moral qualities. For, as I have said before, looks and wealth were of no interest to her. Long story short; the suitor who seemed most at home and least out of place in her company but who was also the best and more interesting talker, the one who spoke most eloquently and was the quickest-witted in conversation — that was the one she meant to choose; the one who was as clever as Cosette herself would be her husband; the one who talked back so that you could tell he was at home there, and talking at his very best, the one who spoke in such a way that it could be understood instantly that he was everything but out of place in a château, in short the one who spoke the best, he was the one she would have for a husband! The one who could woo the heiress best with the way he spoke, the one who spoke most prettily and answered most wisely and was the quickest-witted in conversation should be chosen as her husband, the one who proved himself as the best talker was to marry her. So it was decreed that the heiress should wed, and the palace doors thrown open for the worthy youth of the land. And thus, her guardian, the gentleman of the shire, organised an audience for all the single young men in the environs; the best parties when it came to bachelors came to the rendezvous, even woodsmen and farmers, bohemian students and artists, because all of them were given a chance."
All of that was not that quite probable, at least outside the Shakespearean world with Portia dismissing the unqualified suitors, and the fair leader seemed to doubt of the veracity of the account, and wordlessly expressed surprise at this unusual method of selecting a husband, until Courfeyrac said with a touch of annoyance, placing his right hand upon the middle of his own chest:
"Tu peux être certain, que tout ce que je raconte est absolument exacte. You may believe me, that every word I tell you is true. You may believe it or not, but it's all true. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Oui, oui, tu peux me croire, c’est comme cela que les choses se passèrent; je n’invente rien, aussi vrai que nous sommes ici l’un à côté de l’autre. I swear, with my right hand upon my heart, that I am telling nothing but the truth, and this is exactly how everything transpired, without any hyperbole or taradiddle, for I heard it directly, and learned of all of these details, from a sweet little maidservant who lives and works in the very palace garden I just told you of, a ladylove who has the run of the palace and whom I am currently in a little liaison with, and whenever she has spare time she strolls all over the palace grounds; a sweetheart who has complete access to the castle, who goes freely in and about the palace, and she told me all of this... so she saw the entire thing with her own eyes, and she is incapable of altering the truth... Every word I'm saying is true, you know, I've got a sweetheart, who's allowed to go wherever she likes in the palace, having full powers to ramble at her own free will, and she's told me everything!" he winked at Enjolras whimsically, as if to challenge the leader to question that at least most of this story was a series of gasconades. "Et elle m'a tout conté!"
"A ladylove of yours told you this?"
“Oh yes! The town or village at the foot of the hill is her home! Anyway, she has the run of the estate grounds as well... She always lives pretty close to the palace, and she peeks in through its windows any time she can to see what ever is going on in there."
Since he had been informed by such a good source, there was nothing to doubt about what he had told. "Yes, yes, you may believe me, it is all as true as I sit here, as my surname is Courf-..." insisted the socialite.
"Well, did she find someone? She must have, or you wouldn't be taking me to see him." Enjolras only nodded and didn't contradict him. "So that was all you knew about the heiress? Did she find her husband?"
"So it was decreed that the heiress should wed, and the palace doors thrown open for the worthy youth of the land. The advertisement was quite a good idea in theory, of course, but what neither the heiress nor her guardian hadn't counted on was word of mouth. Once one person read in the paper, or nailed to a Faculty door, or at a tea party at another estate, that Cosette was looking for a husband, well, then it spread like wildfire. I remember reading it myself when Combeferre showed me, back in Paris. The advertisement said, there anyone could read an announcement that whoever could impress Mademoiselle Cosette the most with their wit, knowledge, and discourse would win her hand in marriage and thus become her lawful wedded spouse. She invited everyone who wanted (as long as they were young, male, single, and attractive) to come and speak with her. She promised to choose the one who'd talk boldly and wisely with her and feel at home in her presence! The one who spoke best and seemed the most at home in the palace would be chosen by Cosette herself as her marital partner."
"I'm sure a lot of men would have thought themselves worthy of such a role," Enjolras said, thinking of Lesgle and Feuilly and some of the other boys from the Musain.
"And the heiress didn't care for wealth or looks," Courfeyrac added defensively.
"Of course not."
"No sooner was the advertisement released that it began to pour down good-looking eligible bachelors from all directions, all of them swarming in haste by the score to the palace, aspiring towards the honour of such high rank and the hand of the beautiful bride. So the interviews lasted days. I thought it would never end! What a stir there was! As you can imagine, soon every attractive single young man in the province was queuing or camping at the château gate, all of them dressed in their holiday best and essaying their speeches time after time. The best eligible bachelors to the palace as they presented themselves — there never was such a crowd! All the fine young men of the land turned up, full of brave talk and dressed in their fanciest clothes, and queued at the front entrance of the château. The dashing suitors who wanted to see her crowded all along the long staircase, cheerfully talking to each other. They spoke eloquently, yet none of them passed the test. The young people came by the hundreds. Yet they all managed to be sent away, one right after the other; no one succeeded and the Right One was not among them either on the first or on the second day. That proclamation got people out of their houses. They came thick and fast, you have never seen such a crowd. But neither the first nor the second day did Cosette find anyone who pleased her. The people came in crowds, suitors streamed in like floods, they came from all over the kingdom, if not from all over the region; there was a great deal of pushing and shoving and jostling, there was such galloping and running and crowding and crushing, such a hustle and bustle, they were all quite eager to present themselves... Oui, believe me, that was just like an émeute! People came streaming in; there was a great crowding and running to and fro, what a procession, but without any success --no one succeeded-- either on the first or the second day. Men flocked to the palace and there was so much crowding and crushing, but no one was chosen. Well, well... Believe you me, as sure as we're sitting here, people came streaming to the castle. There was a rustling and bustling, but it was of no use, neither the first day nor the next. For as long as they were out on the rue, outside the palace grounds, they could all speak quite well, and there was such a rush and a crush! And far more chitchatting than among a murder of crows! Yet no one was able to obtain her heart and hand, no one was fortunate enough to be chosen, and the Right One was not among them, neither on the first day nor on the second, and in neither of those two days did Cosette decide in favour of any one. The marriageable young men stormed in from all corners of the region, flocked to the palace in crowds, chattering as they came, and there was such a crowd that no one could recognise one another, and such a pressure that one could not pass through the streets of the village... what a procession, yet no one of them won the prize either on the first day, or on the second. They all returned home, one right after the other. They were of course all interesting and dashing young men, dressed in their finest three-piece suits or ceremonial dress, and having practised for days for their great chance, but on neither the first nor the second day was anyone chosen. All of them spoke quite eloquently, indeed, while on the village rues and on the wide, shady tree-lined promenade that led to the entrance on their way up to the wrought-iron gate, even as they stood before the threshold they were all glib talkers, expressing themselves with great ease, and sure they would in a lecture hall; as long as they were outdoors, outside the palace, they chitchatted like one-eyed magpies, but, once they had crossed the threshold to the wrought-iron garden gates of the château... So many people came! It was very chaotic the first two days or so... And no one did very well. No one performed as expected, for once they had entered... "
"What happened once they had crossed the garden gate?" inquired Enjolras, expressing surprise at this unusual method of selecting a husband, and seeing his own privileged childhood, of lonely brilliance, mirrored in that of the heiress.
"So the interviews lasted days — you've never seen such a queue as formed outside the palace gates. I thought it would never end! All the fine single young men of the land flocked to the château in crowds, they turned up from all corners of the province, chattering as they came, full of brave talk and dressed in their fanciest clothes, in their best finery, but none of them could win the heiress. For it didn't impress her, of course. She didn't find anything in them. All the eager boys and men lined up at the palace could strut like cockerels outside the gates, yet nothing came of it. They could all talk smartly enough when they were out in public, for instance in a lecture hall, but as soon as they entered the palace and saw the gold-liveried footmen as they were led up the stairs, and the imposing guards in their silver-braided blue uniforms standing at attention that were stationed before each and every door, and the ladies in their green satin costumes lined with velvet and lace, they began to lower their voice and make their pace quieter as they spoke in whispers. And when they saw the beautiful heiress herself on her throne-like chair, they suddenly clammed up. Tongue-tied they were, every one of them, barely managing to grunt a reply to Cosette's questions. Like the foolish ladies-in-waiting, they just nodded dumbly or repeated her own words, the last ones she had said, in response to her questions. She addressed them, but they could not even think of a single word to say, and did nothing but repeat twice or thrice the last syllables that the heiress had uttered... et certes cette répetition n'était pas faite pour la séduire. Naturellement, that was not something that piqued her interest... the best they could do was bend the knee and drop their hats, looking down not to meet her eyes, and gasp like fish, or stutter, or piteously echo the last word of her remarks she had spoken herself, and she didn't care or worry at all to hear it repeated, and she had no wish to hear that again; ça elle ne se souciait nullement de l'entendre répéter, le dernier mot qu'elle avait prononcé. Ce n'était pas du tout son affaire!
Oh yes, believe me, it's as true as I'm sitting here -- the eager men flocked and lined up at the palace... people came streaming up, shoving and pushing and running about, but nobody had any luck on either the first day or the second. So many people came! It was very chaotic the first two days or so... Yet nothing came of it, for when they came in through the palace gate and saw the guards dressed in silver and blue, and the great rooms full of light, they became confused and could not speak. And no one did very well. Once they got inside the castle they seemed to become tongue-tied. It was like they had lost all sense and wit the moment they entered the castle. And as soon as they found themselves in the reception room all they could do was repeat the last words the heiress had said and could not recover their speech until they left the palace. They could all talk splendidly when they were outside in the yard, but once they got inside the palace gates and saw the sentries in their silver, and the lackeys on the stairs in their powdered wigs, and the big, glittering rooms, they were dumbfounded! And when they stood in front of the throne-like chair where Cosette was sitting, they couldn't bring themselves to say anything except the last words that she had said, the very last words she had pronounced, and she didn't need to hear that again. That was something she didn't care at all to hear others repeat. She got very weary hearing her own words repeated back to her; for there's already an echo for that, am I right?
They could all speak well enough as long as they were standing in the street; but as soon as they had entered the castle gates and saw the royal guards, in their silver uniforms, the young men lost their tongues. They didn't get them back, either, when they had to climb the marble stairs, lined with lackeys dressed in livery with powdered wigs; or when they finally arrived in the grand hall with the great chandeliers and had to stand in front of the throne-like chair on which the heiress sat. As they entered the vast illuminated halls dazzling with light, they all felt and became completely confused, then they lost all their confidence. As soon as they arrived in presence of Cosette, when they at last stood before her, they all froze in place transfixed before her and could do nothing more than repeat whatever last words that she had spoken; and to hear that once more did not interest her the slightest. Of course, that did not interest her the least - hearing them all repeat what she had just said! She was not interested to hear her own echo over and over again. She, of course, expected something else! It was just as if the people within were under a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the street; for then they could chatter enough. As soon as they were out of the garden gates, their faculty of speech returned. There was a whole row of them standing; the line was very long and went from the village entrance to the palace.
So, anyhow... They had tonnes of eager young men waiting in line outside the palace. Scholars and alchemists and theologians and other learned men came in crowds, as well as lordlings, and lieutenants, and young entrepreneurs or industrialists; they came with new maps and books and designs, to show her she could have an equal beside her on the throne... young men of all ranks, all of them dashing and still single, flocked to the castle, until the château was quite crowded with men in black gowns, and in three-piece suits, and officers in ceremonial dress, but not one of them was able to meet the requirements. They could all speak very well in a lecture hall, or outside on the streets, no, no one had trouble speaking well in those circumstances; but when they crossed the great castle gates, once they had entered through the great front entrance and saw themselves passing in between the double hedge of guards in blue silver-frogged uniforms, they became confused and lost their self-confidence; and when they went up the stairs through rows of lackeys or footmen in gold-embroidered liveries, their courage forsook them, and they became quite flustered, losing their self-confidence. When these lackeys had led them up the monumental staircase and they reached the vast brilliantly-lighted reception rooms, and the great halls flooded by the light of numerous chandeliers, the poor lads felt their ideas tangle up; and when they stood in the great hall of the palace, surrounded by gilded plasterwork, and rose-red tapestries, and great silver mirrors that glowed with the light of a thousand candles, and saw the valets and maids in their best livery, and the counts and barons in all their finery, and more guards in blue and silver uniforms, they grew nervous, and felt themselves shabby, though they all wore their best academic robes of black silk, or ceremonial uniforms, or three-piece suits. And when they had crossed the vast brilliantly-lighted reception rooms, those great halls lit up... when they came through the palace gate and saw the guards in their silver and blue uniforms, and the footmen in gold all the way up the stairs, and the grand ladies in velvet and lace, and the great halls with their brilliant lights —they could ony speak in whispers, and seemed to be struck into a trance. And when they stood at the threshold as they entered her room and were called up to stand in front of the heiress herself, seated majestically on her throne-like Louis XV chair with her golden hair as bright as the candles and her face as pale and perfect as the full moon, as they saw her among her bookcases with rows and rows of ornate literary classics, and addressing them in the sweetest of soprano voices, and they saw themselves standing right in front of her throne... uh-uh! then they were filled with dread; they had to search a lot within their minds, yet they couldn't think of a thing to say, they couldn't bring themselves to say anything except without being able to utter anything but a gasp, or piteously repeat the last words —maybe the second to last ones as well— in the phrase she had pronounced, she had spoken herself; and thus, she didn't need at all to hear anything more than that, she didn't need to hear that again, and knew from that first impression everything that there was to know about them... they couldn’t say a thing except repeat what she had just said, and she didn’t care to hear that again. It didn't impress her, of course. She didn't find anything in them. Most just agreed with the heiress no matter what she said. Perfect husbands for the ladies-in-waiting, oui, but not for Cosette herself.
They only piteously echoed her last words or stuttered, as they looked down upon their bent knees; they presented themselves before the bride where she sat without being able to do anything but gasp like fish, or say anything else than echoing the last words she had uttered or those that she had said before... repeat the last words she had said— Ce n'était pas du tout son affaire. And she had no particular wish to hear her own words over again. She did not particularly care to hear her own echo over and over again; she had no wish to hear that again. Of course that was not what she wanted to hear. Cela ne l'intéressait pas du tout; ça elle ne se souciait nullement de l'entendre répéter, le dernier mot qu'elle avait prononcé. She, of course, expected something else! And so she soon grew weary of each man, already not needing at all to hear anything more, knowing exactly what to expect from the first impression, and sent them away. One by one by one by one right after the other. When they stood in front of the throne-like chair on which she sat they could do nothing but repeat the last thing she said, and, of course, she did not care to hear her own words again. It was just as if the people in there had taken some sleeping powder and had fallen asleep till they got into the street again, falling into a lethargy that ended only upon leaving the palace, for not till then were they able to speak. Then, they regained their speech. One should think every one of them had fallen into a trance. But as soon as they were outside and down in the streets again they got their voices back, and all they could do was talk. One might as well say that all those unfortunate young folks there in the throne room had been hypnotised, or taken some kind of narcotic drug that had gone to their heads and made them lethargic and deprived them of their reason, lulling it to sleep, and had dozed off, fallen asleep while they were in the palace, and they did not recover neither reason nor speech until they left the estate grounds, as if fresh air out of doors were the only thing they needed to come to their senses; and then they had plenty to say, for as soon as they were back out they could talk fast enough. As soon as they were back outside, they had no trouble talking, not at all. Though once they were back out of doors, it was all chatter, chatter as before. Men flocked to the palace, and there was much crowding and crushing, but on neither the first nor the second day was anyone chosen. Out in the street they were all glib talkers, but after they entered the palace gate where the guardsmen were stationed in their silver-braided uniforms, and after they climbed up the staircase lined with footmen in gold-embroidered livery, they arrived in the brilliantly lighted reception halls without a word to say. And when they stood in front of Cosette on her throne-like chair, the best they could do was to gape like fish, or echo the last word she had pronounced in her remarks, and she didn't care at all to hear it repeated.
It was just as if everyone in the throne room had fallen asleep, and they'd falllen into a doze until they found themselves outside; till they all came out on the yard again, and then they could jabber away right enough; for as soon as they were back in the yard and in the streets there was no stopping their talk. 'Tis true that, once out there, only since as soon as they had begun their return home and were once more out on the rue, they regained all their wit and faculty of speech, but in excessive quantities; all those suitors began to speak at unison, replying to one another with the words that they should have used to reply to the heiress, so that there was such a caquetage that nothing could be heard or understood. There was a regular procession. And there had gathered there, at the garden gate, a whole line of twattical bourgeois who waited for their exit, and who laughed at their disappointment. I was there myself, in the flesh and blood, and I laughed with them at my heart's content," Courfeyrac's lips curled in a wistful smirk.
"Mais... Mais Grantaire..." Enjolras asked, now getting impatient, "tu ne me parles pas de lui".
"Attends donc, attends donc, nous y viendrons... These young men themselves were all idiots more or less. For when they stood before the heiress they said nothing at all but they gaped at her and only repeated the last word she had spoken. Cosette was unmoved, and turned them all away. And let me tell you, that got old fast.
Before long, the queue of suitors stretched three times around; as soon as they met their prize, each one of them was struck into a trance; even the best-spoken fell mute. All they could do was repeat the same few words, over and over again. Upon entering her chamber where the reception was held, standing at the threshold of the entrance to her room, as they saw her among her bookcases with rows and rows of ornate literary classics, even the boldest of these young men were seized by some kind of anxiety or trance: they turned pale, they stuttered, and they could hardly, making a supreme effort, recite a single poem in praise of the damsel's fair visage, or of her beautiful complexion. Let alone drop their hats before her. When they stood in front of the throne-like chair where she sat they could do nothing but repeat the last thing she said, and, of course, she did not care to hear her own words again. The best they could do was to echo the last word of her remarks, and she didn't care to hear it repeated, et certes cette répetition n'était pas faite pour la séduire. Of course the heiress was not impressed. She, of course, expected something else!
It was as if people in there had fallen into a trance until they were out on the street where they could talk again.
It was just as if the people in there had taken some sleeping powder and had fallen asleep till they got into the street again, for not till then were they able to speak. They were so numerous that...
There was quite a long line --a multitude-- of eager suitors lined up, there was a queue so long that the line of candidates extended all the way from beyond the village entrance to the palace. So long did the queue reach all the way from the château to that point. There was a regular procession. People were lined up all the way from here to there. Thus transpired the first day, and the second. There was a line as long as the country road to get into the palace. But as soon as they entered they were so mesmerised by the beauty of the palace, by the time they got to the princess, all they could do was gasp and the heiress did not want to hear that. She turned them all away. But still more eager men poured into the castle gate, weak with hunger for waiting in line so long. And yet they did get so much as, or even more than, a drop of water from the castle. The more lads were sent away, the more suitors came; one could have said that they all had sprouted from the ground, where dragon teeth had been sown; so great was the multitude of suitors! I sauntered myself into town to have a look at it. I went myself to see them, I was there myself and saw it all.” here, while Enjolras was reminded of Jehan Prouvaire's gauche attempts to open up, Courfeyrac made a pause for throat-clearing. “So I stayed there to see them from up close, and I saw them with my very own eyes. They looked very foolish standing there, jabbering away at one another like so many crows, as practice for when they went inside. And all they had been able to get was but an eagerly emptied glass of clear cool sugar-water from a valet who served as cupbearer, as a cup of kindness from the staff we may say, for, in the end, all that waiting and all that flustering had made them quite thirsty. And those who were waiting for their turn on the rue had also had the time to feel hot and dry, of course; still more men poured into the château gate, all of them dying of heat and thirst for waiting in line so long! Though they did get much more than a drop of clear sugar-water from the staff... Most of the men got thirsty while they waited; they were growing thirsty, but someone from the castle, their host, did even offer them more than... brought so much as a glass of lukewarm water, they got as much as a glass of lukewarm water from the palace. When the suitors had arrived there, they were very thirsty. They were offered something inside the palace, even a glass of water. They stood in long queues before the garden gates, waiting and starving and dying of thirst, and someone gave them, they received, a glass of water. They were thirsty, but they did even get a glass of lukewarm water laced with sugar from the castle. Some of the suitors even suspected that they had quaffed the mind-numbing drug with that much-needed draught... while others, more shrewd ones, some of the more clever candidates, had packed and brought provisions, including their flasks of eau-de-vie; but they did wouldn't share them with... in fact, they refused to share what they had with anyone. No one did fall into the twattery that it was to offer any to the others, and took enough caution to refuse to share even a drop with anyone else. No one didn't give anything to any other. That's how people are, in short! They thought that if the others had drained that drug-laced glass instead of providing themselves with liquid courage, and went in to the heiress looking either flustered or lethargic, and with dried-up tongues and throats, there would be more chance for themselves to be the chosen ones. Many of the ones who thought themselves smart enough weren't even clever enough to bring lunch with them! Ha ha ha... And none of these young men, smart or not, were most certainly not up for sharing. I suppose they thought a weary-looking man could never win the heiress, and thus they wanted to keep the others as worn-out and as sober as possible to improve their own chances. Here's what they thought: 'Que leurs langues et leurs gosiers se dessèchent! comme cela ils ne pourront pas dire un mot à Mademoiselle! Alors elle ne les trouvera pas à son goût... Jamais elle ne les prendra... S'il a l'air épuisé, elle ne le prendra pas. Let him look like that, with his tongue glued to the roof of the mouth and a lump in his throat, and she won't pick him. She just won't take him. If that fellow looks weary, if this one has such a face, then the heiress won't like him or choose him, she certainly won't have him!' It was clear that, upon seeing a bloke half dead of heatstroke and half dead of thirst collapse at her feet, she would not wish to have him for a husband! Not that the liquor helped those bright sparks through the ordeal; in fact, it was to no avail. At the moment of truth, when they came face to face with her, these bright sparks were seized by some kind of anxiety or trance: they turned pale, they stuttered, and they could hardly, making a supreme effort, recite a single poem in praise of the damsel's fair visage, or of her beautiful complexion. It didn't impress her, of course. She didn't find anything in them. Most just agreed with the heiress no matter what she said. Perfect husbands for the ladies-in-waiting, oui, but not for Cosette herself. And they looked as red and hot as lobsters thermidor, both from shame and from liquor!”
Here, Courfeyrac paused for a drink from his flask, as the fair leader protested with his long-winded ways and frequent reiterations:
"So this well-read heiress had already read all the books in the Western canon, and now she wanted to find a husband. But she did not want him to be a twit or someone tiresome, and rather someone as intelligent as she, or even more. She sought a bridegroom with as much knowledge as she had. So, one day, she announces a contest to find herself a husband; someone she can actually talk to, but good-looking too, obviously... Thus she decided to get married, so she called for all the eligible suitors in the land to visit her. So many fine gentlemen came to the palace! But they all failed to meet her expectations... when they met her, they couldn't think of anything to say; so she had no wish to hear that again, and wasn't interested in them. So she turned them all away. Suddenly, the long staircase of the château was filled with eager suitors who wanted to see her. Young men of all backgrounds lined up from far and wide. But it was always the same! No one knew what to say or how to act! They were all too afraid of appearing foolish in front of her! Sadly, as they stood before her, they felt their hearts taken away by the sumptuous decorations and lost their voices; and the heiress, thus, got rid of those twits, sending them away from before her. Yet the love of outward beauty and the ambition of power were so irresistible that adventurer followed adventurer with horrible swiftness... And what about Grantaire? What of him? When did he come? Was he in the line?" Enjolras tied the ribbon in his queue tighter, running out of patience. “Quand parut-il? Était-il parmi la foule? Was not he amongst the crowd? N'était-il pas dans la foule? Était-il parmi tous les autres? Was he among all those countless young men? Was he one of them? Was he there in the crowd? Did he stand in the queue too?”
“Oh, very well," said the socialite, sipping from his flask, looking slightly put out to have his tale cut short. "Attends, attends donc... Un peu de patience, un peu de patience, et nous y serons. Nous arrivons justement à lui. I'm just getting to him! I'm coming to that, don't worry, but we must set the scene first. Give us a chance! Give us a chance! We're getting to him now, because... A storyteller must never leap straight to the main action, or the tale would be over in a moment! Our friend arrived there on the third day of the contest, or at least, someone very like him did. He came on foot, and did not wear a black robe or a suit or a ceremonial uniform like the others. Coming from the south, from the direction of Paris, he was tall and thin, with very dark hair. Mademoiselle Cosette, by now, was getting terribly weary of all these tongue-tied young men, and she was quite sure she had had enough of this marriage business. She wondered whether the wedding she dreamed of would ever happen. Now she was even beginning to lose all hope of finding what she sought. After all, it was impossible for ordinary men to win her over. The space outside the garden gates was still packed with carriages full of hopeful suitors with their retinues. Almost three days passed and she hadn't found her suitor. There were still plenty of fancy carriages arriving by the hour, bringing more pompous men who strutted around the palace like bantam roosters. She got very weary hearing her own words repeated back to her. Then, 'twas on the evening of the third day of receiving prospective husbands, voilà that one candidate arrived with no need for fancy carriages or footmen in livery. On the third day, amidst this bustling tumult of stupid and pretentious young lads who stormed the garden gate, the front entrance, and the staircase... a young man showed up with neither horse or carriage; a gallant and carefree-looking stripling who was supposed to be very attractive but dressed in very poor clothes and carried a valise. In he strolled, striding quite briskly, quite merrily, quite cheerfully along, marching quite unperturbed striding along straight towards the château, a most handsome personage of a little whippersnapper made his way boldly, at a brisk pace, all the way up to the palace; they saw advance this dashing, bold young bohemian student on foot, without even a single horse or any entourage whatsoever, let alone a carriage, but with a most pleasing burr in his Parisian upper-class accent; apart from that all alone, wearing quite modest and worn clothes! Oui, he was wearing a plain coat and a worn opera hat, cocked to the left just like mine, and carrying nothing but a small cloth bundle, a little valise or knapsack, strapped to his back — on which he wore a plain coat — and strolled in, perfectly at ease. Many others had come dressed in their holiday best, on horseback or in carriages with as many horses and footmen as they could, to give a first impression of their high rank; this dapper little fellow didn't have a carriage nor did he come on horseback. No, he came walking boldly, but full of tranquil sang-froid, quite confidently marching straight right up to the castle, alone. This strapping young lad, a plain penny among the glittering diamonds in his dusty travelling clothes and well-worn boots, strode quite boldly and stepped jauntily, quite confidently marching right up straight towards the palace grounds, as merrily as someone who was going there just for fun: it seemed that he was going there just for the fun of it! His eyes were shining bright. Sort of hazel eyes that shone and sparkled with youth, bright with confidence... but also with a hint of irony... and his mane of lovely, long yet unkempt flowing hair was dark and fine and thick and curling around at the bottom of his neck, and blowing in his face. He was modestly dressed and had bright shining eyes, and the most beautiful long hair. His clothes, however, were in tatters, as worn and shabby as you can expect any bohemian's... though he had creaky spat-boots in better condition than his clothes, that were in a terrible state! All he wore was a plain coat, some matching trousers, and a pair of leather spat-boots. And that opera hat. He carried a knapsack on his back. His eyes sparkled like diamonds, but his clothes were shabby, rather old, and his shoes creaked. Though his hair was long and dark and glossy, in spite of the tangles, and his eyes sparkled with youth and self-confidence, exactly like those of Yours Truly. And he was carrying a little bundle or valise, the aforementioned knapsack, strapped to his back. He had no brilliant maps or wealth to recommend him, and indeed seemed very shabby compared to those who had come before... and it didn't hurt—not that shallow physical details were important of course—that he had arresting hazel eyes in a fine-boned face framed by his dark curls; for he had unusual curly hair and poor clothes."
“A pleasing burr... could it have sounded more like a croak? Then it is him! Grantaire...” Enjolras gave a gasp for joy, excitement picking up. "Oh, so now I have finally found him, at last!" And it seemed to him then that the entire dreary world became brighter; the snow that remained in March up north seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, and the icicles on the bare tree branches to glitter like diamonds. "It must have been — the bundle was probably, if it was a knapsack that he had on his back, would be--...! And he always kept his hair just like that, a little too long!"
"Well," cautioned the socialite, "let's not be too excited until we know for sure... We don't want to face extreme disappointment later. Calm down until we know for sure, that's all I can say."
"Was this lad wearing a dark green paisley waistcoat, by any chance? And did he grow whiskers?" Enjolras inquired.
"That could be so. C’est possible... Cela peut bien être, perchance his waistcoat looked like that, I have not had a close enough look to discern the colour or the pattern of it that clearly. Neither can I say if he had grown any facial hair. I have not seen him from so close up, so it might have been maybe dark green paisley, maybe not... Paisley or knapsack, it doesn't matter much. Ditto whiskers. Didn't look too closely at him. Anyway," he cleared his throat and closed his eyes, "may I continue?"
"Yes, sorry. In the region of the kingdom where we are now, there is a very clever heiress. One day, when she was terribly bored, she made up her mind to marry, but she wanted a husband who could give a good answer to any question and wasn't boring and also very clever. When she was quite sure she had had enough of this marriage business, a little fellow marched up to her presence as cool as can be. His eyes shone, with dark long hair blowing in his face. His skin was fair but his clothes were shabby. All he wore was a coat, some pantaloons, and a pair of leather boots. He carried a knapsack on his back. On the third day of receiving prospective husbands, that boy made his way boldly up to the palace. His eyes sparkled with youth and he had a mane of handsome long hair, dark as midnight, but his clothes were those of a peasant or a bohemian. So what did Grantaire do?"
It did, so Enjolras had to admit, sound like Grantaire. And a part of him was hopeful, while another part of him almost wished he had been disappointed, for if it were Grantaire whom the aristocrat had seen, then he was betrothed now and would be married quite soon, and had surely forgotten Enjolras. "Perhaps my search has ended," he said to himself, trying to be more pleased than he felt and surprised to learn that his quest to find his friend was not quite so selfless or simple a desire as he had believed.
"I am not finished," Courfeyrac said. "Voilà ce que je sais: I know from first hand that, having reached the front entrance of the château, he was not the least intimidated; he passed through the palace gates, saw the guards glittering in their silver-embroidered blue uniforms and the servants in their liveries all laced with gold at the stairs and the nobles in all their splendour, but was not the least surprised, not the least embarrassed, not in the least dismayed, not the least abashed, though his own clothes were faded and worn.
To tell you the truth, this young man, having attained the entrance to the château, wasn't put off at all by the glittering silver-laced guards in uniform, nor by the gold-laced footmen, nor by the ornate wrought-iron gates. When he entered the castle, when he came through the gates and saw the uniformed guards and all the lackeys, they didn't make him the least bit faint-hearted... he wasn’t the least bit dispirited. He strolled in, perfectly at ease. Not seeming the slightest taken aback or frightened at all, contrariwise, he only nodded pleasantly to the guards, then even saluted them in a friendly way, with a smile and a friendly bonjour, made some little quips to them on his way in; he cheekily told them he wouldn't want their job, standing around in hot uniforms all day! And he walks up to the front entrance and sees the guards covered in medals and glitteringly embroidered in silver threads on cobalt blue. And does he feel intimidated by them at all? No! He wasn't the slightest overawed at all, and thus he salutes them with a smile while saying a friendly bonjour, then simply adds, making some little quips to them on his way in, 'Que j'ai pitié de vous! Comme ce doit être ennuyeux de rester sur l'escalier à attendre tout le jour, j'aime mieux entrer, donc, moi, j’entre!' and the guards took a liking to him at once they said you could see he was quite witty once you got passed his awful clothing. He strolled straight into the palace, through the halls blazing with lights, and up the stairs. Though... When he climbed the stairs and saw the ushers dressed in livery of gold, he did not seem to be the slightest overawed either; when he was told that he had to wait at the foot of the stairs for the next interview, he shrugged and nodded at the ushers in gold-laced livery, giving them a little friendly salute while saying a friendly bonjour, and added that he was already worn-out by the long journey on foot and it would weary him to wait standing there on the steps for hours... 'Merci, cela doit être trop ennuyeux de se tenir ainsi, en attendant debout dans les escaliers. J'aime mieux entrer! Vous devez joliment vous ennuyer d'être ainsi perchés sur les escaliers; quant à moi, je préfère les salles!' He nodded kindly to them and said, 'It must be boring to spend your lives waiting on the stairs like that, I'd sooner go inside!'
When he went through the palace gates and saw the guardsmen in silver, and on the staircase the footmen in gold, he wasn't at all taken aback. He nodded and he said to them:
'It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs. And besides, such a long walk all the way from Paris has worn me out to the core; thus, I do not want to stand still waiting at the foot of this stairwell. Think I'd rather go inside.'
And with that, without further ado, he climbed up the staircase all determined at a steady pace, without waiting for a second, without tarrying the least, and entered the dazzling salons which were brilliantly illuminated with countless chandeliers. Anyway, he was not a bit threatened by the guards in silver armour and the tall halls of treasures. He nodded to the servants in their fine uniform and said, "It must be boring waiting on her majesty all day!" Then he strutted on, boots squeaking on the polished floor, yet he wasn't scared a bit!
Then he came to halls blazing and glittering with light! Inside the rooms glittered with lights... The great halls were brilliantly lighted, splendidly illuminated, and blazed shining with lights; it was enough to make anyone feel small. Cupbearers walked about in satin slippers, with catlike tread for the sake of respect, carrying golden vessels or platters in front of them; the more ceremony the better! —there was reason enough to feel solemn. Everything there seemed to be of the highest importance. It was enough to make anyone feel solemn at worst, and overwhelmed at best; certes il y avait de quoi perdre contenance. There where chambermaids and advisors walked about all dressed in their finest maids' uniforms and three-piece suits respectively, and also shod with satin slippers not to make a sound, the young intruder sauntered forth and his own spats creaked loudly as he walked, and yet he was not at all uneasy. The big hall with its lighted candles, its servants carrying golden bowls, while courtiers stood around dressed in their very best was impressive enough to take away the courage of even the bravest--and, on top of all that, the young man's boots were creaking something wicked, ie terribly loudly--but he did not seem to notice either the elegant hall or his noisy boots, he still didn’t become afraid! 'Twas more than enough to stun a young man not inured to such solemnity, and even more one who, like our whippersnapper, felt his spats creak at such a shrill high pitch! The stranger passed walking beneath the brocades of the great hall without even flinching, and saluted with a smile the Master and his retainers, who all wore suits and looked with scorn at his worn and torn ensemble; meandered into the Great Hall as if nary a care in the world, he saluted everyone, left and right, with an earnest smile. All the liveried servants were struck down at his nonchalance, the ladies dressed in embroidered silks whispered behind his back at his lack of manners, the maids looked with scorn at his torn garments, everyone looked at him in indignation, and all you could hear was the squeaking of his spat-boots echoing in the silent room... and they did creak dreadfully loudly, but even this didn't trouble him; he wasn't at all afraid! Anyone would have been overawed. So, he went through the gates, but when he saw all the finery he wasn't embarrassed at all. The young man wasn't self-conscious and seemed very confident in himself, not seeming to notice anything amiss with his appearance in his surroundings —though there was reason enough to feel solemn. His boots squeaked terribly loudly, but it didn't worry him in the least. It was enough to make anyone feel solemn, and his boots creaked dreadfully, but even that didn't frighten him; he wasn't a bit afraid. He creaked up the great staircase, he passed the soldiers in silver and blue uniform with that friendly salute, he bowed to the ladies in velvet and lace, and still he was quite at his ease. 'Twas more than enough to stun a young man not inured to such solemnity, and even more one who, like our whippersnapper, felt his spats creak at such a shrill high pitch! Don't believe that he let that discourage or impress him either. Yet he was absolutely not the slightest upset. In spite of everything, he was not intimidated... he still didn’t become afraid! No sirrah; il restait intrépide, cela ne parut pas le troubler. Il n’avait pas seulement l’air de s’en apercevoir."
"It must be Grantaire..." Enjolras replied, feeling a little faint. "That's Grantaire all right! He's very bold and wouldn't be the least intimidated by such things, and I know he had new spats on. I bought a pair for each of us last Christmas. And of course we heard them creaking, squeaking against the floor of the Musain, right? It was on the very day when he disappeared..."
"Oui, vraiment, they certainly squeaked, they really did creak as he marched into the room, they creaked all right; but it was little enough he cared as, full of self-confidence, nothing daunted, sans s'en inquiéter, comme si de rien était, the newcomer went cheerfully in to where the heiress was sitting and walked as calm as you please, quite courageously straight up to her, and made his way before the heiress herself, who was seated on a throne-like Louis XV chair entirely covered in royal blue velvet cushions; and all the ladies of her bevy were present with their maids, and all the counts and barons and chevaliers that frequented her with their servants; and every one of them was dressed so finely that they shone as brightly as the mirrors. The poor, simple lad! All her socialite friends, ladies and gentlemen, and all their attendants, and all their attendants' attendants, and all their attendants' attendants' assistant attendants, each of whom had their aide with them (for, in turn, they had the right to one aide apiece), were standing there round her at attention. They all stood there motionless in half-circles round the heiress, lining the walls of the hall, stood ranged around her in order according to their ranks; and the nearer they stood to the door... the closer they were to the entrance door of the parlour, the lower was their rank and the more imposing an air they had, the more arrogant they looked, and the haughtier was the look in their eyes, and the more they were full of arrogance; till the valet de chambre, who always wore slippers --even walked about in those slippers-- and stood in the doorway, was almost too arrogant, too swollen with pride and looked so imposing that one hardly dared, it was almost impossible, to look at him in the eye as he stood at the threshold; that usher who always walks about in slippers was hardly to be looked at face to face, standing there so proud in the door, standing too upright and puffed up like a blowfish, flaunting the livery suit he wore, because he was the one with the least reason why to! Yet the lad did not even notice their presence; and of course neither did he shiver the slightest. Even the servants wore cloth of gold, and they were all so proud that they would not even look at him, because he had the boldness of coming to the palace with ink on his fingers. The young man didn't even pay the slightest attention to them."
"Sounds positively dreadful," said Enjolras under his breath, and then louder, "Surely it was ink from his pen, or oil paint from his pictures; that was and is exactly how Grantaire... he's left-handed and all that. He used to come to the Musain quite paint-stained and sometimes with ink on his face. Even though it must have been quite impressive, quite imposing, even dreadful, filling the air with awe, to advance in the middle of all that beau monde! That must have been terrible! No matter how many rebukes the ladies gave him, his self-esteem was never disconcerted... but tell me," he went on, "did he win the heiress? and yet he has finally espoused her? Tell me, did he by any chance win her hand? Did he succeed and contrive to be liked by her? Has he attained her? So he got her anyway? And yet he won Mademoiselle even so then!?” and found himself listening anxiously for the answer.
"I am getting to that. Though 'liked by' her is too weak a word. To continue..." the socialite fixed Enjolras with a beady eye, daring him to interrupt again, but the blond nodded for him to carry on. "The young man walked through the crowd with nary a care in the world, smiling and nodding pleasantly at all who caught his eye, and made his way before the heiress herself. He must be bold for he walked right up to the heiress herself, and just about all the court was present. It was supposed to be very crowded. But he paid them no mind. He only had eyes for the heiress. And did he win her over? At last he stood before Cosette; she looked radiant, her long golden hair washed in nectar and still scented with it, combed and tied back in a loose chignon, her lashes fluttering above her sparkling eyes. She was sitting by the music stand she used to hold her reads as well as her sheet music, and reading a thousand-page book, as eagerly as if she were relishing the most delicious, the most scrumptious among desserts. Her weariness of listening to so much twattery and taradiddle in a row was such that she didn't hear him come, nor notice that he had arrived.
The library was immense, and books spilled from floor-to-ceiling shelves. Cosette wanted a clever husband, but it tired her dreadfully to sit and listen to the young men trying in vain to give speeches and talk about how rich and sexy and smart they were. She fell asleep and stayed asleep until the young man with the squeaky boots came in. It was his boots that woke her up. He marched into the room where the heiress waited on a velvet cushion, a lady in waiting braiding blue ribbons into her hair. She glanced up at him and was instantly taken aback. If I were not such a promiscuous person, I might as well have... I would have married him, I mean... She is very lovely and quite kind. I would have tried to court her myself... and I would have taken her myself, for all that I'm a social butterf-..." Here Courfeyrac broke off at a cough from the fair leader. "I mean... all those who have seen Cosette dream of wedding her, of espousing her!" he sighed. "But keep on listening..."
"But... if he really won her, if he got her anyway... Oh! cela devait être bien imposant, et cependant, dis-tu, Grantaire n'a pas été un seul instant deconcerté? So, was he not disconcerted for a single instant?"
"Pas un instant, not for an instant. I am getting to that," said the socialite. "Nothing daunted, he walked straight up to the heiress herself. He marched straight in to see her eye to eye... He went boldly up to her, climbing the steps to where she sat, paying hardly any attention to all the ladies with their maids, who each had their own maid, or any of the haughty cavaliers ringed with pages and servants; thus he went merrily up to her. He marched into the room where the heiress waited on a velvet cushion, a lady in waiting braiding blue ribbons into her hair. She glanced up at him and was instantly taken aback. Then he cleared his throat to catch her attention and, without bending the knee or dropping the hat before her, he began to speak French in a fine lyric tenor voice and a Parisian Left Bank accent, speaking almost as well as I do myself in the company of ladies. Or so my ladylove tells me. I can only tell that Cosette, who had until then wearied herself royally of all the other suitors, was left very impressed by our lad in conversation. She listened to him eagerly and with all her attention, as if she had never heard anything more interesting... He stood there and commented on her beautiful chignon of golden hair. She replied that flattery would get him nowhere unless he could show her some substance of intelligence or wit. And so he went! Then, retaining the same confident stance, he asked her a question in English, with a Queen's English accent not unlike mine own, and she immediately replied in the same language and the same accent, looking rather delighted and struggling to keep her elation in check. She glanced up at him and was instantly taken aback. Anyway, the man spoke as beautifully as I do when I am speaking to a lady, and that is very significant, that does mean a lot! Even though many a ladylove of mine would say that I speak even better, when I tell her sweet words, than this lad spoke to Mademoiselle, no offense to him and in spite that he spoke wisely and well himself. He was a bit awkward but was apparently very polite and agreeable; he was charming and clever when he talked to her, so the heiress was not bored at all. She liked what he had to say very much. Within fifteen minutes he had captured her heart. I am telling you, from first-hand accounts, how the fateful test-interview unfurled. The newcomer was a bit awkward but was apparently very polite and agreeable, unperturbed and very attractive, seductive and determined, dashing and charming... He was quite solemn and not at all afraid. He was so lively and confident, quite free and agreeable, merry and witty and friendly and cheerful, quite tranquil and very gentle, full of grace and completely passionate about his studies, yet at heart so modest... and, what was even better luck, it turned out that he did not seek Cosette's hand at all; he said he had not come with any idea to propose marriage, he hadn't come to woo her, he was not there to court her or to espouse her... he had not come with any intention of seducing her or tying the knot or asking for her hand, he hadn't come there as a wooer, but merely out of sheer curiosity; he merely wanted to speak to her, he'd just come to hear, only to hear how clever she was, to hear and appreciate her conversation, to listen to her wise words; he only wanted to confirm if she, in fact, was as bright as they said, only to prove her intelligence, to see and hear if everything he had heard others tell about her cleverness was true; only to hear her cleverness, which he liked, he liked it very well, and she liked him in return! She was clever, which pleased him -- and he pleased her. This young stranger wasn’t there to win Cosette's heart, but to hear her knowledge, but she fell for him anyway. He liked her conversation very well, and she liked him. Oui, he found her bright, and she thought he was as well, and he was as pleased with her as she was with him. This he liked, and she liked him; and he thought well of her, and she thought well of him again. In the end, she asked the young man to tell her for which reason he had come, and his reply? That the news had reached him that she was the most intelligent young lady in the Île-de-France region, and he felt curiosity at the prospect of getting acquainted with her; actually, he was not the least interested in marrying for power. She could never have expected a better reply. She hopped off her throne, approcaced the lad, took his hand and declared that he was the most interesting person that she had ever met. And, seeing how he had immediately fallen for her as well, in that very instant the two decided to tie the knot! The strangest and the most amusing thing by far was the young student had not come to the audience to court her, nor with the intention of making her fall in love with him: merely because he only felt curious about her knowledge, saying he's long been curious to meet such a clever young lady; for he had only heard about her cleverness, and thus, he just wanted to convince himself that all that he had heard was true. But he couldn't possibly marry her, for they had barely been introduced. And Cosette laughed! Now, that was a sound that hadn't been around the palace for a while. Then he asked her a question in some unknown foreign language, and the damsel replied immediately, looking rather pleased. That overjoyed her. She liked him so much, and he liked the damsel as well! He found her quite bright, and she in turn found him bright as well! She was overjoyed with him, and he was overjoyed with her too! It turned out that she liked his bold and polite nature very much; il est avéré qu'elle a beaucoup aimé sa politesse et sa hardiesse! It was love at first sight. Instead of trying to impress her with everything he knew and everything he had seen, he declared that he had come all this way to hear Cosette talk about her dreams. He'd been studying at University about such, and was deeply interested in dreams. Then he sang a line of his favourite operatic lyrics, and she replied, delighted, with the subsequent line; and thus, a passionate duet unfurled. It was then that her heart was suddenly given a jolt. She liked what he had to say very much. Within fifteen minutes he had captured her heart. Then there followed an hour of the most brilliant and witty conversation. Every remark of Cosette's drew a reply from the young man, usually embellished with a compliment. So he found her charming, and she, on her side, found him after his taste; il la trouvait sage, elle le jugeait de même. Il se montra sans façons et tout-à-fait gentil. Du reste, he had not come absolutely at all to espouse Cosette, but he had heard others talk about her great erudition, and he had taken profit of this occasion to see her and moreover to speak to her, to prove her intelligence. Il la trouva charmante, elle ne le trouva pas mal. He was a bit awkward but was apparently very polite and agreeable, so lively and seductive and confident, pretty and kindly, and not the least embarrassed — dashing, brilliant, quite tranquil, very gentle — a true picture of good manners and gallantry, he spoke nearly as well and as elegantly as someone I know all too well can... reminded me a little of myself whenever Yours Truly cuts a figure in any soirée — turns out he was an orphan as well, and that he had to struggle a lot to fend for himself and to study that Law degree. His story being done, she gave him for the tears a world of sighs, impressed by both the stance of the lad and his skill when it came to self-expression as well as his background, and told him, in turn, the story of her own life, from early childhood; of the innkeepers who had beaten her black and blue, and forced her to fetch water and firewood, to run errands, to do the floors and the dishes and the laundry, to clear the snow before the front entrance and the stables, while their own daughters went to school in the village, back up north... Her story being done, he gave her for her pains a world of sighs, and swore in sooth it was strange, 'twas surpassing strange; it was pitiful, most wondrously pitiful. So he wished he had never heard it, but he wished that he had been made such a damsel as well, instead of a pampered and sheltered lordling. He liked what he heard, and she liked it... she took a shine to him too! So he found himself more than satisfied with her, and the heiress found herself more than satisfied with his company as well. Il la trouva charmante, et elle le trouva à son goût. He loved her for all of her distresses, and his compassion made his heart be hers. They were quite pleased with one another. And he admired her as much as she admired him! Du reste, he had not come absolutely at all to espouse Cosette, but he had heard others talk about her great erudition, and he had taken profit of this occasion to see her and moreover to speak to her; only to prove her intelligence, and he approved of it, and she approved of him too. Il la trouva charmante, elle ne le trouva pas mal. And he did not come as a suitor; he gave the impression that he was judging her talent, and he found it excellent... and she as well. When he sang a line of her favourite lyrics, she replied with the subsequent line, and thus, a passionate duet unfurled; and he thought well of her, and she thought well of him again. This was the 'second way of speaking' that my sweetheart heard of, for when the suitor cleared his throat and played for Mademoiselle Cosette her heart, already swayed by his words, was thoroughly captured. They conversed for over an hour; they spoke for many hours. With every comment of the heiress's, the young man quickly and easily replied — usually embellished with a compliment; and he thought those words he'd just come to hear were fine, and she thought he was fine too! In the end, she asked the young man to tell her for which reason he had come, and his reply? That the news had reached him that she was the most intelligent young lady in the Île-de-France region, and he felt curiosity at the prospect of getting acquainted with her; actually, he was not the least interested in marrying for power. She could never have expected a better reply. She hopped off her throne, approcaced the lad, took his hand and declared that he was the most interesting person that she had ever met. And, seeing how he had immediately fallen for her as well, in that very instant the two decided to tie the knot! When he spoke, Cosette fell under his spell, won over through his clever liveliness in the fateful test-interview. But he wanted to hear what she had to say, too, which made her love him all the more. Sure these two talked for the rest of the day, for he was very clever and could converse on many subjects. And then he spoke to her in another special way but I can't remember what it was anymore. But they say at that the heiress's heart was completely won over."
“Plus de doute... Oh, certainly that young man was Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed. He knew that his drunken friend was most likely straight, though he had not expected to find him about to wed; no matter how many grisettes and wenches gave him rebukes and thought him homely, but maybe he had found that legendary alloy of intelligence and nobility in a single young woman? Now the fair leader knew how this very smart heiress wished to marry, and how many thousands of men came to her. But no one was good enough, until she met someone who could as well as she did, and he was also funny... and she took him and would soon marry him, right? Grantaire was always one for a verbal sparring match — and he could certainly turn on the charm whenever he wanted to. Enjolras himself had often said that too much flattery from him, were not Grantaire so homely, could lead a girl to believe she was more accomplished than she actually was. Oui, maybe all this frog needed was a kiss from a princess for his true colours to shine through. "This heiress would only marry someone who was handsome and could have an intelligent conversation with her, and hundreds were turned away, except for this one boy who won her heart. Or did he...? And did he win Mademoiselle? And yet he won her? So he won the heiress' hand, right? So Grantaire is a socialite now! Saperlipopette..."
"Well, he talked to the heiress in such a friendly way, and she likes him so much that now he is her fiancé. It pleased him — and he pleased her! He was tall and lean, and his face was neither foolish nor cruel. He was unlike her other suitors, unlike other young men of his age and rank; there was a certain sadness in his voice, a hesitancy and humour that made her want to hear him speak. He did not touch her again when she drew closer, but she heard the pleased smile in his voice. His face, she found, was quite easy to look at. He had dark hair and hazel eyes, and rough, strong, graceful features that were young in expression and happier than their experience. They say he spoke quite well, and both the lad and the damsel made a mutual impression upon one another; ever since he stated that he had not presented himself to conquer her hand in marriage, but only to hear and listen to her conversation. But he wanted to hear what she had to say, too, which made her love him all the more. He was unperturbed and dashing; he had a confident attitude and was very attractive... He was a bit awkward though but was apparently very polite and agreeable and charming, confident and lovely, and he said he hadn't come at all to propose, only to hear her cleverness, which he liked, and she liked him in return! He was confident and charming, dashing and daring, courageous and caring, faithful and friendly, with stories to share, though not bereft of modesty, and he was not there to court Cosette, but to hear how bright she was; only to prove and judge and gauge her intelligence, and he approved of it, finding her intelligence remarkable, and she approved of him too... she found him très bien as well. This he liked, and she liked him. They were quite pleased with one another. In the end, she asked the young man to tell her for which reason he had come, and his reply? That the news had reached him that she was the most intelligent young lady in the Île-de-France region, and he felt curiosity at the prospect of getting acquainted with her; actually, he was not the least interested in marrying for power. She could never have expected a better reply. She hopped off her throne, approached the lad, took his hand and declared that he was the most interesting person that she had ever met. And, seeing how he had immediately fallen for her as well, in that very instant the two decided to tie the knot! The young stranger wasn’t there to win Cosette's heart, but to hear her knowledge, but she fell for him anyway. He said that he hadn't come to propose marriage but only to find out whether she was as clever as everybody said she was. He was satisfied that what he heard was true; and the heiress was satisfied with him. It was love at first sight. Instead of trying to impress her with everything he knew and everything he had seen, he declared that he had come all this way to hear Cosette talk about her dreams. He’d been studying at the Sorbonne on that issue, and was deeply interested in dreams. And thus, the heiress was someone he liked, and she, on her side, was very satisfied with him. The strangest thing by far was the young student had not come to court her: he only felt curious about her knowledge, saying he's long been curious to meet such a clever young lady. But he couldn't possibly marry her, for they had barely been introduced. And Cosette laughed! Now, that was a sound that hadn't been around the palace for a while. So they got acquainted, they fell in love... and that, as they say, was that. So this lad who was not afraid of anything charmed the heiress, by speaking to her about all the things that she was interested in, and that turned out to be their common interests; and he thought well of her, and she thought well of him again. They were quite pleased with one another. And then he spoke to her in another special way but I can't remember what it was anymore. But they say at that the heiress's heart was completely won over. When he sang a line of her favourite lyrics, she replied with the subsequent line, and thus, a passionate duet unfurled; and he thought well of her, and she thought well of him again. This was the 'second way of speaking' that my sweetheart heard of, for when the suitor cleared his throat and played for Mademoiselle Cosette her heart, already swayed by his words, was thoroughly captured. And moreover he did not come as a suitor; he gave the impression that he was judging her talent, and he found it excellent... and she as well. He liked what he heard, and she took a shine to him too! So he found himself more than satisfied with her, and the heiress found herself more than satisfied with his company as well. He did win her through his clever liveliness, indeed, they became betrothed, and they will soon tie the knot, and both of them live at the Château Fauchelevent together, and like each other very much; et naturellement, he is the one she has chosen for a spouse; soon the heiress shall marry the boy with the boots that squeaked on the marble floor, for he answered so prettily and spoke so wisely that she chose him as her husband. And the old Master, with a worthy in-law, can rest on his laurels at last."
And Enjolras remembered the ease with which Grantaire had spoken to those pretty young women in the street, and found it all too easy to envision the scene as Courfeyrac described it.
"Oh, that is most surely Grantaire all right, he can speak several languages, and he is so intelligent... il était si instruit, il avait tant d'esprit! Finally found him! He was so bright, though he skipped classes most frequently; he was so clever that he knows where the best wenches in Montmartre can be found, and the best wines, and the best entertainment, and he knows all the drinking songs by heart... Not to mention all the quips he's improvised, and he could do make anything you pleased out of wordplay... He can be so very charming and clever, and he would never get boring to listen to. And I'm sure that special way of speaking had to do with how he started talking last semester. Many were impressed by his observations of people. Moreover... Wasn't he wearing for the fateful test-interview those brand new spats which we so well remember creaking? Surely he must have purchased an opera hat, at least at a pawnbroker's, lost some kilograms of weight, and finally said good riddance to that Marseillais accent, and picked up the Queen's English, and polished himself a little; of that he is perfectly capable. It must be him. Though, no matter how much courtesy I have taught him, he would be so gauche in high society... still learning his court manners, eh?" He would be travel-worn, surely, and shabby in his appearance. He was not interested in a grand marriage or a kingdom at his feet. He would be inquisitive, looking for a purpose in life. Enjolras stifled a chortle. "Hope his fiancée shows him how to behave, for I never had the time to teach him all the etiquette. But anyway, Courfeyrac, you have always been more of a man of the world than I have ever been. Couldn't you please show me the way to the château, Your Lordlingship? Will you show me the way to where the palace lies? You have to take the two of us to the palace! Please, can you take me to the palace so that we may see if it is him?" the blond asked at last, knowing that he would not be able to rest until he had seen the fiancé with his own eyes and spoken to him. A doubt still lingered, a doubt that required ocular proof to be verified; Enjolras had to visit the estate, only because he was not fully convinced, for one reason or another, that the young student who had won the heiress through his clever liveliness could be none other than Grantaire.
"It's an easy enough thing to ask me that," replied Courfeyrac, and he nodded at a hawthorn bush. "I don't think they'll admit those without invites into the Palace. That's easy enough to say, but how can we manage it? I must tell you it will be very difficult to gain permission for someone without an invitation like you to enter the lovely appartements of the palace, and in the middle of a formal soirée it may probably be not the best idea. The soldiers in silver and blue uniform would not let you go up the great staircase, if you had been here on your own or in the wrong company. Luckily, you have connections that will arrange us a rendezvous, but hold on please," he smirked and winked an eye. "I can't just imagine the disappointment we'd suffer if it turned out not to be Grantaire. Now as for meeting the young man in question..."
"Hang on," Enjolras interrupted, "you don't know his name?"
Courfeyrac shrugged. "Never saw the point. It does not appear in the invitation that I have received, and this soirée will be his debut in society, as said before. Or haven't I said that he debuts this evening along with his fiancée?"
“I don't see why it should matter,” said the fair leader, “for when our friend hears that it's we who are here, he will come right out immediately to get us, straight out and fetch us, and invite us in, at once. We must go to this palace and see him at once.”
Still, neither one knew no more of the story, so they set out towards the setting sun, feeling a glimmer of warmth in their hearts, to the rhythm of this little military march:
Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne
De Carbon de Castel-Jaloux;
Bretteurs et menteurs sans vergogne,
Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne !
Not until it was dark did they decide to come: so enthralling was the story that the young viveur had told his friend and leader. The sky had grown dark before this, though the full moon reflected off the dewy hills so brightly that, indeed, there was nearly as much light to see by as there was in the daytime.
"You will surely enter the palace by the front entrance," Courfeyrac said, "though the soldiers in their blue and silver uniforms would surely try and stop a young man without an invite like you. The heiress's guardian is their captain, and he guards his ward's welfare most faithfully. They say he is a most fearsome bear of a man indeed. As for the formalities required for entering the estate, 'tis not even needed to think of it, at first; you have no formal invitation, thus, you will never be admitted, because I must tell you this: someone without an invite like you wouldn't usually be allowed to come in. The sentries in silver and blue would never allow it... You simply can't get into the palace, or into the event, without an invite; those without one will never be allowed in there! It just won't be likely for you to come into the palace without a formal invitation, the sentries in their silver and the lackeys in their wigs wouldn't stand for it, but don't fret -- you'll still get in, as long as you have me by your side. The guards in their silver soutaches, the lackeys dressed in brocade would not tolerate it at all... every single one of them would never permit it. The soldiers in silver and blue uniform would not let you go up the great staircase, if you had been here on your own or in the wrong company. But don't you worry; I will let you in. We'll get up there anyway. Remember that I said 'very difficult,' not 'impossible,' right? The sentries in silver in blue would never allow it, but here I need to tell you that there are examples that a lad of your age and social standing, even one without an invitation, may enter the château. As long as he has connections, that is. For 'Enjolras' is a household surname in the South, isn't it? Stock breeders of horses in the Camargue, right? Everyone who is anyone is welcome to the event, am I right? And furthermore, we two are friends, of equal rank, and I have this invite myself... And thus, even if you have not received a formal invitation, the garden gates will be as open to you as they are to me for this evening's soirée. The one that is held to announce and celebrate their engagement, as well as the debut of both the heiress and her fiancé in society. This evening there is celebrated such a great fête. If this were a fairytale, to it there would be invited many monarchs and queens from countries across Europe, but in real life to it there are invited many powerful ladies and gentlemen from all over France, and nevertheless everyone expects the event most eagerly... Both of the fiancés and their engagement are the talk of the region... I'm not a gate that can open and shut with connections. I'm merely hoping that my gate of connections will help us get a glimpse."
"Oh?" This piqued Enjolras' interest. "And who, or what, would this be?"
"The Barony de Courfeyrac," the lordling sounded faintly embarrassed, but also proud. "As the youngest adult of the dynasty, Yours Truly has received, quite obviously, a formal invitation to the event. My aunt and uncle always had a flair for the dramatics, and not attending the event to marry off Mademoiselle Fauchelevent is exactly the kind of thing that would send a message. So of course they did it. And sent this stripling in their stead." Courfeyrac produced an envelope with a seal of cherry-red wax to prove that it was no gasconade, and that he had a real-life invite. "That desire to make everything more important than it really is."
"C'est égal; Grantaire will come out and meet me at once when he hears that I have come," Enjolras insisted, though he was not half so sure as he sounded.
If only that cynic from Marseille had gone into acting, we might have been spared.
Darkness had set in; it was late in the afternoon, nearly evening and very cold out there by the time the two of them set forth. "It's nearly impossible to go in at the gate," Courfeyrac reiterated. "If not for my tricks, you will not be allowed in through the front entrance. There are those who will not allow it. The guards and servants wouldn't allow it until I introduce you to them. But worry not, Yours Truly will manage to get you in. Don't you worry! I know the shortest way that leads to the front gate, and besides I know of a little staircase that leads up to the ballroom, and also where they keep, where to find the key to it. And the key is called Connections. This maid sweetheart of mine, who is capable of anything in order to please me, furthermore, my ladylove knows of a back staircase, a little back stairway that leads to the sleeping suite of the fiancés, right into the nuptial chamber, and she knows where to find the key... she can get her hands on the key... she has stolen the key for me. She bent down and plucked it right out of the heiress's hand today as she was walking in the garden." Here, Enjolras gave a slight wince, as Courfeyrac wistfully winked an eye. "Hehe, you're as easy to trick as ever... But that key, which has never been in my own possession, is one we needn't, eh, Enj? Honestly, all we need is this single formal invite, and the fact that the two of us and the fiancé have been at University together. We will enter by the front entrance, surely gain admission into the soirée, and surprise the two young lovebirds in the ballroom... And thus I will lead us straight to the fiancés. If you’d like to come in, then come in. Eh bien! allons, le château n'est pas loin; nous irons à la grille."
And with that, and a flick of the Gascon's head, the two of them headed away; they were obliged to walk towards the palace. That night in the great stone mansions, over tiny cups of chocolate and crystal glasses of brandy, there would be much discussion of the thousand possible shades of meaning behind the words in the lyrics.
The story was that this heiress who lived in a castle nearby happened to be a girl who loved books and the knowledge they allowed. She yearned for a companion who was articulate and well-read, and so the news circulated that her spouse must be this type of gentleman. Many
tried, for she was lovely and an heiress of some means. But when they arrived at the palace, even the best-spoken fell mute. The library was immense, and books spilled from floor-to-ceiling shelves. Only one was able to pass her test. A lad about that age who passed this way last week. He was dressed in travelling clothes. The colour of his hair was like a raven's wings. And he was tall and broad-shouldered? Well, yes, he was quite a strapping young man. He wore a top hat, cocked to the left according to the latest fashion, but what peeked out at the nape of his neck was that very shade.
They came onto the palace grounds down a great, wide entrance avenue or tree-lined promenade lined with linden trees, the dew glistening like diamonds; past the village inn where the last brokenhearted suitors which Cosette had spurned were drowning their sorrows in their tankards or dozing off at the tables, reminding Enjolras of the unkempt Marseillais, and making him wonder about his future in high society. The streets were empty, the streamers from the engagement revels crunched underfoot, and the spurned suitors in the tavern were too drunk. No one paid attention to them.
The fair leader kept on thinking of Grantaire before he followed Courfeyrac into the town. One of the few waking drunken suitors hopped around on the wall of the fountain in the village square, squawking in delight when he saw them coming.
“Hurry, hurry, come.” Thus the Gascon said, heading towards the Palace garden.
And thus Courfeyrac, sauntering ahead to show the way, led the fair leader to the gate of the château park, which stood ajar, and which two guards in blue livery, armed with bayonets, flanked to the left and right. Beyond the guards that were stationed on either side of the wrought-iron gate, they came across a long wall covered by rose bushes that stretched to each side, with no end in sight. Right in front of them, there was a large shrubbery in the shade of tall budding linden trees.
Plenty of noblewomen were making their way to the palace but most of them had palanquins or armed escorts. There were even a few intricate carriages pulled by plumed horses, making their ponderous ways down the avenues under the delicate, pruned trees.
They ran until they were before the large white palace.
The full moon was high overhead when the two of them reached the palace gardens, its light so bright that they could see perfectly well, and so they had no trouble at all finding the gate in the garden wall, and showing the guards the invitation. Finally, climbing a grassy hill, across the village, they saw that enormous and beautiful palace, whose immense gates of bronze and wrought iron lay open to welcome the richly dressed people riding horses and elegant calèches into it.
They hurried to join it before the sun set completely and the gates were closed. They still looked like lordlings, they knew, for the people spoke to them kindly...
"We have come for the wedding, well, the betrothal of our heiress and this Law student at Paris, whom it is her destiny to wed."
"Who foretold such a destiny?" Enjolras asked, steeling himself.
"Someone," they assured. "Her guardian's advisor. A frog, who spoke with a human tongue at her birth. Her mother was in love with a Law student nine months just before childbirth, and dreamed it. No one exactly remembers who, but someone did. Destiny or no, they will marry in three days, and never was there a more splendid couple than the heiress and her fiancé."
The two newcomers crept into the shadow of the gate. "Now what shall I do?" Enjolras murmured, eyes wide, more dark than blue with urgency. "With his eyes full of her, he will never notice a boy... After all, Grantaire is most likely to be straight, isn't he?"
The sun slid a last gleam down the gold edge of the gate.
The guards who took that invitation couldn't take their eyes off the blond, and he didn't want them to. Just watched them with hooded eyes, staring each one down until he finally looked away, unsure of who this stranger was. People whispered around them, nobles and courtiers, all staring at this hussar-looking boy with wide eyes like tiny suns.
"Enjolras," Courfeyrac, introducing his fair-haired companion, told the officer of the few guards who kept the door, nodding to the palace guards, to gain entry. "Not formally invited, but nevertheless a friend of mine I wish to bring to the soirée. Not only is his a household surname in the South, but the fiancé, him, and I have been all three at University together, back in Paris."
Tonight, the guards at the entrance looked from them to Courfeyrac's invitation for a long time.
"My lord... " one guard, a tall, muscular man with cold blue eyes and blond hair that had been slicked back, said nervously.
The guards in blue and silver-laced uniforms nodded back, and opened the wrought-iron gate, whose two halves were tied with a loose chain, to let the two guests into the estate park.
The guard lost his nerve and smiled back. "Please enjoy Monsieur's hospitality," he said and gestured both of them into the palace.
"Welcome to the Château Fauchelevent," the other guard said, bowing, and indicating that the guests should go past him into the ballroom. Silently, Courfeyrac held a hand out for his invitation back and he handed it to the Gascon. "It is for those reasons alone that we are bending the rules and assisting you."
The gardens were full of moonlight, turning the flowerbeds into great sheets of silver. The fountains were dry, because of the daytime heat (the Master had kindly diverted his own gardens' water supply towards the village square), and the estate's gardeners had set little statues carved of ice atop them to take the place of the streams of water. White petals of chestnut blossoms along the wide tree-lined promenade —which the two students where ambling down, as they went into, then through the gardens— were falling one by one, squishing beneath their feet, where one petal fell after the other, where the petals were falling, petal fell after petal, in fact the whole entrance promenade was carpeted with the falling petals like a carpet of springtime snow; and across a long green lawn towards the two-story château, until they reached the austere, yet grand front door to the mansion, which was quite beautiful even from outside; a façade which resembled the Parthenon or another Greek shrine, with Dorian columns and a pediment whose relief represented Charity as a matron, with a flaming heart upon her bosom, a book upon her lap, and a basket of fruits at her feet, surrounded by a crowd of children which she taught to read, embraced, consoled, clothed, and fed. The threshold was preceded with a flight of steps flanked by pedestals atop which the estate gardeners had set little statues, which both students were doubtless that Combeferre would have recognised: Flora and Pomona on the left, Hermes and Athena on the right.
That evening the whole castle was bustling with excitement. Upon the master's orders a ball was being organized and it was supposed to be an important occasion. That night in the great stone mansions, over tiny cups of chocolate and crystal glasses of brandy, there would be much discussion of the thousand possible shades of meaning behind the words in the lyrics.
The timing wasn’t very great, because Enjolras felt like he’ll sour the ball, because it seemed that the fiancés were looking forward to the happening the most.
The two students hurriedly walked into the garden, and down the wide promenade, where the chestnut blossoms were falling from the trees, where petal after petal fell like snow; people stared at them, marvelling. They made way for them. A gentlemanly officer offered Enjolras his shako (taking him for a hussar), a noblewoman her sunshade. But he shook his head at both, laughing again. "I will not be shut up in a box, nor will I shut out the sun." So he walked on, and all the soirée guests slowed to accompany him and the other student through that large garden and the inner courtyard. The late-evening rain tinkled to the ground in their wake like fallen stars. Everyone else handed over robes, capes, or waxed parapluies to attendants, their feet and hems damp.
Word of them had passed into the palace long before they did. More guards, surely those of the last watch, were all standing around a bin of fire and keeping an eye out from there.
The last of the white chestnut blossoms were drifting to the ground as they fell from the branches, one right after the other. The lights in the palace were being put out one by one.
Arrived at the end of the promenade, both students hid behind a massif and waited until the lights in the windows of the château were put out, one right after the other as well; as the petals fell from the treetops, one by one, at the same time the lights on the façade started going put out, one after another as well. They cut through a large garden, and watched the lights in the castle being extinguished, one by one. As the lights in the Palace slowly went out one by one, they seized one another's hand for confidence. At last when the park was completely twilit, right when nearly all the lights in the palace had gone out and only the light in the balconied window of the ballroom upstairs was shining as a lone beacon, Courfeyrac, packing the fair leader by the wrist, and begging the other guests his pardon for taking their leave of them for a short while, took Enjolras to the front entrance door, which stood half-open slightly ajar, an usher having already unlocked it, and led the blond over the threshold. They stepped cautiously into a dark hall and found their way to another room by feeling the walls.
As they began to climb the stairs Enjolras' heart raced swiftly, impatiently with anxiety and longing, pounding against the ribs of his left side; he felt as though they were doing something very wrong, as if he were to fall from grace for all time, attending a society event without a formal invite, sneaking in like this in the dead of night, and if anyone had seen the two advance stealthily among the shadows, one would have supposed that they were about to commit whatever misdeed a leftist was capable of to high society, from poisoning the hosts' drinks to planting a powder-keg in the ballroom, during that fateful event; yet all they had come for, all Enjolras wanted to do, the only intention he had in mind was to see and to know whether it was Grantaire who had won the heiress, only wanting to see if he was there; the leader had no other intention than to assure himself and Courfeyrac that the one he sought was really the one there who was there at the château, and that he was all safe and sound. He only wanted to make sure it really was Grantaire. Really, it must be him , he thought, because he recalled those sparkling eyes and curly hair.
"It must be him," he thought. "With those ink-smudged hands, and dark hair." He could not doubt anymore: the signalement he had been given did not seem to be appliable to anyone else. Sure it must be. Those bright, sparkling, ironic, intelligent hazel eyes; that beautiful though unkempt curly dark hair, including those muttonchop whiskers; that humble background and the carefree, easy, heart-upon-sleeve way with which he had strolled into the château and the wit he had displayed upon addressing the servants, always bereft of embarrassment... Comment n'y serait-il pas? Surely, it must be him, Grantaire's features were so clear in his mind's eye; Enjolras could so vividly see his lively, clever, bright eyes, his tangled long hair; he was smiling as he did when they sat down to study at home. There was no doubt, everything designated that person, and he already recalled or half-fancied he saw Grantaire smiling at him already, the way he had used to do before he fell ill; he wore stubble all over his face, just like you might see in a painting by Velázquez or Murillo, and it made his teeth, crooked as they were, look very white.
The Grantaire he could so vividly see in his mind's eye was soon joined by the Grantaire he had met last springtime, the one that had given him the shoelaces a month after on his birthday. That Grantaire had, upon revealing the laces, said, so they know which boots stomped them into the dirt, smiling shyly, careful not to show his gap-teeth or expose any of his missing teeth to Enjolras.
Not even teasing him, like the Grantaire in his mind was, did that vanished Grantaire ever show Enjolras all his teeth.
Thus Enjolras could so vividly see every detail of that dark young man in his mind's eye; those intelligent eyes, and that curly raven hair, that ironic sneer on his lips, and that stubbled chin, and those gauche, uneven features framed by bushy whiskers... as if they were seeing one another eye to eye once more, like so many times before at the Café Musain and in their humble garret, while having the fair leader pose for his paintings, studying, or watering those flame-like nasturtium flowers. The one he sought must be here, and perhaps he had even won himself a bride in the bargain, who might change the very way of the world.
Now they were on the stairway. Enjolras couldn't help the way his heart pounded, his stomach twisted up into a knot of hope and anxiety and longing. He was afraid of what he would find when he looked into those sparkling, ironic hazel eyes, but at the same time the thought of being able to see him again made him feel weak with hope. "It must be him," he said to himself, "with that long dark hair and the croak or burr in his voice, and that charm that can win even a princess. It must be." He tried not to let himself hope for too much as the Gascon lordling hopped up the narrow stairs ahead of him, but he couldn't help the fantasy that played itself out in his thoughts. Couldn't help imagining that Grantaire would embrace him, those hazel eyes full of sadness and remorse for the way they had parted. That when Cosette's fiancé learned how far the fair leader had come for his sake, of the long journey made for his sake, his eyes would glisten and he would say Enjolras' name with love and relief that they were safe and together once more, princesses (or heiresses) notwithstanding. How elated he would feel to see his friends once more! And they would ask one another questions...Wouldn’t the savateur be glad to see him? Wouldn’t he be interested in hearing how far Enjolras had come to find him, and how sad they all had been when he didn’t come home?
He was frightened, yes, and yet he was also so happy.
He would certainly, surely, be glad to see him again, and he would surely be curious to hear what a long distance, what a long way his beloved had come for his sake, and to know how empty and barren it had been at the Café Musain without him. What chagrin his departure had caused; how much everyone at home had been worried sick, and then brokenhearted, upon not seeing him return, and know how sad they'd all been when he didn't come back... how sad everyone had become because he was gone, and how they all had missed him, especially because he had left the way he had.Such thoughts occupied Enjolras the entire length of the stairway, a long, twisty stairway, a wide staircase the colour of honey, until he and Courfeyrac reached the first landing, where, on a small empire-style cupboard or closet at the top of the stairs, the candles in a pair of little silver candlesticks were burning, shedding a mild, warm light over the white floor and walls, illuminating the landing. Beside it, on a bust of the goddess Minerva, also known as Athena, was a wreath of blue and white flowers, with a ribbon tied round its stalks, Cosette's name embroidered with silver thread on the satin ribbon. Now they were half-way on the staircase, and there were these little candlesticks burning on a cupboard.
“This staircase leads all the way up to the ballroom. Anyway... Myself, I think you're very silly to come all this way for a fellow who would run off and leave you to marry an heiress," Courfeyrac suddenly said with a sneer, "but I suppose I may as well show you in. Allons-y, je vous montrerai le chemin. N’ayez pas peur, nous ne rencontrerons personne. And we will go straight up the stair. I’ll lead the way. We’ll go straight there. Then we won’t meet anyone. I hope that when you friend recognizes you, and you gain the 'royal couple's' favor, you will thank me properly. So be sure, if you get honour and favour, to show a thankful heart!"
“You may be quite sure of that,” Enjolras replied. "He is generous to a fault."
"Who?"
"Her guardian, of course... for all you have said about the Fauchelevents, and the pediment being in honour of Charity, speak for themselves and are certainly not for show."
"The flower wreath, and the flower beds in the garden outside, are surely also his work. I've heard he gets better along with plants than with people, but he's still kind-hearted and generous to a fault. Otherwise, for instance, he would have left la petite Cosette with her old guardians. You know how flowers are when it comes to eloquence. Very little small talk, and that they repeat incessantly. Also, he could not even bear the thought of leaving that little girl in such dire straits, and he needed a companion to trust in and to talk to... Isn't the story of her life, as we express it nowadays, with which I sympathize, a heartwarming little story? Her little short biography, as one might say, is very touching. Though we barely know her, her misfortunes have struck me to the core, and I cannot feel more reassured of her present fate. I have found the story most touching. It was this young lady's story that swayed me. It was very moving and I admit I felt compelled to help in whatever way I could -- in this case, confirming whether or not her fiancé was and is Grantaire... I shall lead the way. We shall keep moving straight ahead, where we aren’t going to run into anyone. We’ll go straight there. Then we won’t meet anyone. Je marcherai devant, je vais vous montrer le chemin le plus droit et le plus sûr. Nous suivrons le chemin qui va tout droit, car nous ne rencontrerons ainsi personne. We shall follow the path that leads straight ahead, because, thus, we will not come across anyone... I will walk ahead of you and lead the way, for once; you can follow me without any mistrust. We are going straight there becase we won't meet anyone. If we go this way no one should see us."
Courfeyrac led his fair friend up the long spiral staircase, all the way up to the ballroom, and Enjolras followed after. The stairs were stone, worn and smoothed away, like old thick silk. Slivers of glass glistered on the pink stone, catching the light of the candles on the wall.
Following Courfeyrac with Enjolras tagging close behind, it felt as if something was looming behind them. The shadows cast by the candlesticks only served to make bizarre shapes and images.
Another door at the top of the staircase opened onto a grand corridor with a rich, red carpet and fine velvet hangings on the walls. Once they reached the top they followed down the corridor and through a beautiful drawing-room full of expensive furniture and lined with portraits of beautiful ladies and stern old gentlemen in powdered wigs. Their eyes would stick like glue to the extravagant walls and tapestries as they make their way inside, Courfeyrac nodding to the palace guards to gain entry.
Then they entered a great hall, the walls of which were hung with rose-pink satin all embroidered with bouquets of imitation flowers up the walls. Now they entered the first of the great halls. The walls were covered with pink satin and decorated with artificial flowers. Thus they came to the first hall and it was truly spectacular. The walls were covered with rose-coloured satin with pretty flowers embroidered into the material, on all the walls and all the way from ceiling to floor. This was to be the first of many and each hall was more majestic than the last. The two of them passed through curving, dark corridors and a series of chambers and halls, each one grander than the last. First came a hall with a floor of white marble, hung with tapestries of crimson silk. Then a hall with a floor of pink marble, whose walls, decked in rose-coloured silk and satin embroidered with artificial flowers that covered all the walls from ceiling to floor, were hung with paintings of such size and magnificence that Enjolras and Courfeyrac would ordinarily have stopped to admire them. Thus they entered the first room. It was decorated in rose-coloured satin that was embroidered with flowers, and the furniture shadows moved so fast now that one couldn’t see the lords and ladies on the canvas. Such was their eagerness to see Grantaire, however, that they rushed past them without a thought for the richness of the tints, or the skill of the brush strokes, until they reached a third hall, which had a floor of black and white marble laid in squares like a chessboard, and which was hung with mirrors in gilded frames. Thus they traversed the second and the third hall, and the fourth hall and so forth, each one more magnificent than the other. Other rooms followed, each one lovelier than the previous. It was all impressive... The halls were, all of them magnificently adorned, each one more beautiful than the previous, though every room was decorated a different colour; crimson, then forest green, then regal purple, then midnight blue. The painted ceilings seemed to move in the light. Golden sculptures and marble statues stood randomly throughout the halls. A music room adorned with curtains of mustard-coloured damask embroidered in gold thread. One room was more magnificent than the next. Each hall was finer than the previous one, yes, it really took one’s breath away, and now all of these interiors were so beautiful, so wonderful, that neither of the young men, despite their high rank, had ever seen their equal until then, not even in their dreams; even though they only had time to cast lightning glances at their surroundings. White wood and glass, pale hardwood floors sanded until they gleamed, thick, plush carpets in shades of blue and green neither one had ever even seen, could only imagine. It looked serene, peaceful – anything except like the ferocity that had blown outside not two or three decades before, during the first Revolution.
Hall after hall bewildered, each one so magnificent that both wondered how Grantaire had managed to make it here.
Each room they passed seemed grander than the last, and it was more than enough one was overwhelmed by the size and grandeur of the palace. Oui, certes, il y avait de quoi perdre sa présence d’esprit en voyant ce luxe prodigieux. Each hall they passed through was more magnificent than the one before it. One room was more magnificent than the next. Each room was more splendid than the last; one was almost bewildered! Each room was more magnificent than the next --almost overwhelming-- Each new room was more magnificent than the one before -- it was enough to make you dizzy -- and then at last they came to their destination. They were relieved when they came, at last, into a blue ballroom at the end of the most gaily decorated corridor of all, and found themselves staring up at the large and glossy dark doors. Both students walked through many rooms with silk drapes, satin sofas, and velvet lined walls. Hall after magnificent hall quite bewildered both of them, until at last, following Courfeyrac's lead, they came to be in front of two big carved, large and glossy dark wooden doors with silver keyholes, inlaid with golden spirals. Eventually they reached that doorway, pausing outside of it; they reached the entrance to the ballroom where the engagement soirée was held. Their hands trembled as they reached out to push open the heavy doors. As they seized their respective doorknobs, and turned their heads, listening carefully, they could hear music... faint and very beautiful. It was such a sweet sound it made both their hearts ache. Thus, each of the students put both hands to one of the elaborate silver handles (Enjolras to the doorknob of the left panel, as cool as ever, and Courfeyrac, hands trembling with anticipation, to the one on the right) and pushed down, and slightly opened the door, slipping between the heavyset panels and closing the door just as quietly.
At last they had reached the ballroom, which was more magnificent still, even more splendid than the rose-coloured hall, even more than the one with the chessboard floor. The ceiling plafond was very high up and made of the most costly coloured crystal one could find. It unfolded like a great crown or calyx, whatever you will, with fronds of glass, expensive glass, forming a large cone lined with emerald-green stain-glass leaves of the most costly crystal in the middle, the curtains all over the vast room thickly embroidered with gold and silver thread. Just like every other room in the Palace, it was finely decorated, and in the middle was a large indoor fountain with two embracing figures; one of which was sure male and the other female. It was a round hall with a fountain in the middle, right underneath the crown of stained glass. People came up to it, gave some money to a lady sitting there, and were given a glass cup, which they took to the fountain to fill with a sparkling, transparent platinum liquid, most probably champagne.
Here the ceiling looked like a large crown or calyx with leaves of glass, precious glass; from the center of it eight ropes of pure gold hung down, attached to them were the two little chandeliers that the betrothed couple looked up to. Each chandelier was shaped like a lily; in the white lily the candles shone on the heiress, and in the fire-red lily on the young man who had won her. The rest of the floor was filled by people parading up and down, nodding their heads to the music, greeting each other. The orchestra was an eight-piece band, playing waltzes, polkas, minuets...
Firelight flickered from chandeliers along the walls, lighting the room and the mosaics from beneath. Everything shimmered. The people did too, men and women in red and black and rich gold. Precious gemstones inlaid in precious metals dripped from women's necks, fingers, and intricate hair. They sparkled at men's wrists and their chests and the hems of their long formal tunics and robes.
Les voici enfin là!
It was by far the grandest and the finest room they had ever been in, for all that both students had been born into privilege and swaddled in silks ever since the first cradle, but all the gold and silk and marble was nothing to them, as they silently stepped into the room; heart slamming against their chests. Then walked across the estrade covered with velvet carpeting through which one arrived, past clear cream-coloured brocaded satin curtains, and, as they took a few more steps into the room, sought through the crowd of ballgowns and suits and uniforms a familiar head covered with curly raven hair, one that was certainly of a fellow far more likely to be dressed in a dark three-piece suit than in a ceremonial uniform.
All through the ballroom, there was heard the sound of dancing. Un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois, all the men but three of them led their ladyloves' feet to the tune of a Viennese waltz. The eyes of most of the people present turned towards the dashing newcomers, among sparkling eyes and sighs; Enjolras had donned his usual metaphorical blinkers and paid as little heed as usual to the admirers of both sexes he had made at first sight. Some other ladies and lords of the court were sitting on red-silk cushions listening to the flute players they hired to entertain them.
All throughout the ballroom, there was heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl, dressed in fine flowing silks the colour of her eyes, came out on the balcony with her lover. Her hair was as gold as the sun's little box; her face as pale and perfect as the moon's face. Her eyes were very wide, very blue; they were as blue as the day sky. She curtsied with a beautiful royal blue silken dress, where the white roses, lilies, and forget-me-nots embroidered vied with each other in perfection... The one she loved, and who loved her in return, would soon become her husband.
He was tall and lean, and if the mingling of fire and moonlight did not lie, his face was neither foolish nor cruel. He was unlike her other suitors, unlike other young men of his age and rank; there was a certain sadness in his voice, a hesitancy and humour that made her want to hear him speak. He did not touch her again when she drew closer, but she heard the pleased smile in his voice.
His face, she found, was quite easy to
look at. He had dark hair and hazel eyes, and rough, strong, graceful
features that were young in expression and happier than their experience.
She had discovered that he was gentle and courteous to the servants, that he had an ear for musicians' playing, and had lean, strong hands that moved easily among the jewelled goblets and gold-rimmed plates. Over candlelight, as he led her to her room before she put on her ballgown, she had seen herself in his eyes.
"You are here. There is a story in that." He took her hand, then, and drew it under his arm. He led her past the pages and the armed men, up the stairs to the open doors; as the band began to play the first minuet of the soirée. Now she had been the one who led her fiancé out to the balcony, for some privacy, instinctively taking the young man by the wrist.
A voice spoke into her ear. She felt rough stubbled skin against her cheek, most surely his whisker, and arms tense with muscle; the voice husky and pleasant, murmured against her hair. She turned, amazed, alarmed for different reasons.
She saw a sudden glint of teeth. "If you wish."
"My wish is your command," she answered, and he laughed.
In his bed, astonished, she would soon think that she discovered how simple life was.
Oui, everything was like a lovely dream; surrender entirely to it, give yourself up to it. As thus did this young betrothed couple, who had been given everything positive this world has to offer, everything good that one could ever wish for: health, good looks, good nature, good cheer, a fortune, a thorough education, and an honourable reputation.
"We are as happy as anyone could ever be!" they said to one another, with full conviction in their hearts. Meanwhile the days glided past, each like a holiday. The sufferings of childhood, for both the bride and the groom, were universes away. A roundelay upon the lawns, a caper along the edge of the reflecting pool, a waltz on the lower terrace – the dancing went on and on until the sun set beyond the treetops. As they climbed upstairs and entered the ballroom hand in hand, both their hearts were still pounding.
That evening the whole castle was bustling with excitement. Upon the master's orders a ball was being organized and it was supposed to be an important occasion.
Every little detail was important to Cosette, she didn’t allow her guardian nor their retainers to come in between with their suggestions. Lot of people were invited, many meals were prepared in the huge château kitchen and any passerby would salivate just from catching a little whiff of the prepared delicacies. Even fireworks were planned as the highlight of the party and, the way Courfeyrac had explained it to his leader during their upstairs ascent, those had special meaning for Cosette and her fiancé, being something like an anniversary.
That night in the great stone mansions, over tiny cups of chocolate and crystal glasses of brandy, there would be much discussion of the thousand possible shades of meaning behind the words in the lyrics.
The closer the evening neared, the more restless the bridegroom was growing. Once it all begun, he has no thought to loose on his own, since anyone who was in his presence grabbed him in their embrace and he was twirled in a dance the whole night. He barely stopped to get a drink. Everyone wanted to talk or catch even a minute of his time, but once he got a hold of Cosette, none of their whining helped. The violins soared sweetly, her fiancé smiled at her and she came closer and closer still.
The heiress smiled, and held out her white arms. As she and her fiancé twirled in a waltz, the spectators smiled too, then a couple joined in, and another... The members of the band were delighted. When the music came to an end they played another waltz, and another...
And... like... too, he was trapped by those azure eyes, which got a strange luster and feigned distance. It was clear they got very close; the many nights they shared kisses with each other meant at least that they were friends who trusted each other enough to share that kind of intimacy. That was why he braced himself and approached the subject which was dwelling on his mind.
"How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope Grandpapa will not leave if we find out the whole truth," she answered; "I have been so lucky to be rescued from a dire fate by a worthy caregiver; but he seems to be weighed down by some dark secret, which he has never wanted even me to know..."
To reassure her, the dark-haired fiancé she had found tucked a wisp of her scented golden hair, that had slipped out of the chignon, behind her ear, and she planted a peck on his lips in response.
"Life is a gift of love, almost too vast to fathom, almost too great to understand," he sighed in a sweet lyric tenor voice. "Yet it will all be hubris at the end of the day. Isn't it a dreadful display of pride, a terrible conceit, when people persuade themselves to believe that we shall live forever?"
"You doubt that there may be an afterlife, do you?" Cosette asked, clasping his slender waist in fair lilywhite arms, her face nearly grazing her sweetheart's; and it was as if a shadow passed through their sunlit thoughts for the first time.
"Yet in all of my happiness," the young man replied, "I feel, and I realise, that it cannot be anything but hubris to wish for another life after this one, and happiness in the afterlife! Back when I lived with my own Grandpapa, I was made much of and always bowed to by the servants, ladies-in-waiting, and visitors to the castle. Yet I always felt empty at the end of the day... Hasn't this existence given both of us so much that we could, and we should, feel contented? But, happy as I am now, I feel and know that it is only hubris, an arrogant thought that demands another life after this, or a better reincarnation - an extension of this happiness. Haven't we been granted enough in this life, so that we could and should be satisfied?"
Here, he stole a passionate kiss from her, and, as soon as her lips parted, she locked eyes with him, azure eye to eye with hazel, and sighed:
"Of course, we have been given so much... but for how many thousands of people has this life been a heavy trial! How many thousands find this a heavy trial... How many are thrust by chance into this world to a fate of want, of shame, sickness, and misfortune... and thus know no childhood, forced to battle with hardships, to grow up against their will! If that as you say were the case, if there were nothing more to wish for, everything in this world would have been too unequally shared, the blessings on this earth would be too unequally divided... and there would be no righteousness... It is not so easy to remember when you are always covered with fancy garments and have twenty-five playrooms set aside just for you. Remember, I told you... I was once one of those! And I believe that Grandpapa... for the secret he is hiding..." Her earnest sapphire eyes grew teary as he produced from his pocket a lacy handkerchief, gently drying up her tears.
"Did not that orphan indentured servant find any joys of her own, that were to her as happy as those enjoyed in these grand mansions?" the young man asked, tucking his cravat into the décolletage of his waistcoat; he wore a midnight blue three-piece suit. "Cosette... do you believe that, for all those beatings, and starving, and straining, you should have no recollection of those heavy days of squalour, of living in want, in endless battle with hardships, bereft of a decent childhood? Why shouldn't you call it unfair?"
"The inn’s guests were sometimes friendly, but more often they were rude. As bad as the ones who stared were the ones who looked away in embarrassment. Some guests didn’t want me to serve their food, and some didn’t want me to clean their rooms. I developed the habit of holding my hand in front of my face when guests arrived, a foolish practice, because it raised curiosity and concealed little. And then the landlady and her pampered daughters... It was the way I was made, and the way that I am; we cannot escape the past, mon cher... and still we can learn many a lesson from what once occurred. Love is infinite, and eternal. And no life shall ever be lost, but rather win all the happiness we can receive, and be contented with our lot, no matter how paltry or how grand, staking our own future, right?"
Her fiancé nodded in response, drawing her closer. "This world is good enough for me now!" And, once more, he flung his arms around her slender waist, clad in royal blue satin and in fine flowing silks the colour of her eyes; around his lovely, adorable, amiable ladylove. On the open balcony, the fresh, cool air was intoxicating, heavy with the fragrance of roses and lilacs and carnations, Romantic music could be heard from the ballroom behind them, the stars glittered high above in the clear night sky, and two eyes full of love, brighter than Venus, his dear Cosette's eyes, were looking at him with the expression of everlasting life of love.
"A single moment like this," he said, "makes being born worthwhile... just to experience, to seize such a moment, and... and then vanish! If I were to die, it were to be most happy! Indeed, I fear that I should nevermore be given another such sacred instant within my unknown future destiny..." he said smiling, and his fiancée shook her index finger reprovingly, like a metronome, as if to say wordlessly how brokenhearted she would be in that case.
"Oh, my dear," she breathed, hurrying down the steps. "Say this is a wedding gift for me. She stepped back, half-laughing, "Where are my manners?" she clapped her hands, laughing again, with a touch of relief in her voice. She took her fiancé's hand in hers and led her up the steps. "Now tell me how I can persuade you to let me have that je ne sais quoi of yours. Look how everyone stares at you. It will make me the most beautiful woman in the world on my wedding day." She caught a fault in her fiancé’s step, studied the way he quickly bit his lip, then cleared his face of the emotion that had lingered there so briefly.
The dark clouds in their minds, while the heiress chattered, had already passed, then lifted; they were much too happy.
"All right," Cosette said amiably, gently, patting his hand as she held his eyes. Her brows rose. She glanced around hastily to see if anyone were listening, then she took his other hand; though, from first-hand experience, he already knew that Cosette was not one of those who only wanted what dazzled their eyes.
Everything that happened seemed only to add to their happiness and well-being. Yet the two young lovers' privacy on the balcony would not last much longer, for they had caught the attention of someone on the ballroom. It was Courfeyrac who was first shown, upon asking some young lieutenants about Mademoiselle Fauchelevent and the young man who had won her, a golden-haired debutante in a royal blue gown and sky-blue petticoats, dressed in fine flowing silks the colour of her eyes, leading by the hand, out to the balcony, a dark-haired young man in a midnight blue suit. The door to the veranda was open, and a lovely cool breeze blew in from the nearby Seine. Taking his blond friend by the wrist, Courfeyrac showed Enjolras in that direction, and, through a narrow gap in the balcony curtains, they could see a head of long, curly dark hair, quite black in the dim flicker of the lamplight that illuminated the balcony outside; on the balcony stood the heiress, and side by side with her the young man who had won her. The cloth was sheer enough to reveal two silhouettes behind it. One was the elegant profile of a lady, surely Mademoiselle. The other was a man's figure, tall and slender. The fair leader's heart was beating very hard indeed as he went towards the curtains, seeking to look on the fiancé's countenance and see if it was, indeed, Grantaire. Because of his hopeful doubts about this, Enjolras was perfectly happy to examine the young man in his privacy, on a balcony of a pair with his princess's (whose complexion looked like a white lily).
Gently pushing the balcony curtain back, and sure to find his missing friend, Enjolras found the heiress and her fiancé in one another's arms, his face quite hidden in her golden hair. He pushed one of the leaves aside, and his eyes fell upon a head of long, soft, curly dark hair spread across the nape of a slightly suntanned neck that he thought he recognised; being thus able to see the bridal pair standing together in the same embrace. Then he saw a strong hand, curled lightly against the waist of Mademoiselle. Turned away from him, the handsome face was still in repose—but, unknown to the fair leader and his savvier friend, it was not Grantaire's face. The heiress and her young man stood close to the open air, with their backs to the hallway door.
"Oh, c'est bien... Grantaire..." the fiancés heard someone call out that surname, in a heroic tenor voice barely above a whisper, so much did emotion choke his throat, as he leaned closer to them. As he did so, the rustling of the curtain, without meaning to, as it was pushed back caught the attention of the fiancé; the young man’s eyes snapping open at the sudden loud noise.
He noticed the presence of the third party behind them, and turned his head round towards the other students, unwrapping his arms from around the heiress; he was startled, turned his head--- and it was not Grantaire at all! Ce n'était point Grantaire! He was quite another man, clean shaven and with fairer nutbrown streaks at his temples, though he was still young. And definitely more svelte and attractive, better-looking, and more boyish in appearance with a slender waist and limbs, even features, and a smattering of impish freckles across a face as silky as Enjolras' own. Another young man was the one who lay standing there, clasping the fair Cosette, and it was only in the back of his neck, in his curly dark hair and strong hands and suntanned complexion, in his left-handedness and orphanhood and the hazel colour of his eyes, that he resembled Grantaire at all; for nothing else about him did. And that was all they shared, really, because this man’s hair was unruly, messy, dark looser curls. Though he was an attractive man he was only like Grantaire from the back, because the part of his hair that was not nutbrown was so dark. From behind, the young fiancé looked in general like Grantaire, and he was certainly good-looking, though he did not have the same ironic look that was in the savateur's eyes, or the stubble on his chin and cheekbones; the fiancé looked nearly just like Grantaire, but younger and more handsome. Notwithstanding, still he was certainly a handsome young man. Il ne laissait pourtant pas d’être un joli garçon. Il était jeune et gentil. He was remarkably handsome with bright friendly eyes, warm dark hazel orbs full of kindness and knowledge, that looked very surprised and confused to see both Enjolras and Courfeyrac falling back a step, standing on the threshold of the balcony behind him and his fiancée. Their eyes fell on the young man standing there, staring back at them in surprise, for the other two students to meet the politely puzzled expression of the man they'd seen through the curtains which now flanked them.
The music abruptly stopped and the two figures turned towards the curtains, once more careful as the blond pulled the curtain back from the face of the one he could tell had curly hair, and the moment the face was revealed he just froze into place.
And then everything came crashing down onto him.
It must have been the involuntary sound of disappointment the two students made that startled him, for the fiancé had turned around abruptly and gasped with surprise to see two familiar faces bending over him. When he pivoted and unwrapped himself from her embrace with a swift motion of his hands, he saw that the man beside his upperclassman and former roommate, the boy in red surpassingly fair of face and form, was a figure that awoke in him a sense of déjà-vu; he was tall and well-made, with hair gilt like the sun and eyes the colour of the winter day sky, yet that burned as the summer sky does in the middle of the day in August in that stranger's native southlands, no hint of frost at all. No longer cold like ice-crusted silver coins.
Almost a boy, not much older than he was. Maybe a little older. Good looking, with a classic jaw line and bright eyes. He was nervous and his uniform fit him perfectly.
A man in uniform, he thought, and took a guess.
In fact, the bridegroom's face looked quite familiar to both Enjolras and Courfeyrac as well... what-was-his-name, that classmate, that Parisian from the Left Bank, that young Law student and literary translator whom Courfeyrac had introduced to the others not long ago, last year; who had been the dashing Gascon's roommate for a while, and who had asked not long ago, last year, to become one of them?
Marius. Marius Pontmercy, the son and only child of the late Colonel Pontmercy and the late Mademoiselle Gillenormand. Though he was of course an attractive man... to think that it was Marius out of all suitors, and not Grantaire (a far less suave and far less convenient party, obviously, actually), who had won such a prize, a stranger to the land who had shown up unknown and created such an impression on her with his wit and cleverness... Il ne laissait pas d’être un joli garçon. Il était jeune et gentil.
The blond young leader fell back a step, disappointed and ashamed and consternated, his voice deserting him entirely; and then, at that, voilà that, within the same instant, Cosette turned around as well, and, from the place where she stood, looked out and advanced her gentle figure, reaching out her lovely head towards the embroidered curtains and peeking out through them to ask what was the matter; she peered out and looked up from, then pushed past the white curtains, blinking, and asked what was happening. She was very lovely with a kindly face. Her eyes alighted on the intruders with curiosity rather than fear or anger. "My dears, whatever is the matter? Why are you two here?"
Cosette was not only very lovely with a kindly face: a beautiful blonde-haired girl, delicate and small-boned like a porcelain doll; the most beautiful young woman ever seen with mortal eyes. A lady tall and fair, with skin like new cream and hair the rich colour of a rising sun; pale and delicate with long wavy hair that was spread out in a loose chignon on the nape of her neck. She was was tall and well-made, with hair gilt like the sun and eyes that seemed to know everything and burned as the summer sky does in the middle of the day, no hint of frost at all in her clear and intelligent gaze. No wonder the young men had been so dumb-struck in front of her. She was stunning as well as remarkably smart. In spite of her youth, she was a formidable woman, showing off a shocking amount of chest, her cheeks rosey and eyes glittering. Her face was made up in the traditional way except her lips were very bright, like a rose bud, and her eyes sparkled in a way no cosmetics would have allowed; she was every bit as fair and lovely as had been described, with waves of blonde hair and an enchanting smile.
She put a hand on her fiancé's shoulder. "Please tell me what the matter is!"
A hand brushed against her waist and she turned to see her fiancé standing behind her, looking from her to Enjolras and Courfeyrac a few feet away with the most genuine concern on his face. He just shrugged. "What's going on?" he asked, still more of a snap than it should have been.
"I don't think we've actually been introduced," Cosette said to the two intruders, and suddenly she looked younger, more whimsical and eccentric, tucking her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. When she leaned forward towards the others, Marius coughed and looked away, his cheeks turning pink. Enjolras himself almost did the same — she was more confident in regards to her necklines than anyone either of them had ever met. It took the others a second to realize that she had extended a hand towards the fair leader.
"Feel free to call me Cosette," said she as though Enjolras was her new best friend. "It's so nice to meet you!"
The blond stared at the hand for a second before taking it. To their great surprise, beneath the satin gloves, Cosette's hands were heavily calloused, rough in different places than Grantaire's. When they looked down, the two intruders saw that the knuckles of Cosette's right hand were rough and scarred, slightly larger than the others on the left.
Enjolras released the hand and looked at her with new found respect. This woman wasn't a noble by blood like the fair leader himself, but rather the indentured servant that Courfeyrac had assumed, given that she was in the right hand somewhat knotty like a tree branch. Even though her left hand was as silky and well-groomed as a lady's (or a lordling's) should be. Even though she had a wide choice of parasols and beautiful sun-hats, there were still traces of sunburn on the skin of her face. Even though she lived in this big fancy mansion which would someday be hers and had costly gowns and teams of horses and a fistful of servants who followed her everywhere so that she would not be missing anything (though these valets and maids did respect the intimacy she needed with her guardian and now also with her fiancé)... Even though she was full of courage and knowledge, she did not stand upright stiffly like court ladies had been seen to do when they walked the parks on holidays, with their backs held straight and their chins kept up high. No, she rather humbled herself, looking straight into the eyes of others, just like a maidservant. Everything that she kept from her previous life was written upon her skin. She was not afraid of hard work, she would not care for having to pay for her daily bread in the sweat of her brows... and it never worried this early bird, this morning skylark, to get out of bed before the sun itself, and go to bed as soon as it disappeared into the horizon.
Feeling as though he might weep from sheer weariness, the fair leader begged forgiveness of the heiress and her fiancé and started to go, but Marius laid a hand against his arm and urged him to sit on the edge of the balcony railing. "Please," he said, "stay and tell us what you're doing here. I can see that you two have travelled a long way, and that you are near the end of your strength. We'd like to keep you rested and well-fed to keep up your health and strength." And his voice did, indeed, sound like Grantaire's, deep and velvety with compassion and that faint, pleasing croaklike burr the fair leader missed so much. Even though, aside from that quirk, there was no regional patois in young Pontmercy's speech, entirely beau-monde aristocratic.
"Perhaps we can help," Cosette added in a tender voice, and her kindness was almost more than Enjolras could bear. She looked finally into his eyes. She clapped her hands, laughing again, with a touch of relief in her voice. "There can never be too much kindness in our world. And we want to help you. You have taken hit after hit already on your journey." But then her eyes flicked to her fiancé and she must have seen something there that made her falter. Her shoulders fell just a little, but she maintained her sunny smile.
"I don't think we've actually been introduced," she then said to the others, and suddenly she looked younger, tucking her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. When she leaned forward towards the other two, Marius coughed and looked away, his cheeks turning pink.
And Cosette held up a hand. "No," she said, sounding strangled, which was like an emotion, "I wanna hear what he has to say."
For a while Enjolras hesitated, remaining without a response; then, in a torment of embarrassment, told his story with all that the others had done for his sake, and Courfeyrac supplied more details about the misunderstanding. "So I told Enjolras that a stranger to the land had shown up unknown and created quite an impression on Mademoiselle with his wit and cleverness... And we thought that there was a possibility that the man we searched for was..." He turned his head to look at Marius. "Well, I thought it might be her fiancé. It just sounded so much like Grantaire that we honestly, truly did think that they would be one and the same. I admit I felt compelled to help in what way I could — in this case, confirming whether or not her bridegroom was our friend Grantaire."
When the tale was done, Marius and Cosette remained silent, and looked quite sorrowful, for learned as they both were, neither of them knew any more about Grantaire's whereabouts than his two former classmates did, though the fiancé asked with a keen interest after Combeferre, and Prouvaire, and Lesgle, and more old friends, for they had been at University together once.
"Well, you're right," Cosette answered primly, smoothing out her skirt. "It wasn't him." She broke out into a smile, to show she was kidding. "But that doesn't mean we aren't willing to help you two find your friend if he is somewhere nearby. The village outside perhaps. Or a surrounding village. Ah, Marius, I'm glad you found my corsage."
"Once you see her, you cannot doubt that I love her. She has eyes the same dark blue as a clear stream on a dark day, a delicate nose, a face that blooms like a rose, and such fine white hands. She has lips as soft as petals. Every step of hers is grace in itself," Marius Pontmercy said as he tied the flowers and ribbon around her wrist, eyes shining, after he had got to know about his classmates. His fiancée replied merely by clasping the young translator's neck in her arms and, with an expression of most passionate tenderness, she gazed into his bright eyes.
She kissed Marius' cheek, then turned to his classmates and said amiably: "Thank you. I will show you two something else to wear, while we wash your ensembles, and show you a spare room for you two to sleep in the guest quarters tonight. I'm not insensitive--I fell in love with him myself the moment I looked at him. He is beautiful. Dark nearly black hair that’s not hard but so soft, standing so tall, and with eyes that are dark and kind. His nose is not the least bit frightening but it makes him look like something from a painting of an earnest man. He should smile more, really. It would make him look less timid. He looks far better when he’s not being overly somber. But he’s good and that’s what shows in his face So I can hardly blame you for--and of course he is in love with me. But we hardly know each other, and I don't want to confuse him with possibilities at this delicate time. You understand."
"Perfectly." The other two nodded before they realised that there was humour in her voice.
"Good."
“I didn’t want to approach you with my request, when you were preparing this ball. It looked very important to you.”
As Cosette turned her fiancé in a circle, Enjolras threw them a confident look from the side, as if it was a report on the state of the weather. The girl had both hands wrapped around her fiancé's upper arm and was all but hanging on him, her expression pleading in a way Enjolras did not recognise, being both an only child and emotionally detached.
In response, Marius clicked his tongue, but his cheeks also reddened and he leaned in closer whispering into Cosette's ear, so others wouldn’t eavesdrop. She finally noticed that her new fiancé was glaring at her. “What can I say?” she said, and shrugged. “I have a thing for guys in squeaky boots.” But then he smiled again, and this time it was genuine and reached his and her eyes, filling them with warmth and understanding.
Of course the other two young men allowed the fiancés a moment of privacy en tête-à-tête, well-bred and courteous as they had always been.
Cosette glanced at her fiancé. "We need to help them," she said, to which he nodded. "We need to see to it that this bewitching story has a happy ending.
"Indeed," Marius said gravely, leaning forward and resting his chin on his clasped hands.
"You want to help...?" Courfeyrac asked, unable to believe his ears, while Enjolras remained silent in awe. "Even though I made my leader break into your palace and...?"
"There's no excuse for bravery and courage," Marius said wisely, with a shine to his eyes. "And who are we to try to rein in on that?"
After which, the fair heiress, regretting that she could not help more, and not at all angry to be startled from intimacy in the middle of the night by a strange man in scarlet standing in her balcony, offered to have another notice delivered throughout three départements inquiring after Grantaire's whereabouts, and said she would send some guards the next day to look for any young men in the surrounding villages and towns who fit the description of the missing bohemian.
If Cosette did not know better, she’d think her dance partner was insulted (what with all that affair of mistaken identity!). In fact, she felt her soft gloved hand being clutched in the other’s grasp tighter and her fiancé's palm pressed firmer against his lower back as they turned, dancing the next waltz, un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois...
"But look," said Cosette's oldest friend, her canny guardian, who had saved her from those ages of suffering when they were young, a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair, and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed; and who loved her as deeply as a forest spring. She knew that one had to be that way, and patient and tolerant besides, to remain in her confidence. "See how he paces, how his eyes are bright." And he was right, for none of the other suitors had held his dear Cosette's attention for even a moment.
Of course, there was still more to do, but in this moment, all Cosette wanted to do was let her Marius comfort her.
The conductor motioned with his hands for the flute players to stop playing. They stopped mid-note, and, at the same time, the remaining lights of the façade went out, one right after the other. The music ended.
The ladies and lords were sent out of the room. "We'll have more entertainment later," the host assured them. "Rise," he said. "This is a party, not a funeral, and we're all here for entertainment. Dance, drink. You are all welcome."
Every single person around turned in unison and dropped to the ground. In a rustle of silk, all the party-goers slid to their knees. Enjolras dropped to his knees as well, though his back stayed straight. His head dropped and his hands folded on his lap.
"We must help you," said the bridegroom in a voice so firm and good that it was no question that everything would be arranged; he had a shine to his eyes.
For the second time that day, Enjolras found himself telling his story. When he was finished he made a plea on behalf of Courfeyrac and himself, for they had tried so hard to help one another, and he did not wish to see any of them punished, begging them not to punish the two for their actions.
On the other hand, they would be rewarded as they rightfully deserved; anyway, their hosts wished to offer them rewards. Still after they had convinced himself that the bridegroom was not Grantaire, Enjolras and Courfeyrac responded warmly to the couple. They were surprisingly not angry that some young stranger had broken into the Palace with the help of connections and had woken them up from their rêverie in the night.
For both the fiancés had even promised to give them a reward: they offered them fixed official appointments as "courtiers" in local society and advisors to the Fauchelevent-Pontmercy venture, on the condition that their revolutionary gatherings at the Café Musain be a thing of the past, and that the that the key to the staircase be returned, but both Enjolras and Courfeyrac, though they responded warmly to the couple, refused the official appointment, bowing in sign of thankfulness; not thinking it best for their personal future, but deciding so since they knew that they had to die young and the future of the nation had priority.
The former would not accept it on account of his calling as a rebel leader, and the latter for more personal reasons:
"For I would rather have my independence, even if it means..." said Courfeyrac, bowing in a sign of reconaissance, "I am a true Gascon, one whose life shall be nipped in the bud for the sake of a noble cause, fully convinced that I shall die young in battle sooner or later, and thus I would never compromise to 'make something out of my life'... and if I were made a courtier, I would have to settle down and marry a fine lady, and not be allowed to flutter-by or dilly-dally, and that would not suit me at all (as he put it). You see, I am too young to have my wings clipped, and very sharp-tongued when I am unhappy. Eh, Marius? No, if you give anyone a gift, it ought to be our leader over here, for he has come very far looking for his friend who left him, and if our friend Grand'R won't treat him properly, then someone else ought to." In spite of his duelling scar, he was a weak man when it came to willpower. "I think I’ll have another glass of this excellent wine."
Oui, liberty and freedom were worth more than assured comforts!
It was thus also agreed on the spot that, from that day on, no one of them would ever enter into the Conseil d'État.
"Of course," Marius said, leaning over and kissing Cosette on the cheek before rising and exiting through the curtains on the other side of the large balcony. Still she remained locked in a state of virginal purity, unable to move to a condition of mature adult sexuality until she became Madame Pontmercy, surrendering all that she had been until then. The couple was passionately drawn to each other, but without a trace of erotic desire. They were both far too young for such serious fun.
And then the fiancés, who really gave the impression of a storybook prince and princess, summoned servants to have a bed made up in a spare room for Enjolras and another for Courfeyrac, to take them upstairs for a hot bath and a comfortable place to sleep, and to bring them bread and butter from the kitchens for their supper, and the fair leader slept on a soft mattress, in a large silken four-poster bed with a canopy over it, for the first time since he had left his lodgings in Montmartre.
Over a meal of a thick, hearty soup, and bread as fragrant and dense as anything he had ever eaten from the Musain, Enjolras shared once more his journey, told of his trek across the land. Unable to stop staring at him in rapt enthusiasm, Cosette and Marius hung on every word. And as the blond student came to the present time, Cosette laid down her napkin and told him, with little fanfare, that the unexpected decision of hers to tie the knot had led him here. That it had carried Enjolras far across the land, further than he could ever have dreamed to pass, and brought him here, to them, for them to help her on her way. On his quest to find Grantaire.
As they ate through many courses of mushroom and leek soup, fine beef and carrots, and more fruits for dessert, the fiancés talked about only the kind of things that the clever and knowledgeable could talk about. And the guests laughed with their company as Marius recounted his first visit to the palace, tutted as Cosette complained of the loneliness that had been her ladies-in-waiting...
Enjolras looked at Cosette and then at Marius, who was leaning over to her and whispering and making her blush; then caught Marius' loving but resigned glance at the woman to his left, as he took her hand delicately in his. But Cosette shook it off, telling her fiancé not to misunderstand her, not to think it was another of her thoughts that flitted through her brain with little or no rhyme or reason. And told him, emphatically, that she knew she was right.
The translator prince turned to his gracious bride, "Shall we give them spare beds tonight?"
And Cosette nodded. "Yes, Marius dear, that is perfectly alright with me."
When he had made himself at home in the spare bedchamber, with a great canopy bed in the middle, the bed-curtains thickly embroidered with gold and silver thread... Cosette's guardian had showed him the way and, as both of them stepped onto the estrade covered with costly tapestries for carpeting through which one arrived, told Enjolras that he should lie down and rest, for he could plainly go no farther that night. He was a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair, and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed.
"Monsieur, you have already shown me more kindness than I deserve," the fair leader protested, though his body ached for the comfort of that soft-looking bed, to the point of accepting the host's offer that he get into this luxurious bed once he himself was well fed and cleansed.
"Nonsense," said Courfeyrac, who had also come to bid him goodnight, smiling a crooked smile not unlike Grantaire's own. "Sleep now. We'll talk in the morning. And call the young hosts Marius and Cosette, by first name," he insisted, gesturing again for Enjolras to take his bed, and wishing him goodnight. He could not do anything more for the day -- and he couldn't do more than that, could he? At last the puzzled Gascon closed the door, and left the blond in the twilight.
The fair leader had not the strength to resist, and so he lay down in the lavender-scented bed and was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow. It was the first time he had been able to sleep in safety and comfort in many months, and it was not grand and large like many of the other rooms in the castle, but rather it had a cosy feel to it, though it was twice the size of his own back home in the Camargue, the spread the colour of autumn leaves, the wispy curtains opened wide to the gently falling drizzle on the other side of the glass. The roof was curved like a dome and the floor was soft and carpeted.
And thus Enjolras retired to the room they had prepared for him, belly full of comforting food and hot chocolate, and a warmth in his heart that had been missing for years. Stripping down to underclothes and snuggling under a comforter that was thick and fluffy and felt like a cloud... Sleep came swift for a body and mind exhausted.
Pulling the embroidered curtains of his canopy bed together, Enjolras wrapped himself in a cocoon of lavender-perfumed silk sheets drawn up to his nose and fell asleep, thinking and murmuring with gratitude: "How kind everyone is -- men and women both... How nice the people are. How good people are! How good some human beings are. How much kindness people have for a stranger in the wide world...! que les hommes et les femmes ont de la bonté pour moi! Oh! que les hommes et les femmes sont bons dans le vaste monde! How nice people can be. Everyone is so very good. I am truly lucky. But still, this is all certainly noblesse oblige. The world, and not only France, needs many more Fauchelevents, or else, we young people will have to hoist the flags of freedom once more..."
Laying in bed only allowed as much, he’d knew each corner of the room by heart. While at first the sight was wondrous, it quickly lost its luster. In spite of its cosy atmosphere, this was a pretty and rich chamber, but it served as a time capsule, preserving the sleeper in its comfortable bed, keeping him tucked and sweating in the thick covers. Then, he shut his weary eyes and fell fast into a peaceful sleep.
While he slept, it seemed to him that he was back in the backroom of the Café Musain, surrounded by all of his friends once more. Joly was there, checking for eye-bags in the mirror; and Feuilly was there, ranting about the Hungarians oppressed by Austria; and Grantaire was there, dozing off by a flickering candle and a few empty bottles; and Enjolras himself was there, waving the flag and trying to convince them that this was not a game at all... and Combeferre sat beside a chessboard; he had a stick of charcoal and a sheet of paper, and was sketching all of them while they worked at their respective passions. Then, all of a sudden, Joly left saying that it was time to go to bed and it should be at least ten hours of sleep; and Feuilly left, chanting the Szózat... and Courfeyrac left, saying his latest ladylove had invited him over to this Liszt concert; and nearly all the others left, one by one, Combeferre the last, until only Enjolras and Grantaire remained en tête-à-tête in the Café, both of them flustered, staring at one another but not knowing exactly what to say; Grantaire didn't smile when he was left en tête-a-tête with Enjolras, but only nodded, as if he'd been waiting for him.
At last he came with an excuse, saying he could not help having a lark with Courf', who came across him on his way from the lecture hall; that they had had great fun.
"You are not summoned here for fun, but for serious business," was the stern leader's salutation.
"All right, all right; don't look at me as if you wanted to find out what I have eaten for supper, or rather, been drinking. To be serious, I must have fun first. So must you; putting all that pressure on will make you particularly ill. Now give me my instructions, Lord Commander, and I swear, my lord, I will act as if it were the jolliest joke," replied Grantaire, seating himself flat on the floor.
"Your inclination for intoxicating drinks will send you to the madhouse ere long," said Enjolras, suppressing his laughter at the jester's inimitable grimaces.
"Oh, ah, bah! My arse! I think I'm there already," was his answer, while coolly raising his wrist.
"No more of your jesting now," said the immovable leader; "listen to what I have to say. You know the National Guard will give a performance tomorrow evening, and we intend to give one in return; in this our performance, you will take an important part. I expect we shall see some wonderful thrill tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is our opportunity, and we must take the best advantage of it to liberate our beloved France. Thus, Grantaire, I want you to watch studiously for the first moment you can---"
Then, quite unexpectedly, licking his lips, the savateur with hair the colour of black coffee purred in a low voice. “Well, I’ve yet got to see under that waistcoat. Darling, you are dressed up like an onion, I’ve got to peel you layer by layer.” He swayed closer and Enjolras almost gagged at the intensely alcoholic breath that was blown into his face, but the fair leader held his composure, knowing that his nighttime would be easier if the lush drifted to sleep on his own, rather than being incensed with him and watchful of his every move.
The savateur subsequently pulled the fair leader to himself and he hit his chest with his own. He would try to get out of his grasp, weren’t it for the Marseillais' hands firmly pressing Enjolras' hips to his own, kneading his ass as best he could. The shock was so huge that the fair leader couldn’t find any words nor strength to muster any action. He simply froze in the man’s arms and watched as his face got closer and closer, alarm ringing in his ears.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to cause any resistance which could cause him trouble. He just wanted to go on and let the group take what they wanted. He didn’t care about the possessions. One coat was enough, he would find a way. But this was something he didn’t count with and it pushed against his threshold.
“Chéri, I hope you taste as delicious as you look. You won’t mind me taking a taste, will you?” Grantaire kissed his jaw lightly and whispered into his ear with a sirupy oath. “I promise I’ll be gentle and I know how to reward… very well.” His short stubble tickled Enjolras on the cheek and if it were any different circumstances, he might like the soft quality and enjoy the pleasant fragrance, but the only thing he could feel was anxiety gripping on his throat and a shout crawling up.
"Do not push your obstinacy too far, adored sun-god," resumed the savateur, in a bittersweet voice; "many a young maiden, and stripling besides, has repented, through a long life's suffering, the obstinate refusal of devoted love. Remember, beauty of my life, that the patience of the mighty is soon exhausted, and that---revenge is sweet. Tomorrow I will come again with yet more costly presents. For I still do the utmost to please you. Farewell, then; but, cher Enj---remember!"
Moving his mouth in an effort to produce a smile he again seized the blond's hand to kiss it, when the doors suddenly opened and the Green Faery made an unexpected entrance, fluttering into the room, cajoling the dark-haired student, so that he released Enjolras' hand, and clasping him in her arms; as soon as both of them were leaving through the front corridor, surreptitiously Marianne, the only mistress Enjolras thought he would ever love, coiffed with her bright scarlet Phrygian cap and bare-breasted and all, wearing a tricolore for a cape, marched in at a resolute step and, with a quick motion, packed him by the wrist, tearing him out of the Café by force, and dragging him along in a southward direction, as the Green Faery and the dark, ungainly sceptic got into that baroque carriage across the Musain and took off for the north. For a while, the fair leader looked over his shoulder and, with unchecked tears in his eyes, screamed out: "GRANTAIRE!", as Marianne urged him to march like a soldier at her brisk pace in the opposite direction; the one he sought disappearing from view, without even looking back to take a glance at his despair. “Take me to him! I must see him at once. It could be him!” He choked that out and fell down to his knees, unable to stand anymore. His face felt so hot, the stiff shoulders protested and the next thing he knew, he slid behind. All became completely dark and last thing he could hear was a Marseillaise sung by a powerful female in a contralto voice. And, after "abreuve nos sillons", Marianne chiding her votary: "The villain is very fond of you, and suspects everything in you is a trick; therefore, it will be easy for you to..."
But all of this was nothing but a dream, only a dream, and consequently vanished as soon as he awoke, with the first lights of dawn. Reeling from the shock, in a cold sweat, with a deep gasp, his vocal cords tied in a dreadful knot; sun-rays stealing across the curtains, in a silken four-poster bed, and rather relieved that everything at the Musain had disappeared and he had only dreamt it all, that Grantaire and the Café Musain were as far away as ever; he had been sleeping on his belly with only the back of his neck uncovered from the ribbon-laced covers.
When he came to himself, he bolted upright at the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, before the previous night came rushing back to his mind's eye; he was in a room with high ceiling scattered with gold stucco, the walls papered with rococo floral motifs. Quick sweep of his surroundings assured him he’s in a rich household. Canopied bed with golden tassels; gilded chairs, tables, and cabinets, all furniture of a dark shining wood; silken draperies for window-curtains. The floor was covered with a thick and elegant Persian carpet, and one entered the bedchamber through an estrade covered or paved with costly tapestries for carpeting. A thick gold cord, a beautiful embroidered bell-rope, hung close to the bed-curtains. A servant girl at his side, peeking through the bed-curtains, jumped out of her chair and ran out of the room shouting so fast that he didn't have the time to ask anything.
"He’s awake!”
"What are you doing here?" he said drowsily, brushing his hair from his eyes. After a reassuring quarter of an hour more sleep to recover from the shock, Enjolras awoke slowly, his body hesitant to remove itself from comfort he had long been missing. But he stretched, first one leg, then the other, back arching, before his eyes fluttered open and he sat up, the covers pooling around his waist; trembling from weakness as he tried to prop himself on the elbows.
The young man with the fair hair shot to the girl, not leaving his gaze from her, which made the maid feel pinned down like a butterfly.
She tucked her bright red hair behind her ear and tugged at her bonnet. The maid was watching his every move and the anticipation could be cut with a knife.
Then, rising up and putting two and two together, he welcomed the mild light of day. Enjolras swallowed, feeling his throat dry and moistened his dry lips to speak. His voice was so raspy he didn’t even recognize it at first.
"Bon... jour."
The girl stepped up front, welcoming look on her gentle face.
"Maid, shut up! I’ll do the talking!”
The blond boy yelled at her like an agitated cat.
“Sorry, your Highness!”
She filled a glass with water. Then she helped the fair leader to drink a little, asking him gently if he had enough and should he need something. He managed to nod or shake his head only, focusing on handling the storm of thought rushing in his mind.
The room could be seen clearer now that it was day. It was very cluttered with strange ornaments, paintings, and cabinets. The walls were crimson with gold lacy patterns decorating the corners, the spread upon the bed the colour of autumn leaves, the wispy curtains opened wide to the gently dawning sun on the other side of the glass. The room was regally fitted up. The choicest refreshments were placed upon a side-board, should the guest wake up feeling dry. Rare flowers were placed about the room in profusion, musical instruments in the fashion of those times, besides games and other inventions for pastime. If it were not for those openings in the ceiling, made to let in the perfumes from the garden, he should have been suffocated.
When Enjolras looked down, he saw the bed was very high off the ground. On the floor was another servant, a valet, packing an open suitcase. After his awakening had caught the servants' attention, the valet and maid lifted the fair leader from the bed and sat him in a fancy armchair.
"Bonjour, how did you sleep... um... how shall I address you?" the valet began, bowing low.
"Enjolras; that will do just fine. And there's no need to bow, I am nothing but a Law student," he said as he woke up, and his voice was groggy, laced with sleep as he spoke. The servants looked baffled. "And I slept just fine," he lied easily.
"Well, eh... Enjolras... which outfit will you wear today?" The servant laid out an array of coats, dresses, robes, uniforms, and other strange items of clothing. Enjolras thanked no and chose his usual ensemble, which in the meantime was, after a thorough scrub with Marseille soap and lavender, drying up in a sunny glade of the estate grounds: simple trousers with a silky shirt that wrapped comfortably around him, and the bright red waistcoat braided with gold like a hussar's pelisse. The maid bowed low and told them that the ensemble would be dry around noon, after breakfast time, just in time for the guest's departure, as Enjolras thanked her.
"But breakfast first, before you leave. You must keep up your strength if you wish to win
him back. And, by the way... do you like your morning tea weak or strong?" the valet asked very brightly, with a flourish.
"In fact, I am more the coffee-drinking classic Frenchman, thanks. But, if there is no other choice than Earl Grey at the breakfast table, I would prefer it with just a spot of milk."
The morn of that day he was dressed from head to foot in costly silk and velvet, in his splendid warm cherry-red dressing-gown that was as soft as if made of spun sunset clouds. A servant helped him to put on the fine dressing-gown and charming little slippers of drap d'or with cherry-red peony flowers, as if Enjolras were a baby, and he would gladly have declined, but felt that the gesture should rather be rewarded with courtesy. So that following day, they had dressed the fair leader to his heels in silk and velvet, and had even made sure to get him some boots and gloves. They had arranged for a carriage to take them to the next town, where the lordship or ladyship there would be able to help him further (or so they hoped).
That morning, the guests were served breakfast in a great hall, sweet clotted cream out of a silver bowl, eaten with spoons of sterling silver, with orange juice to wash it down with, along with silver trays filled with macarons and croquignoles, and marrons glacés, followed by little chocolate truffles with strawberries baked in them, and of course a porcelain cup of Earl Grey with just a spot of milk as Enjolras himself had requested; and the Fauchelevents, who were dining with him, talked to him about what he had seen on his journeys, and about art, which Cosette had studied a little, in between reading philosophy books, and about military tactics; and they invited him to stay in the palace for a few days, where they would make sure he would always be looked after, as long as he pleased, to rest and enjoy himself, and spend his life in the middle of fêtes, invited to remain at the château, where he would have everything he could wish for, living a life of luxury as it was worthy of the rightful rank Enjolras had been born into, and they would pamper him to his heart's content; but he kindly refused, and so did Courfeyrac. They also wanted to appoint the blond as valet de chambre to the heiress's fiancé, and give him a powdered wig and lacy cravat, and embroidered livery, and a beautiful bedchamber at the château, most probably the room where he had spent the night, but the fair leader, though he responded warmly to the couple, shook his head and courteously declined that offer as well. "That's very kind but I have to say no."
Marius sighed and turned the page in his book, which seemed to be some handwriting he had scribbled about a boy and a heathland rose. "I told you he would say that..." And he began to sing the verses in that poem to a beautiful melody by Schubert. This was the 'second way of speaking' that Courfeyrac had heard of, for when Marius cleared his throat and played for Mademoiselle Cosette her heart, already swayed by his words, was thoroughly captured.
"Vit un gars une rose en fleur,
rose des bruyères
si jolie dans ses couleurs;
il s'approcha de tout coeur,
et il s'enjouit guère!
Petite rose toute rose et rouge,
rose des bruyères!"
Cosette blew her fringe out of her eyes in frustration. "I know. But you can't blame me for trying. All right," the heiress said gently, patting the fair leader's hand. "We will not give you just anything. Though I'd hardly call this offer trivial. But tell me, tell us, what you want." The heiress tucked a strand of her golden hair behind her ear and rose gracefully to her feet before settling into one of the cushy chairs. "Please." She indicated to another chair.
When Enjolras seated himself, the softness and comfortableness almost sent him to sleep, it was so relaxing.
Then she said lightly, "You were gracious to refuse my first impulse to give you anything. I trust you. Anyway, there is no need at all for you to go forth on a quest like this... Please. Go and find your savateur and send him our regards, right? I want to meet this Grand'R, who inspired such courage and persistence in my fiancé's friends."
They sat surrounding the table protectively and all kind of emotions passed over their faces. Cosette was clumsily wiping her tears as she cried in solidarity. Her guardian scowled even deeper and his face resembled the worst autumn storm. Marius nodded throughout the monologue spoken by the fair leader and looked sad.
As they ate through many courses of tea and cake, chocolates and pastries, and more fruits for dessert, the trio talked about only the kind of things that the clever and knowledgeable could talk about. And the guests laughed with their company as Marius recounted his first visit to the palace, tutted as Cosette complained of the loneliness that had been her ladies-in-waiting...
Enjolras looked at Cosette and then at Marius, who was leaning over to her and whispering and making her blush; then caught Marius' loving but resigned glance at the woman to his left, as he took her hand delicately in his. But Cosette shook it off, telling her fiancé not to misunderstand her, not to think it was another of her thoughts that flitted through her brain with little or no rhyme or reason. And told him, emphatically, that she knew she was right.
But, in response, Enjolras shook his head, for he did not even think of accepting any of these offers, and asked only for a new pair of boots, to replace his own that were so worn, and a little carriage or a rideworthy reliable horse, and provisions to continue his journey, so that he could more easily search, and so that he could drive out into the wide world again; he wanted to resume immediately the search for his friend, yearning to ride once more out across the wide world and find Grantaire once more.
Little did he expect that they would be far beyond generous. Her guardian, that tall and strong silver-haired bear of a man with severe features softened by age and kindness, though slightly reserved, was the nicest old person Enjolras had ever met. No wonder that Cosette had been so thankful to be rescued from her first guardians, of whom she did not even breathe a word, and given such an education and such loving care, which, as a child (if she ever had been one), she must have needed with all her heart and soul. And why shouldn't such a benefactor, and his sure successor, who had not been the slightest intoxicated by their position of power, run out of kindness and lavish some more on a wayward bohemian student on a quest? None was going to argue with that, not even his ward or her fiancé. All three of them were as good as their word. Someone with natural virtue sees virtues in others, and receives goodness from them in turn.
He was given, not just the loveliest little boots of flexible leather with spats, but also a fine pair of white chamois gloves, and a warm crimson peacoat of velvet to wear above the now already half-worn scarlet waistcoat (whose soutaches had been sewn back into their rightful place, making the garment look once more like a hussar's gold-braided pelisse; aside from the whole ensemble having been thoroughly washed in Marseille soap and lavender), and a cravat of cobalt blue satin, and even a new cherry-red ribbon for his queue, after he had thoroughly cleansed himself in the château bathroom for a second time. They swarmed him and put that beautiful embroidered waistcoat on him and the peacoat on top of that, a whole ensemble of new clothes for the long journey north, making extra sure Enjolras wouldn’t freeze to death. As they tied the cravat around his neck and the ribbon in his hair to tie it back, a kiss from Cosette was pressed onto his cheek and he could just nod with throat tight. She smiled at her fiancé.
"Well, at the very least I can be contented that you'll have a suitable dress and shoes as the season is changing for the colder."
And when he was beautifully dressed like this, so finely clothed, and ready to go, since he wanted to leave without delay... he and Courfeyrac, when they were prepared to depart, ie ready to leave, were taken aback by the sight that there drew up to the door; in the yard before the front entrance to the château, there came round and stopped a fine calèche for Enjolras to ride in, a white one with silver inlays; pulled by four fine, tall horses, geldings with hide a deep chestnut colour like chocolate, each with a black mane and tail and a blue crest upon his headstall. Each horse's saddle and bridle were trimmed with silver bells, and their crested headstalls and saddle-cloths, just like the blue velvet upholstery, had the Fauchelevent and Pontmercy coats of arms and initials, entwined, embroidered on it in silk thread. Upon the door panels of the carriage, the same coats of arms, belonging to the households of Fauchelevent on the left and Pontmercy on the right, shone brightly, glistening and glittering like two dazzling stars; each coat-of-arms shone from its panel like a dazzling star upon it. True to his word, M. Fauchelevent, who had given the orders since the guests wished to leave without delay, had prepared the best carriage he had. He motioned to the servants, and the maid and valet from that morning rushed with packages and winter clothing towards the attelage. In the stables, there were the best steeds, brought over from Andalusia and from Slovenia; far finer than those that had been reared at the Manoir Enjolras or anywhere else in the Camargue. The coachman, the footmen, and the postillions—for there were postillions as well—all were wearing powdered wigs on their heads. The coachman and the postillions à la Daumont --yes, there were even postillions-- wore powdered wigs and plumed tricorns on their heads and splendid liveries or costumes of silver brocade, and on the seat across from Enjolras there was a basket full of... or rather piled high with candied fruits, dragées, marrons glacés, macarons, croquignoles... and under the seat there were a pair of bottles of lemonade and a bottle of white wine of the region, in a trunk right beneath that seat; as well as a volume of Shakespearean tragedies, which a good friend of the heiress's guardian and of Marius's had translated in his spare time, for the young blond to read and enjoy. Rien n'y manquait. In sooth, so many honours made both the guests feel light-headed, or so they claimed, not without a good reason. The sight was overwhelming for both of them and, if not for his need of it, the blond would never have accepted such a lavish gift.
Cosette and Marius themselves helped Enjolras to climb into the carriage, each fiancé taking him by one hand and her guardian lifting his well-shod feet so that they could reach the high-off-the-ground seat; the royal-looking couple in all but name saw him off, told him to send the others at the Musain their regards, and wished him success and all sorts of the best good luck possible, giving warm wishes of luck and words of encouragement; the blond climbed in hastily, the thick clothes making it hard to move around, and turned quickly to the fiancés to thank them and say goodbye. Touched by the kindness of those that seemed a storybook prince and princess, Enjolras had to pretend to tighten the laces of his boots for a minute, until he was able to kiss the fair princess farewell and shake the translator prince's hand without embarrassing himself.
"Allez! Get on, there are supplies packed and ready in the trunk on the back. We even had some coals warmed and put them in a heater so your feet don’t freeze. And make sure you two visit us on your way home,” Cosette said as she clasped both of Courfeyrac's hands in her own. "I want to meet this Grand'R, who inspired such courage and persistence in my fiancé's friends."
She stepped back and Marius' hands replaced her own. He kissed Courfeyrac's knuckles. "Your bravery and determination even when the odds have seemed against you will always make me remember the remarkable young people you and your leader are. I can't wait to see you again soon." He stepped back and wrapped an arm around his fiancée's waist and called to the coachman that they could go.
Right then, a detachment of armed men in uniform appeared from the servants' quarters and saluted the two young men who had entered the carriage. Their hosts had had the gentleness to send them off with a troop of armed guards. "They will escort you through the shire until you reach the forest, which is full of thieves and wolves and princes on quests, lurking about."
Courfeyrac accompanied him for the first three miles, while old M. Fauchelevent, the heiress's guardian, bid them goodbye from the garden gate, waving in farewell.
“Well then! Off we go! With fireworks!” Courfeyrac waved with elation. The two passengers sat beside each other, for the Gascon couldn't stand driving backwards; he got carriage-sick if he had to ride sitting backwards.
The last he shouted and as it was the planned command, the fireworks illuminated the sky with loud roars, exploding over the vast courtyard, and people cheered the highpoint of the party. The horses moved ahead eagerly, and, as the coachman held onto the reins, the fair leader sat on the soft upholstery for a while looking back at the crowd and his patrons, who got smaller and smaller, until he couldn’t see their waving hands anymore. His friends shouting their goodbyes and well wishes made his heart aching with joy and sadness at the same time, wishing he could meet them once again, while the heiress, cheerful again, waved one hand and held Marius tightly with the other. Their kindness was overwhelming...
"Be safe. Goodbye..." Cosette waved as the coach took off, her long blue gown kicking around her legs as she jogged after the coach. "Find Grantaire!"
Tears ran freely down her cheeks as she waved goodbye and the calèche started moving down the road.
Her fiancé began to take up Keats once more and sing, a somewhat melancholy tune.
"Thank you!!!" Enjolras called towards them from the distance, waking up from his stunned state, thanking them warmly for all they had done for his quest. “Oh, thank you!” he called toward the library windows as he climbed up inside. “Farewell, friends.”
“Adieu, et bon voyage, et bonne chance, fare you well, fare you well, farewell, farewell, may you find what you are searching for,” called out the heiress and her fiancé, who gave the impression of a prince and princess, each one of them drying up a single teardrop on a lace-lined handkerchief, as they stood in the gateway and saw the students off; and Enjolras waved back at them, restraining the tears in his own eyes, as the coachman turned the horses' heads north. Thus he and his Gascon friend continued to wave until they could see the fiancés no more; leaned out the window and waved until they were too far away to see.
Enjolras remained with that fixed expression, though lost in thought, and Courfeyrac was shedding tears as well, as both students said farewell to all of them, hearts filled with gratitude for their kindness, and waved goodbye as the carriage pulled away from the great white castle. Then watched it grow smaller in the distance until it disappeared completely. Leave-takings are warm and a little sad, because one feels affection for their helpers, for they had grown fond of them... And soon they were on their way, Enjolras and Courfeyrac sitting beside one another; they waved at the villagers as they glided through the shire, and threw sweets to the children who had come rushing out of their houses to see the regal carriage pass through their street. That's how they went along for the first few miles. Finally they got to the country where it was colder.
At the village entrance, after a few miles, Courfeyrac himself would say farewell too, and that would be the saddest leave-taking of all so far. That was the hardest separation of them all.
"Are you certain that you wish to go on seeking your friend?" the Gascon lordling asked as they left the palace gardens. "The way is long, and filled with dangers, and you do not even know for certain that you will find him. If you like, you can stay here in my stomping grounds and enjoy yourself with me. To be honest, I have never seen you smile until this morning, eh, Enj? I have only known the real you a short while, but already I like you very much indeed, and would be sorry to see you go."
Enjolras thought of Grantaire, who now could have been left alone in a desolate place without a single human soul for company; here was another parting that he regretted. He seemed to be forever leaving people behind on his journey, and it was very tiresome always being so alone.
But then he thought of Grantaire once more, and he knew that he could not stay, anymore than he had been able to stay in the Camargue, or at University, or in the "prince and princess's" palace.
When Marius had told him, at the breakfast table, that he was quite content to give up the bohemian world of revolution entirely, as long as he could remain with Cosette, Enjolras had been surprised, and had wondered at the sort of man who would make such a sacrifice.
Now, he did not wonder any longer, for he thought he was beginning to understand.
And thus, he had bid both the fiancés farewell, albeit with a heavy and regretful heart, as the horses' heads were turned north; then, after a few miles, a heavy-hearted Courfeyrac also said "adieu," the turn having come to him as well; and so he bid Enjolras farewell, with a heavy and regretful heart, embracing his classmate and leader. This was the hardest leave-taking of all so far, the hardest separation! Now Courfeyrac had to say his own goodbye, and that was the hardest and harshest parting of them all.
Suddenly Enjolras felt that a handkerchief was pulled on his head and over his eyes, so he couldn’t see anything at all for a moment. That was all it took for the Gascon to use the chance and steal a deep kiss from his fair leader, which lasted short.
"Though it may not seem that way, I’m really bad at goodbyes. So do me a favor and let’s make this short, right? Oh, one more favour. When you pass the woods and it gets suddenly colder, don’t stop at any cost, all right? Promise!”
The fair leader clutched his friend's hand, feeling the still lingering kiss on his lips and the still lingering touch on his own palms, and nodded.
“I promise.”
"Well then...! Allez-y!"
"Au revoir," the fair leader called back.
As Enjolras drove away, the horses' hooves rang loudly against the cobbled ground, and the silver bells on their bridles sparkled in the sunlight. Courfeyrac, his duelling scar throbbing with unease, leaned against a linden tree by the road, at the village entrance, and watched the carriage go, and continued waving and flapping his black-sleeved arms in farewell until the horses, the calèche, and its passenger had disappeared from sight, for as long as he could see the carriage, which gleamed as bright as the sun; until the carriage, which was sparkling and shining in the distance like the brightest sunshine, disappeared.
For about an hour, Courfeyrac kept on waving goodbye, leaning against that tree at the village entrance, for as long as he could see the calèche glittering in the light of the sun, till it disappeared into the treeline, and continued on deep into the woods, as the Gascon, the sun beating down on him, watched the carriage, that glistened as though it were made of sunlight, that glittered and shone in the distance like the brightest sun on the waters, oui, which flashed as brightly as the day-star itself; following the vehicle as far as he dared to, for as long as he could see the carriage, which gleamed as bright as the sun... until it disappeared into the deep dark northern forest.
It was not until that moment of stopping and saying that farewell that Enjolras was truly alone again.
...
Elsewhere, somewhere dark and foggy in the far North, Grantaire was sitting on a cold stone throne of a twilit throne room, in the chamber that had been set aside for him. He felt numb and bitter. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. A whirring sound could be heard through the shut door to his left, growing louder and louder, nearer and nearer, the one who approached coming closer and closer. Suddenly his chamber door swung open and the Lady of the Green Kirtle walked into the hall. Her skin was brittle birch-bark or icing-sugar, her hair crowned with a wreath of ivy, and she wore a necklace of shiny black nightshade berries. "Voilà mon cher, here you are."
"Where else would I be?" he snapped, not even bothering to look at her.
"Are you all right?" She asked in a patronizingly sweet tone.
"Of course I'm not!" he lashed out, forgetting how afraid he was of the person he was addressing. "I've been betrayed, taken from my home, it's freezing cold, and my stomach hurts!"
"Poor little thing," she whispered, pulling herself closer to him. "Such a pessimist." She started stroking his stubbled cheek with the side of her cupped hand.
As she tangled slender fingers into his whiskers, Grantaire recoiled slightly; he wanted to vomit. Her icy touch repelled him. He couldn't believe that in less than two weeks he'd be leading her ranks. He thought he'd rather kill himself first if only he could get his hands on a suitable knife or a long piece of rope. Unfortunately there weren't any dangerous objects in the chamber.
"You've grown up nice, you know," she whispered.
In response, he shuddered and tried to pull away from her.
"Why so weary today? Why the look in your eyes slightly troubled?" She flung her arms around his neck, and let him slump wearily on her bent knees. She kept him with his dark head thus reclined upon her skirt, and began to toy once more with the curly raven crown of that youthful brow. She filled him with flattery, fanned his flustered face, and around the air that the two of them breathed there fluttered, flitting and floating, countless words of love like flutterbies. Yet Grantaire resisted for the first time in ages to her enchanting influence, and did not fall vanquished utterly unconscious.
"Why wide awake, and down, and troubled, my sweetheart?" Her voice was quivering with concern. "What heavy thought or feeling, what worry keeps you so tense? Is it not by chance the fatigue of your training that has bleached your countenance with such pallor?"
"No," he brusquely replied. Still, there was something friendly about the lady that made him want to confide in her. "You know well that my body never yields to weariness... 'tis my spirits that are shaken and stirred. This feeling, that gets into both my head and my chest and tears everything to shreds..."
"What feeling is that?"
"Today... today I recalled something of my past life. Entering a backroom, and there seeing a table surrounded by many young people; methinks I knew them all. I joined the group, and listened eagerly to what they discussed. The leader stood upright, fire in his icy blue eyes; slender as a lily-stem, long golden locks fluttering in his wake and gold-frogged his scarlet waistcoat... and thus I waited until all the others had left and we were left en tête-à-tête, then I played all my cards of hearts, but with such misfortune that he turned his back on me, shut the door, and left; so I lost everything I cherished and so much of a muchness more... I have suffered dreadfully; that living boy-doll I saw, before whom gathered my fortunate rivals, has left the fire-branded memory that tortures me and makes me despair. I wish I were the owner, the master of that darling! I loathe myself for having lost, and envy those who have won..."
A thoughtful look coursed through her features, as she listened eagerly to Grantaire's tale. So the past, like a rising tide, was returning...
"Oh for you pure and innocent soul, unaware of every wicked feeling!" she screamed in both anger and sadness when he had finished his account. "At last you are lost to me... tranquil crystal of my transparent lakes! Already your waves are stirred and disturbed, and already your surface has reflected back the treacherous image of passion... 'tis but an illusion, a delusion, falsely reflected in a liquid mirror! Nevermore lulled or reassured by anyone's caress, having nullified the warm influence of my affections... Your thoughts flee away from me and out of my reach, your heart throbs under the spell of bastard affections, and your brow already creased by the first wrinkle in a lifetime..."
Each and every word of hers was a pebble falling into that liquid mirror and disturbing its surface even further. She lifted the young man up on his knees and pressed him to her bosom, like a mother to her only child come of age, as Grantaire wistfully and eagerly addressed her in a heart-rending tone:
"Give me... respite!!"
"And respite you shall receive," she replied, "thanks to the influence of the narcotic drug which I shall prepare with my own blood, for it to produce oblivion and lethargy unto you. Those sparkles no longer spring unexpectedly from your eyes; the affections and the passions that rise deep within your chest cannot be overcome unless they have been drugged. So wait, hope, my darling wretch... respite and nepenthe shall be your lot, mais hélas! for your awakening will not be with a smile like the erstwhile ones..."
The Lady in Green slashed a vein open from her wrist and poured out her blood into a crystal phial. Nor did her sorrows cease, however, as the drops of her dark green blood fell into the little vessel.
She then turned to the floor where the young man tossed and turned, and, reaching out her wounded arm, offered her the phial with the narcotic.
"Drink!"
Grantaire quaffed that liquid down to the last drop, and fell instantly into deep senselessness at her feet.
And the lady waked and looked down, self-absorbed in her own thoughts of losing him, as if she were waking over the corpse of that boy turned a man.
He didn't stand up to embrace her. He didn't turn to face her. Nothing. No movement. He was sleeping. One would know he wasn't dead because his chest moved up and down and he moaned twice. The quaffed nectar flowed throbbingly through every vein, with a joy akin to pain.
She had forewarned him that the first light of awakening would not come with a smile; indeed, Grantaire awoke and headed for the entrance making the greatest effort he could remember, rising up on his arms both heavy-hearted and heavy-headed. A ray of light stole through the entrance to the keep and stroked his face. "Already the sun is up...? Fuck the dawn and its first light, for killing all my respite! Look... Once more the colour of the sunlight rekindles the memory of that person and said memory oppresses my brow..."
And, as she stood on the threshold and ready to leave, he was finally up on his feet, though hardly standing upright steadily, tugging at her sleeves and leaning on her for a crutch, as he addressed her:
"Your draught has made me dream most deliciously... I have seen at my feet the loveliest person there ever was, if she could be called one in the first place; I have sated in her my ambition, and attained thus all the best could wish for... Tomorrow I shall drink your precious elixir once more. I want to dream... I want to dream, and nevermore return to reality!"
She let out a sigh and took out a small crystal flacon from the folds of her dress and, after pouring her own green blood into it, placed it in his hands. "Here, drink this."
He looked down at it suspiciously. "What is it?"
"It's for your stomach," she lied, yet it was but a half-truth. "Let us drink to your health, Lord General!" she winked with a friendly smile. "May your stay here be long and prosperous!"
The dark student figured it wasn't for anything of the sort, he wished it was poison, but knew that she had no reason to kill him now. She wanted him alive. Whatever it was for, it didn't matter. He took out the cork, put it to his lips, and drank it, until the very last drop had disappeared from sight into his insides. It didn't taste too bad. Sort of watery and bland now, but not too bad; he licked his lips and incisors to taste the few drops that lingered upon them.
"How do you feel?" she asked him.
All of a sudden, Grantaire couldn't keep his eyes open no matter how hard he tried. "I feel... sleepy..." he muttered as his eyelids shut and his body sank back into the chair.
"That's what I thought," the Lady said with a smirk, taking the empty flacon away as she walked out of the room. It was sunset.
He heard her words, and smiled on her who spoke them, but spoke not himself, his eyelids heavy already.
He didn't stand up to take his leave of her. He didn't turn to face her. Nothing. No movement. He was sleeping. One would know he wasn't dead because his chest moved up and down and he moaned twice. The quaffed nectar flowed throbbingly through every vein, with a joy akin to pain.
In his state of deep sleep, he couldn't hear a word. If he heard any noise at all, it was only like a light wind, like a gentle breeze lulling him. He didn't feel the touch of the throne armrests either.
After this the dream called two cavaliers up---one in red and golden, the other in cobalt blue and silver armour-like uniform. After the customary formalities of a fencing match had been gone through, they commenced cutting at each other in furious earnest, their swords piercing the metal breastplates most marvellously, and severing limb after limb from their hips and shoulders. But oh, wonder! Each limb, as it touched the platform, grew into an armour-clad uniformed chevalier, who fiercely set upon his opponent. By this means of hydra-like asexual reproduction the whole stage was soon crowded with red-golden and blue-silver clad warriors, hacking each other mercilessly. Suddenly a slight move of the golden leader sent them laughing; they all threw down their arms, shook hands, and embraced one another.
Wearily the dreamer awoke, and off they flew like leaves before the wind.
I couldn't so much as twitch without agony, and my throat was as raw as though I'd drunk broken glass, but of course that had nothing to do with anything truly being wrong. I suppose leaving me festooned with scars, and the sensation of lingering damage, would fit.
Trusting vainly in his own strength, never looking upwards, forgetting all that was best in the past, he had fallen a hopeless victim. He was infatuated by the fascination of her. Though... His feelings for her bore no resemblance to true love.
With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him. He went after her straight-away as a fool to the correction of the stocks, till a dart strikes through his liver.
She had discovered that he was gentle and courteous to the servants, that he had an ear for musicians' playing, and had lean, strong hands that moved easily among the jewelled goblets and gold-rimmed plates. Over candlelight, as he led her to her room before she put on her ballgown, she had seen herself in his eyes.
"You are here. There is a story in that." He took her hand, then, and drew it under his arm. He led her past the pages and the armed men, up the stairs to the open doors; as the band began to play the first minuet of the soirée. Now she had been the one who led her fiancé out to the balcony, for some privacy, instinctively taking the young man by the wrist.
A voice spoke into her ear. She felt rough stubbled skin against her cheek, most surely his whisker, and arms tense with muscle; the voice husky and pleasant, murmured against her hair. She turned, amazed, alarmed for different reasons.
She saw a sudden glint of teeth. "If you wish."
"My wish is your command," she answered, and he laughed.
In his bed, astonished, she would soon think that she discovered how simple life was.
Oui, everything was like a lovely dream; surrender entirely to it, give yourself up to it. As thus did this young betrothed couple, who had been given everything positive this world has to offer, everything good that one could ever wish for: health, good looks, good nature, good cheer, a fortune, a thorough education, and an honourable reputation.
"We are as happy as anyone could ever be!" they said to one another, with full conviction in their hearts. Meanwhile the days glided past, each like a holiday. The sufferings of childhood, for both the bride and the groom, were universes away. A roundelay upon the lawns, a caper along the edge of the reflecting pool, a waltz on the lower terrace – the dancing went on and on until the sun set beyond the treetops. As they climbed upstairs and entered the ballroom hand in hand, both their hearts were still pounding.
That evening the whole castle was bustling with excitement. Upon the master's orders a ball was being organized and it was supposed to be an important occasion.
Every little detail was important to Cosette, she didn’t allow her guardian nor their retainers to come in between with their suggestions. Lot of people were invited, many meals were prepared in the huge château kitchen and any passerby would salivate just from catching a little whiff of the prepared delicacies. Even fireworks were planned as the highlight of the party and, the way Courfeyrac had explained it to his leader during their upstairs ascent, those had special meaning for Cosette and her fiancé, being something like an anniversary.
That night in the great stone mansions, over tiny cups of chocolate and crystal glasses of brandy, there would be much discussion of the thousand possible shades of meaning behind the words in the lyrics.
The closer the evening neared, the more restless the bridegroom was growing. Once it all begun, he has no thought to loose on his own, since anyone who was in his presence grabbed him in their embrace and he was twirled in a dance the whole night. He barely stopped to get a drink. Everyone wanted to talk or catch even a minute of his time, but once he got a hold of Cosette, none of their whining helped. The violins soared sweetly, her fiancé smiled at her and she came closer and closer still.
The heiress smiled, and held out her white arms. As she and her fiancé twirled in a waltz, the spectators smiled too, then a couple joined in, and another... The members of the band were delighted. When the music came to an end they played another waltz, and another...
And... like... too, he was trapped by those azure eyes, which got a strange luster and feigned distance. It was clear they got very close; the many nights they shared kisses with each other meant at least that they were friends who trusted each other enough to share that kind of intimacy. That was why he braced himself and approached the subject which was dwelling on his mind.
"How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope Grandpapa will not leave if we find out the whole truth," she answered; "I have been so lucky to be rescued from a dire fate by a worthy caregiver; but he seems to be weighed down by some dark secret, which he has never wanted even me to know..."
To reassure her, the dark-haired fiancé she had found tucked a wisp of her scented golden hair, that had slipped out of the chignon, behind her ear, and she planted a peck on his lips in response.
"Life is a gift of love, almost too vast to fathom, almost too great to understand," he sighed in a sweet lyric tenor voice. "Yet it will all be hubris at the end of the day. Isn't it a dreadful display of pride, a terrible conceit, when people persuade themselves to believe that we shall live forever?"
"You doubt that there may be an afterlife, do you?" Cosette asked, clasping his slender waist in fair lilywhite arms, her face nearly grazing her sweetheart's; and it was as if a shadow passed through their sunlit thoughts for the first time.
"Yet in all of my happiness," the young man replied, "I feel, and I realise, that it cannot be anything but hubris to wish for another life after this one, and happiness in the afterlife! Back when I lived with my own Grandpapa, I was made much of and always bowed to by the servants, ladies-in-waiting, and visitors to the castle. Yet I always felt empty at the end of the day... Hasn't this existence given both of us so much that we could, and we should, feel contented? But, happy as I am now, I feel and know that it is only hubris, an arrogant thought that demands another life after this, or a better reincarnation - an extension of this happiness. Haven't we been granted enough in this life, so that we could and should be satisfied?"
Here, he stole a passionate kiss from her, and, as soon as her lips parted, she locked eyes with him, azure eye to eye with hazel, and sighed:
"Of course, we have been given so much... but for how many thousands of people has this life been a heavy trial! How many thousands find this a heavy trial... How many are thrust by chance into this world to a fate of want, of shame, sickness, and misfortune... and thus know no childhood, forced to battle with hardships, to grow up against their will! If that as you say were the case, if there were nothing more to wish for, everything in this world would have been too unequally shared, the blessings on this earth would be too unequally divided... and there would be no righteousness... It is not so easy to remember when you are always covered with fancy garments and have twenty-five playrooms set aside just for you. Remember, I told you... I was once one of those! And I believe that Grandpapa... for the secret he is hiding..." Her earnest sapphire eyes grew teary as he produced from his pocket a lacy handkerchief, gently drying up her tears.
"Did not that orphan indentured servant find any joys of her own, that were to her as happy as those enjoyed in these grand mansions?" the young man asked, tucking his cravat into the décolletage of his waistcoat; he wore a midnight blue three-piece suit. "Cosette... do you believe that, for all those beatings, and starving, and straining, you should have no recollection of those heavy days of squalour, of living in want, in endless battle with hardships, bereft of a decent childhood? Why shouldn't you call it unfair?"
"The inn’s guests were sometimes friendly, but more often they were rude. As bad as the ones who stared were the ones who looked away in embarrassment. Some guests didn’t want me to serve their food, and some didn’t want me to clean their rooms. I developed the habit of holding my hand in front of my face when guests arrived, a foolish practice, because it raised curiosity and concealed little. And then the landlady and her pampered daughters... It was the way I was made, and the way that I am; we cannot escape the past, mon cher... and still we can learn many a lesson from what once occurred. Love is infinite, and eternal. And no life shall ever be lost, but rather win all the happiness we can receive, and be contented with our lot, no matter how paltry or how grand, staking our own future, right?"
Her fiancé nodded in response, drawing her closer. "This world is good enough for me now!" And, once more, he flung his arms around her slender waist, clad in royal blue satin and in fine flowing silks the colour of her eyes; around his lovely, adorable, amiable ladylove. On the open balcony, the fresh, cool air was intoxicating, heavy with the fragrance of roses and lilacs and carnations, Romantic music could be heard from the ballroom behind them, the stars glittered high above in the clear night sky, and two eyes full of love, brighter than Venus, his dear Cosette's eyes, were looking at him with the expression of everlasting life of love.
"A single moment like this," he said, "makes being born worthwhile... just to experience, to seize such a moment, and... and then vanish! If I were to die, it were to be most happy! Indeed, I fear that I should nevermore be given another such sacred instant within my unknown future destiny..." he said smiling, and his fiancée shook her index finger reprovingly, like a metronome, as if to say wordlessly how brokenhearted she would be in that case.
"Oh, my dear," she breathed, hurrying down the steps. "Say this is a wedding gift for me. She stepped back, half-laughing, "Where are my manners?" she clapped her hands, laughing again, with a touch of relief in her voice. She took her fiancé's hand in hers and led her up the steps. "Now tell me how I can persuade you to let me have that je ne sais quoi of yours. Look how everyone stares at you. It will make me the most beautiful woman in the world on my wedding day." She caught a fault in her fiancé’s step, studied the way he quickly bit his lip, then cleared his face of the emotion that had lingered there so briefly.
The dark clouds in their minds, while the heiress chattered, had already passed, then lifted; they were much too happy.
"All right," Cosette said amiably, gently, patting his hand as she held his eyes. Her brows rose. She glanced around hastily to see if anyone were listening, then she took his other hand; though, from first-hand experience, he already knew that Cosette was not one of those who only wanted what dazzled their eyes.
Everything that happened seemed only to add to their happiness and well-being. Yet the two young lovers' privacy on the balcony would not last much longer, for they had caught the attention of someone on the ballroom. It was Courfeyrac who was first shown, upon asking some young lieutenants about Mademoiselle Fauchelevent and the young man who had won her, a golden-haired debutante in a royal blue gown and sky-blue petticoats, dressed in fine flowing silks the colour of her eyes, leading by the hand, out to the balcony, a dark-haired young man in a midnight blue suit. The door to the veranda was open, and a lovely cool breeze blew in from the nearby Seine. Taking his blond friend by the wrist, Courfeyrac showed Enjolras in that direction, and, through a narrow gap in the balcony curtains, they could see a head of long, curly dark hair, quite black in the dim flicker of the lamplight that illuminated the balcony outside; on the balcony stood the heiress, and side by side with her the young man who had won her. The cloth was sheer enough to reveal two silhouettes behind it. One was the elegant profile of a lady, surely Mademoiselle. The other was a man's figure, tall and slender. The fair leader's heart was beating very hard indeed as he went towards the curtains, seeking to look on the fiancé's countenance and see if it was, indeed, Grantaire. Because of his hopeful doubts about this, Enjolras was perfectly happy to examine the young man in his privacy, on a balcony of a pair with his princess's (whose complexion looked like a white lily).
Gently pushing the balcony curtain back, and sure to find his missing friend, Enjolras found the heiress and her fiancé in one another's arms, his face quite hidden in her golden hair. He pushed one of the leaves aside, and his eyes fell upon a head of long, soft, curly dark hair spread across the nape of a slightly suntanned neck that he thought he recognised; being thus able to see the bridal pair standing together in the same embrace. Then he saw a strong hand, curled lightly against the waist of Mademoiselle. Turned away from him, the handsome face was still in repose—but, unknown to the fair leader and his savvier friend, it was not Grantaire's face. The heiress and her young man stood close to the open air, with their backs to the hallway door.
"Oh, c'est bien... Grantaire..." the fiancés heard someone call out that surname, in a heroic tenor voice barely above a whisper, so much did emotion choke his throat, as he leaned closer to them. As he did so, the rustling of the curtain, without meaning to, as it was pushed back caught the attention of the fiancé; the young man’s eyes snapping open at the sudden loud noise.
He noticed the presence of the third party behind them, and turned his head round towards the other students, unwrapping his arms from around the heiress; he was startled, turned his head--- and it was not Grantaire at all! Ce n'était point Grantaire! He was quite another man, clean shaven and with fairer nutbrown streaks at his temples, though he was still young. And definitely more svelte and attractive, better-looking, and more boyish in appearance with a slender waist and limbs, even features, and a smattering of impish freckles across a face as silky as Enjolras' own. Another young man was the one who lay standing there, clasping the fair Cosette, and it was only in the back of his neck, in his curly dark hair and strong hands and suntanned complexion, in his left-handedness and orphanhood and the hazel colour of his eyes, that he resembled Grantaire at all; for nothing else about him did. And that was all they shared, really, because this man’s hair was unruly, messy, dark looser curls. Though he was an attractive man he was only like Grantaire from the back, because the part of his hair that was not nutbrown was so dark. From behind, the young fiancé looked in general like Grantaire, and he was certainly good-looking, though he did not have the same ironic look that was in the savateur's eyes, or the stubble on his chin and cheekbones; the fiancé looked nearly just like Grantaire, but younger and more handsome. Notwithstanding, still he was certainly a handsome young man. Il ne laissait pourtant pas d’être un joli garçon. Il était jeune et gentil. He was remarkably handsome with bright friendly eyes, warm dark hazel orbs full of kindness and knowledge, that looked very surprised and confused to see both Enjolras and Courfeyrac falling back a step, standing on the threshold of the balcony behind him and his fiancée. Their eyes fell on the young man standing there, staring back at them in surprise, for the other two students to meet the politely puzzled expression of the man they'd seen through the curtains which now flanked them.
The music abruptly stopped and the two figures turned towards the curtains, once more careful as the blond pulled the curtain back from the face of the one he could tell had curly hair, and the moment the face was revealed he just froze into place.
And then everything came crashing down onto him.
It must have been the involuntary sound of disappointment the two students made that startled him, for the fiancé had turned around abruptly and gasped with surprise to see two familiar faces bending over him. When he pivoted and unwrapped himself from her embrace with a swift motion of his hands, he saw that the man beside his upperclassman and former roommate, the boy in red surpassingly fair of face and form, was a figure that awoke in him a sense of déjà-vu; he was tall and well-made, with hair gilt like the sun and eyes the colour of the winter day sky, yet that burned as the summer sky does in the middle of the day in August in that stranger's native southlands, no hint of frost at all. No longer cold like ice-crusted silver coins.
Almost a boy, not much older than he was. Maybe a little older. Good looking, with a classic jaw line and bright eyes. He was nervous and his uniform fit him perfectly.
A man in uniform, he thought, and took a guess.
In fact, the bridegroom's face looked quite familiar to both Enjolras and Courfeyrac as well... what-was-his-name, that classmate, that Parisian from the Left Bank, that young Law student and literary translator whom Courfeyrac had introduced to the others not long ago, last year; who had been the dashing Gascon's roommate for a while, and who had asked not long ago, last year, to become one of them?
Marius. Marius Pontmercy, the son and only child of the late Colonel Pontmercy and the late Mademoiselle Gillenormand. Though he was of course an attractive man... to think that it was Marius out of all suitors, and not Grantaire (a far less suave and far less convenient party, obviously, actually), who had won such a prize, a stranger to the land who had shown up unknown and created such an impression on her with his wit and cleverness... Il ne laissait pas d’être un joli garçon. Il était jeune et gentil.
The blond young leader fell back a step, disappointed and ashamed and consternated, his voice deserting him entirely; and then, at that, voilà that, within the same instant, Cosette turned around as well, and, from the place where she stood, looked out and advanced her gentle figure, reaching out her lovely head towards the embroidered curtains and peeking out through them to ask what was the matter; she peered out and looked up from, then pushed past the white curtains, blinking, and asked what was happening. She was very lovely with a kindly face. Her eyes alighted on the intruders with curiosity rather than fear or anger. "My dears, whatever is the matter? Why are you two here?"
Cosette was not only very lovely with a kindly face: a beautiful blonde-haired girl, delicate and small-boned like a porcelain doll; the most beautiful young woman ever seen with mortal eyes. A lady tall and fair, with skin like new cream and hair the rich colour of a rising sun; pale and delicate with long wavy hair that was spread out in a loose chignon on the nape of her neck. She was was tall and well-made, with hair gilt like the sun and eyes that seemed to know everything and burned as the summer sky does in the middle of the day, no hint of frost at all in her clear and intelligent gaze. No wonder the young men had been so dumb-struck in front of her. She was stunning as well as remarkably smart. In spite of her youth, she was a formidable woman, showing off a shocking amount of chest, her cheeks rosey and eyes glittering. Her face was made up in the traditional way except her lips were very bright, like a rose bud, and her eyes sparkled in a way no cosmetics would have allowed; she was every bit as fair and lovely as had been described, with waves of blonde hair and an enchanting smile.
She put a hand on her fiancé's shoulder. "Please tell me what the matter is!"
A hand brushed against her waist and she turned to see her fiancé standing behind her, looking from her to Enjolras and Courfeyrac a few feet away with the most genuine concern on his face. He just shrugged. "What's going on?" he asked, still more of a snap than it should have been.
"I don't think we've actually been introduced," Cosette said to the two intruders, and suddenly she looked younger, more whimsical and eccentric, tucking her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. When she leaned forward towards the others, Marius coughed and looked away, his cheeks turning pink. Enjolras himself almost did the same — she was more confident in regards to her necklines than anyone either of them had ever met. It took the others a second to realize that she had extended a hand towards the fair leader.
"Feel free to call me Cosette," said she as though Enjolras was her new best friend. "It's so nice to meet you!"
The blond stared at the hand for a second before taking it. To their great surprise, beneath the satin gloves, Cosette's hands were heavily calloused, rough in different places than Grantaire's. When they looked down, the two intruders saw that the knuckles of Cosette's right hand were rough and scarred, slightly larger than the others on the left.
Enjolras released the hand and looked at her with new found respect. This woman wasn't a noble by blood like the fair leader himself, but rather the indentured servant that Courfeyrac had assumed, given that she was in the right hand somewhat knotty like a tree branch. Even though her left hand was as silky and well-groomed as a lady's (or a lordling's) should be. Even though she had a wide choice of parasols and beautiful sun-hats, there were still traces of sunburn on the skin of her face. Even though she lived in this big fancy mansion which would someday be hers and had costly gowns and teams of horses and a fistful of servants who followed her everywhere so that she would not be missing anything (though these valets and maids did respect the intimacy she needed with her guardian and now also with her fiancé)... Even though she was full of courage and knowledge, she did not stand upright stiffly like court ladies had been seen to do when they walked the parks on holidays, with their backs held straight and their chins kept up high. No, she rather humbled herself, looking straight into the eyes of others, just like a maidservant. Everything that she kept from her previous life was written upon her skin. She was not afraid of hard work, she would not care for having to pay for her daily bread in the sweat of her brows... and it never worried this early bird, this morning skylark, to get out of bed before the sun itself, and go to bed as soon as it disappeared into the horizon.
Feeling as though he might weep from sheer weariness, the fair leader begged forgiveness of the heiress and her fiancé and started to go, but Marius laid a hand against his arm and urged him to sit on the edge of the balcony railing. "Please," he said, "stay and tell us what you're doing here. I can see that you two have travelled a long way, and that you are near the end of your strength. We'd like to keep you rested and well-fed to keep up your health and strength." And his voice did, indeed, sound like Grantaire's, deep and velvety with compassion and that faint, pleasing croaklike burr the fair leader missed so much. Even though, aside from that quirk, there was no regional patois in young Pontmercy's speech, entirely beau-monde aristocratic.
"Perhaps we can help," Cosette added in a tender voice, and her kindness was almost more than Enjolras could bear. She looked finally into his eyes. She clapped her hands, laughing again, with a touch of relief in her voice. "There can never be too much kindness in our world. And we want to help you. You have taken hit after hit already on your journey." But then her eyes flicked to her fiancé and she must have seen something there that made her falter. Her shoulders fell just a little, but she maintained her sunny smile.
"I don't think we've actually been introduced," she then said to the others, and suddenly she looked younger, tucking her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. When she leaned forward towards the other two, Marius coughed and looked away, his cheeks turning pink.
And Cosette held up a hand. "No," she said, sounding strangled, which was like an emotion, "I wanna hear what he has to say."
For a while Enjolras hesitated, remaining without a response; then, in a torment of embarrassment, told his story with all that the others had done for his sake, and Courfeyrac supplied more details about the misunderstanding. "So I told Enjolras that a stranger to the land had shown up unknown and created quite an impression on Mademoiselle with his wit and cleverness... And we thought that there was a possibility that the man we searched for was..." He turned his head to look at Marius. "Well, I thought it might be her fiancé. It just sounded so much like Grantaire that we honestly, truly did think that they would be one and the same. I admit I felt compelled to help in what way I could — in this case, confirming whether or not her bridegroom was our friend Grantaire."
When the tale was done, Marius and Cosette remained silent, and looked quite sorrowful, for learned as they both were, neither of them knew any more about Grantaire's whereabouts than his two former classmates did, though the fiancé asked with a keen interest after Combeferre, and Prouvaire, and Lesgle, and more old friends, for they had been at University together once.
"Well, you're right," Cosette answered primly, smoothing out her skirt. "It wasn't him." She broke out into a smile, to show she was kidding. "But that doesn't mean we aren't willing to help you two find your friend if he is somewhere nearby. The village outside perhaps. Or a surrounding village. Ah, Marius, I'm glad you found my corsage."
"Once you see her, you cannot doubt that I love her. She has eyes the same dark blue as a clear stream on a dark day, a delicate nose, a face that blooms like a rose, and such fine white hands. She has lips as soft as petals. Every step of hers is grace in itself," Marius Pontmercy said as he tied the flowers and ribbon around her wrist, eyes shining, after he had got to know about his classmates. His fiancée replied merely by clasping the young translator's neck in her arms and, with an expression of most passionate tenderness, she gazed into his bright eyes.
She kissed Marius' cheek, then turned to his classmates and said amiably: "Thank you. I will show you two something else to wear, while we wash your ensembles, and show you a spare room for you two to sleep in the guest quarters tonight. I'm not insensitive--I fell in love with him myself the moment I looked at him. He is beautiful. Dark nearly black hair that’s not hard but so soft, standing so tall, and with eyes that are dark and kind. His nose is not the least bit frightening but it makes him look like something from a painting of an earnest man. He should smile more, really. It would make him look less timid. He looks far better when he’s not being overly somber. But he’s good and that’s what shows in his face So I can hardly blame you for--and of course he is in love with me. But we hardly know each other, and I don't want to confuse him with possibilities at this delicate time. You understand."
"Perfectly." The other two nodded before they realised that there was humour in her voice.
"Good."
“I didn’t want to approach you with my request, when you were preparing this ball. It looked very important to you.”
As Cosette turned her fiancé in a circle, Enjolras threw them a confident look from the side, as if it was a report on the state of the weather. The girl had both hands wrapped around her fiancé's upper arm and was all but hanging on him, her expression pleading in a way Enjolras did not recognise, being both an only child and emotionally detached.
In response, Marius clicked his tongue, but his cheeks also reddened and he leaned in closer whispering into Cosette's ear, so others wouldn’t eavesdrop. She finally noticed that her new fiancé was glaring at her. “What can I say?” she said, and shrugged. “I have a thing for guys in squeaky boots.” But then he smiled again, and this time it was genuine and reached his and her eyes, filling them with warmth and understanding.
Of course the other two young men allowed the fiancés a moment of privacy en tête-à-tête, well-bred and courteous as they had always been.
Cosette glanced at her fiancé. "We need to help them," she said, to which he nodded. "We need to see to it that this bewitching story has a happy ending.
"Indeed," Marius said gravely, leaning forward and resting his chin on his clasped hands.
"You want to help...?" Courfeyrac asked, unable to believe his ears, while Enjolras remained silent in awe. "Even though I made my leader break into your palace and...?"
"There's no excuse for bravery and courage," Marius said wisely, with a shine to his eyes. "And who are we to try to rein in on that?"
After which, the fair heiress, regretting that she could not help more, and not at all angry to be startled from intimacy in the middle of the night by a strange man in scarlet standing in her balcony, offered to have another notice delivered throughout three départements inquiring after Grantaire's whereabouts, and said she would send some guards the next day to look for any young men in the surrounding villages and towns who fit the description of the missing bohemian.
If Cosette did not know better, she’d think her dance partner was insulted (what with all that affair of mistaken identity!). In fact, she felt her soft gloved hand being clutched in the other’s grasp tighter and her fiancé's palm pressed firmer against his lower back as they turned, dancing the next waltz, un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois...
"But look," said Cosette's oldest friend, her canny guardian, who had saved her from those ages of suffering when they were young, a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair, and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed; and who loved her as deeply as a forest spring. She knew that one had to be that way, and patient and tolerant besides, to remain in her confidence. "See how he paces, how his eyes are bright." And he was right, for none of the other suitors had held his dear Cosette's attention for even a moment.
"And see," replied the bride herself, a lady tall and fair, with skin like new cream and hair the rich colour of a rising sun, "how he considers his words, and how his hand goes to his heart. And watch, how he forgets that his wounds hurt."
At these words, Marius blushed a bit and lost his rhythm momentarily and didn’t know any better than to stutter.
“I... I didn’t...”
Cosette frowned thoughtfully and clicked her tongue, but her cheeks also reddened and she leaned in closer whispering to his ear, deciding to say something after a moment's consideration, so others wouldn’t eavesdrop. She pouted in a pretty way and cocked her head, looking at her fiancé. Her face was made up in the traditional way except her lips were very bright, like a rose bud, and her eyes sparkled in a way no cosmetics would have allowed. She had beauty sufficient for a princess, and manners good enough for one. Certainly her dresses, made by the most skilful artisans, were costly and elegant enough for the richest of royal maidens, and above all she was good and cheerful and wise and clever enough to be one of them. "Aww, Marius, don't be like that," she said, her smile back in place almost immediately. "You're so mean lately. What happened?"
In response, he just shrugged.
Indeed, his gaze kept flashing to his guardian-in-law, half hidden in the shadows, and then away. His colour choices were slightly off from the courtiers around them — burgundy to their scarlet and black, amber to their gold. It made him look as though perhaps this wasn't his nation after all, that he was just an outsider like both fiancés who had wandered into the wrong party. The translator's sweetheart fiancée said something to him and it took him a moment to respond. The back of his neck turned bright red and he looked away, jaw tight.
"I don't think we've actually been introduced," Cosette said with a smirk, and suddenly she looked younger, tucking her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. When she leaned forward towards her beau, he coughed and looked away, his cheeks turning pink. She was more confident in regards to her necklines than anyone he had ever met.
Still, she froze and couldn't move. She couldn't even take another step forward, though she knew she stood in the middle of the floor and people were beginning to look at her, tittering, holding hands in front of their mouths. But the eyes over those hands weren't full of laughter, but of awe.
Apparently now that her fiancé had shown a willingness to dance with one of the many women at the gathering, other than Cosette herself, he now had to dance with all of them. She watched as the strain on his face grew, smiling to herself and then feeling somewhat bad about her entertainment. None of the other noblemen asked her to dance. She wasn't surprised. Who would want to dance with the strange bride who had descended into their midst, if she had already made her choice? Instead, she lurked in the shadows, watching everyone with silver-lined eyes. The courtiers began to move away from her niche, no longer laughing but clearly unnerved.
All the noble ladies around had rice powdered faces and small red mouths, their eyes darkened with rust red or gold.
One of the musicians, the only people in the chamber still making noise, began to sing an aria in Italian - neither Cosette nor Marius did recognise the opera:
Courtiers began to move again, swaying to the music, forming couples and taking up their positions on the floor around.
At these words, Marius blushed a bit and lost his rhythm momentarily and didn’t know any better than to stutter.
“I... I didn’t...”
Cosette frowned thoughtfully and clicked her tongue, but her cheeks also reddened and she leaned in closer whispering to his ear, deciding to say something after a moment's consideration, so others wouldn’t eavesdrop. She pouted in a pretty way and cocked her head, looking at her fiancé. Her face was made up in the traditional way except her lips were very bright, like a rose bud, and her eyes sparkled in a way no cosmetics would have allowed. She had beauty sufficient for a princess, and manners good enough for one. Certainly her dresses, made by the most skilful artisans, were costly and elegant enough for the richest of royal maidens, and above all she was good and cheerful and wise and clever enough to be one of them. "Aww, Marius, don't be like that," she said, her smile back in place almost immediately. "You're so mean lately. What happened?"
In response, he just shrugged.
Indeed, his gaze kept flashing to his guardian-in-law, half hidden in the shadows, and then away. His colour choices were slightly off from the courtiers around them — burgundy to their scarlet and black, amber to their gold. It made him look as though perhaps this wasn't his nation after all, that he was just an outsider like both fiancés who had wandered into the wrong party. The translator's sweetheart fiancée said something to him and it took him a moment to respond. The back of his neck turned bright red and he looked away, jaw tight.
"I don't think we've actually been introduced," Cosette said with a smirk, and suddenly she looked younger, tucking her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. When she leaned forward towards her beau, he coughed and looked away, his cheeks turning pink. She was more confident in regards to her necklines than anyone he had ever met.
Still, she froze and couldn't move. She couldn't even take another step forward, though she knew she stood in the middle of the floor and people were beginning to look at her, tittering, holding hands in front of their mouths. But the eyes over those hands weren't full of laughter, but of awe.
Apparently now that her fiancé had shown a willingness to dance with one of the many women at the gathering, other than Cosette herself, he now had to dance with all of them. She watched as the strain on his face grew, smiling to herself and then feeling somewhat bad about her entertainment. None of the other noblemen asked her to dance. She wasn't surprised. Who would want to dance with the strange bride who had descended into their midst, if she had already made her choice? Instead, she lurked in the shadows, watching everyone with silver-lined eyes. The courtiers began to move away from her niche, no longer laughing but clearly unnerved.
All the noble ladies around had rice powdered faces and small red mouths, their eyes darkened with rust red or gold.
One of the musicians, the only people in the chamber still making noise, began to sing an aria in Italian - neither Cosette nor Marius did recognise the opera:
Pegno adorato e caro
che mi lusinghi almeno...
Ah! come al labbro e al seno,
come ti stringerò!
Courtiers began to move again, swaying to the music, forming couples and taking up their positions on the floor around.
The strangeness of their re-entrance faded into the background and people just gave her nasty looks as she stood unmoving in the middle of the hall.
And Marius shot out of his seat and nearly flew across the golden tiles towards her, the sleeves of his robe flaring out behind him. He shoved aside a couple who shot him nasty looks. Her back straightened as he came towards her, but his face was stormy and harsh. It was not the face she'd been hoping to see. Doubt bloomed in her stomach and her smile faltered.
Yet he reached out as soon as he was close and grabbed her by the forearms, wrinkling the thick layers of silk. He yanked her towards him, heat radiating from his skin despite how much fabric was between them.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said with exaggerated sweetness, anger replacing the doubt until her skin burned as hot as his. "I guess you've settled back in and you don't need me here." She waved a hand to take in all the gold and gemstones, the elegant music, the party guests. "I don't blame you. Luxury agrees with some people. Cosette..."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said with exaggerated sweetness, anger replacing the doubt until her skin burned as hot as his. "I guess you've settled back in and you don't need me here." She waved a hand to take in all the gold and gemstones, the elegant music, the party guests. "I don't blame you. Luxury agrees with some people. Cosette..."
The sound of her name on his tongue made her skin shiver in anticipation.
They'd been hiding too long in the shadows and apparently their conversation was becoming too personal for the universe to take. So of course at exactly that moment, she turned up about a half foot away from his left elbow like an ocean-coloured ghost. "Oh, Marius!" she said brightly, without honorific or respectful bow. "That's where you went off to — ooooooh."
And he replied by not taking his eyes away from her, though only a second ago, he'd been insisting on examining the carved column behind her head.
Tonight, people were waiting for her entrance, and she didn't disappoint them. Neither did her fiancé in a room of men and women pretending they could do the same, and shine like the sun. Their gold was darker than her own, and none of them had a glowing sun set in their hair or rays painted on their face.
She was the star of the soirée. All the guests commented on Cosette's beauty. It seemed that she was in a high good mood, feeling that all eyes were upon her, and curtsied and smiled right and left. Suddenly, all the guests were heard to murmur how beautiful and how rare she was, without a single mention of her intelligence or of her tragic past. Such a shame that few knew of her real worth...
A nobleman in a black suit approached her, bowing slightly — enough to not stand out as a lack of politeness, but not enough to convey proper respect.
She curtsied back, exactly the same amount he had.
"My lady," the nobleman said with a laugh in his voice that she didn’t trust. "I have not had the pleasure of your name —”
Recognising the young Baron de Courfeyrac, she saw that he smiled through bared teeth. What could the poor man do but fake more smiles and nod, holding out his arm for her?
She didn't want to dance with this man, but she had been pushed into a corner. She accepted his hand and suffered her way through the dance.
Then he started looking down his nose at her when she forgot the second turn and she managed to ignore him, but only just.
And as soon as the dance was over, Courfeyrac, who had wrested her from Marius, bowed slightly again and excused himself from her company. For which she was grateful.
Unfortunately, because the courtiers had become curious rather than scared, another one after her to dance, a man closer to her own age who stared at her in a way she found incredibly impolite and more than a little bit creepy. And then there was another after him, older than M. Fauchelevent even, who moved slowly and was as forgetful of the dance steps as Cosette expected.
It was then that Marius returned, a cup of champagne in each hand, to her side.
Shuddering at the image, she allowed herself to be guided off the floor. Her fiancé's hand was warm — almost hot — on her shoulder and he pulled her into a dark patch where a half-wall and some columns came together. They were hidden from view and for the first time since that affair of mistaken identity, he relaxed. Just turned on her, his hand still on her shoulder, and stepped closer. His head came down towards her and she thought he would kiss her, but he just put his forehead against hers and sighed.
Marius shivered suddenly and blood rushed to his cheeks, made ruddier by the firelight all around them. When he opened his eyes, there was a dark hunger lurking behind the bright irises.
Blood rushed to Cosette's cheeks, a mirror to her fiancé's own. She remembered a very specific conversation about this exact subject, butterflies bubbled up in her stomach. “Is this really the time?” she snapped to cover her fluster.
He held her closer. “Can you think of a better one?”
“Oui. Any other time would be better. We’re surrounded by people."
Sighing, Marius stepped back and shook his head. “You’re right,” she said, though his agreement was slightly tempered by the fact that he held onto her hand, and she grabbed him by the wrist in turn and dragged him away; led him to a group of pretty, well dressed women fluttering by the side of the room, removed from the dance floor but adjacent. Waiting, doubtless, for someone to ask for a dance. But they'd never ask on their own. Oh no, of course not.
"Ladies!" Cosette said, bursting into the center of the group and throwing her arms wide like she was the princess in a storybook, "Hello, ladies!"
A lot of practiced court smiles greeted her and her bridegroom and then turned very cold as soon as they saw who it was. Their eyes lanced into the fiancés, every single one of them looking for flaws in their look, chinks in their armour. They were just delicate, dove-like creatures with pale faces and petals for mouths.
"Is she?" one of the women said, but there were so many faces pointed towards her that neither she nor Marius could tell who'd spoken. It was a quiet, hissing comment that should have made any of the fiancés falter, and of course her beau wavered, but instead she just looked around the circle with hooded eyes, smiling very slightly as though she was blessing them with her presence rather than being insulted.
"Now Baron Marius de Pontmercy," Cosette repeated with a slight emphasis on the title, glaring around the group, "traveled all the way from the Left Bank to be here. I bet you saw amazing things on your journey." She turned to her fiancé, noble ladies forgotten. Her eyes glimmered. "Didn't you?"
"Of course I did," he replied, wishing he could disappear, but his presence was too crucial in this event to be able to sneak away quietly.
"Oooh!" Cosette clapped her hands and bounced on the balls of her feet. "Like what?"
The noblewomen snorted in either disgust or disbelief. Cosette, however, turned somewhat red and started coughing, covering her mouth with a sleeve. And Marius struggled not to grin. This was what these nice girls got if they wanted to play against the fiancés — and they all looked so similar that one couldn't bother to keep them straight. Pretty, covered in rice powder, and disapproving.
"Oh!" one such noble girl's face went from snobby to excited as she looked over her shoulder.
"So who were you again?" said one noblewoman.
The noblewomen tittered and Marius felt himself going red as a lobster thermidor, while Cosette looked at her feet.
Every woman around them gasped. A few fans snapped out to cover mouths and noses that couldn't hide their horror.
"Marius," Cosette said, her bounciness disappearing under worry. "Why don't we just —?”
Behind his back, his fiancée was shooing away the other noble girls; apparently this conversation wasn't any of their business, which was appreciated.
Steeling himself, the young translator drained his third cup of champagne to the last drop and beckoned his guardian-in-law and the others away, to remain en tête-à-tête with her once more; then looked at her with eyes bright and eager, as if his heart were as light as air. Soon, he mused, he would be her spouse, and tied to his own personal kingdom as well as to hers, and surely his own guardians would be invited to the wedding to take their leave of the lucky lad; would it not be a great adventure to confront the ones who had disowned him and cast him out, with brave souls... and see if they would break or bend?
His face was very close to hers and she wanted to kiss him, but there were so many people here. So many she could feel their stares.
"Do you want to dance?" she asked.
The bridegroom's mouth twisted up at the corners. "Do you know how to dance?"
"Do you?" she shot back.
He raised his one right eyebrow, an arch of black over the gold of his gaze, his mouth quirking in a half smile. "You know, I had the benefit of a royal education," he told her.
She smiled and put her own hands in his.
To his benefit, he clearly knew she had no idea what she was doing and didn't shame her for it, though Cosette thought he'd have been well within his rights to do so. Instead, he just muttered quiet instructions as the musicians struck up a slow, melancholy song. "Step back," he said gently, leaning closer to her than the other couples around them, who kept a very formal arms length. "Turn. Good. Fingers here ... no, a little lower ... and spin."
She focused on her feet. "Do you have a lot of dances?" she asked, aware of very little other than the warmth of him and how awkward her feet were.
"Too many." He sounded wry and upset. "I had to learn them all when I was little. My guardians insisted on it. Thought a decent socialite might need to know them, I suppose." The tone of his voice went from joking to angry. She looked up at him, eyebrows curving in worry, and he didn't smile, just looked over the crown of her head.
She was the star of the soirée. All the guests commented on Cosette's beauty. It seemed that she was in a high good mood, feeling that all eyes were upon her, and curtsied and smiled right and left. Suddenly, all the guests were heard to murmur how beautiful and how rare she was, without a single mention of her intelligence or of her tragic past. Such a shame that few knew of her real worth...
A nobleman in a black suit approached her, bowing slightly — enough to not stand out as a lack of politeness, but not enough to convey proper respect.
She curtsied back, exactly the same amount he had.
"My lady," the nobleman said with a laugh in his voice that she didn’t trust. "I have not had the pleasure of your name —”
Recognising the young Baron de Courfeyrac, she saw that he smiled through bared teeth. What could the poor man do but fake more smiles and nod, holding out his arm for her?
She didn't want to dance with this man, but she had been pushed into a corner. She accepted his hand and suffered her way through the dance.
Then he started looking down his nose at her when she forgot the second turn and she managed to ignore him, but only just.
And as soon as the dance was over, Courfeyrac, who had wrested her from Marius, bowed slightly again and excused himself from her company. For which she was grateful.
Unfortunately, because the courtiers had become curious rather than scared, another one after her to dance, a man closer to her own age who stared at her in a way she found incredibly impolite and more than a little bit creepy. And then there was another after him, older than M. Fauchelevent even, who moved slowly and was as forgetful of the dance steps as Cosette expected.
It was then that Marius returned, a cup of champagne in each hand, to her side.
Shuddering at the image, she allowed herself to be guided off the floor. Her fiancé's hand was warm — almost hot — on her shoulder and he pulled her into a dark patch where a half-wall and some columns came together. They were hidden from view and for the first time since that affair of mistaken identity, he relaxed. Just turned on her, his hand still on her shoulder, and stepped closer. His head came down towards her and she thought he would kiss her, but he just put his forehead against hers and sighed.
Marius shivered suddenly and blood rushed to his cheeks, made ruddier by the firelight all around them. When he opened his eyes, there was a dark hunger lurking behind the bright irises.
Blood rushed to Cosette's cheeks, a mirror to her fiancé's own. She remembered a very specific conversation about this exact subject, butterflies bubbled up in her stomach. “Is this really the time?” she snapped to cover her fluster.
He held her closer. “Can you think of a better one?”
“Oui. Any other time would be better. We’re surrounded by people."
Sighing, Marius stepped back and shook his head. “You’re right,” she said, though his agreement was slightly tempered by the fact that he held onto her hand, and she grabbed him by the wrist in turn and dragged him away; led him to a group of pretty, well dressed women fluttering by the side of the room, removed from the dance floor but adjacent. Waiting, doubtless, for someone to ask for a dance. But they'd never ask on their own. Oh no, of course not.
"Ladies!" Cosette said, bursting into the center of the group and throwing her arms wide like she was the princess in a storybook, "Hello, ladies!"
A lot of practiced court smiles greeted her and her bridegroom and then turned very cold as soon as they saw who it was. Their eyes lanced into the fiancés, every single one of them looking for flaws in their look, chinks in their armour. They were just delicate, dove-like creatures with pale faces and petals for mouths.
"Is she?" one of the women said, but there were so many faces pointed towards her that neither she nor Marius could tell who'd spoken. It was a quiet, hissing comment that should have made any of the fiancés falter, and of course her beau wavered, but instead she just looked around the circle with hooded eyes, smiling very slightly as though she was blessing them with her presence rather than being insulted.
"Now Baron Marius de Pontmercy," Cosette repeated with a slight emphasis on the title, glaring around the group, "traveled all the way from the Left Bank to be here. I bet you saw amazing things on your journey." She turned to her fiancé, noble ladies forgotten. Her eyes glimmered. "Didn't you?"
"Of course I did," he replied, wishing he could disappear, but his presence was too crucial in this event to be able to sneak away quietly.
"Oooh!" Cosette clapped her hands and bounced on the balls of her feet. "Like what?"
The noblewomen snorted in either disgust or disbelief. Cosette, however, turned somewhat red and started coughing, covering her mouth with a sleeve. And Marius struggled not to grin. This was what these nice girls got if they wanted to play against the fiancés — and they all looked so similar that one couldn't bother to keep them straight. Pretty, covered in rice powder, and disapproving.
"Oh!" one such noble girl's face went from snobby to excited as she looked over her shoulder.
"So who were you again?" said one noblewoman.
The noblewomen tittered and Marius felt himself going red as a lobster thermidor, while Cosette looked at her feet.
Every woman around them gasped. A few fans snapped out to cover mouths and noses that couldn't hide their horror.
"Marius," Cosette said, her bounciness disappearing under worry. "Why don't we just —?”
Behind his back, his fiancée was shooing away the other noble girls; apparently this conversation wasn't any of their business, which was appreciated.
Steeling himself, the young translator drained his third cup of champagne to the last drop and beckoned his guardian-in-law and the others away, to remain en tête-à-tête with her once more; then looked at her with eyes bright and eager, as if his heart were as light as air. Soon, he mused, he would be her spouse, and tied to his own personal kingdom as well as to hers, and surely his own guardians would be invited to the wedding to take their leave of the lucky lad; would it not be a great adventure to confront the ones who had disowned him and cast him out, with brave souls... and see if they would break or bend?
His face was very close to hers and she wanted to kiss him, but there were so many people here. So many she could feel their stares.
"Do you want to dance?" she asked.
The bridegroom's mouth twisted up at the corners. "Do you know how to dance?"
"Do you?" she shot back.
He raised his one right eyebrow, an arch of black over the gold of his gaze, his mouth quirking in a half smile. "You know, I had the benefit of a royal education," he told her.
She smiled and put her own hands in his.
To his benefit, he clearly knew she had no idea what she was doing and didn't shame her for it, though Cosette thought he'd have been well within his rights to do so. Instead, he just muttered quiet instructions as the musicians struck up a slow, melancholy song. "Step back," he said gently, leaning closer to her than the other couples around them, who kept a very formal arms length. "Turn. Good. Fingers here ... no, a little lower ... and spin."
She focused on her feet. "Do you have a lot of dances?" she asked, aware of very little other than the warmth of him and how awkward her feet were.
"Too many." He sounded wry and upset. "I had to learn them all when I was little. My guardians insisted on it. Thought a decent socialite might need to know them, I suppose." The tone of his voice went from joking to angry. She looked up at him, eyebrows curving in worry, and he didn't smile, just looked over the crown of her head.
Instead, he just pulled her close in the next past, his cheek rasping against her left temple. "I missed you," he whispered. "I missed you too." Her heart stuttered just a little and then resumed at twice the speed. The smell of him was the same, the feel of his hands against hers, his breath at her ear. She wanted to bury her head in his suit at heart height and sob, so tired and anxious had her last years been. It had been one thing when everything was a mission — get to safety, find a way into the boarding school, learn everything that there was to know, find herself a fiancé. It was another to be here with the man she'd been looking for this whole time and just feel like she couldn't do any more. No more missions. No more travelling. She was done.
Of course, there was still more to do, but in this moment, all Cosette wanted to do was let her Marius comfort her.
But there was no time for that. The song was coming to an end and she had to figure out how to get him away.
The song ended. He bowed over her hand, his mouth brushing her fingers, and then she thought he would be gone before she could say anything more.
The song ended and her fiancé offered her his arm to lead her off the dance floor and into the darkness behind the columns, where the light came from the low burning fires and the guests became backlit groups speaking quietly, their heads bent together. Groups of women watched the fiancés with unkind eyes, their gazes flickering between Cosette and Marius as though either he'd or she'd stolen something that rightfully belonged to them. Perhaps in a way, she had. She ignored their looks.
The room was very full. Noblewomen stared at her from behind fans and delicate fingertips. The women she'd spoken to watched her with hard eyes that couldn't quite conceal the fear behind them.
She looked away in disgust and disinterest and made sure they saw it.
"Optimistic, aren't you." He turned his head and kissed the inside of her right wrist. The gesture was intimate enough that it would have embarrassed her even in private. In front of these people, all of whom were watching the interaction, it was all Cosette could do to stop herself from sinking into the floor. Her skin burned beneath his lips.
He only laughed at her a little as they danced and she forgot the steps, but she noticed that he made sure to keep his back to her guardian at all times. Dancing with one another was fun, and she was sweet if somewhat mocking, but it was hard to keep her mind on her fiancé...
"Dance with me." After three nights she was starting to know the dances, and she recognized the tune the musicians had struck up. She put her hands in his, though he didn't seem to want to hold onto her right now. She flashed him another smile, hoping that it was more dazzling with her rosy lips. "Dance with me or we're going to arouse suspicion and you don't want that, now do you?"
Jaws tight, teeth creaking against each other, her sweetheart took her hands and spun her out onto the dance floor; turned her in time with the music, then turned her again and she returned her gaze to his face. That face was full of emotion, even if sometimes that emotion was sulking.
"You're so clever," quoth he, eyes shining, for yet he did expect so much from her. His delight in Cosette's wit and her intelligence, her ability to challenge him, to make him laugh was evidence enough. Such things would be important!
For both of them, it seemed like all the air in their lungs was escaping out.
Silence ensued; a silence during which they did not break eye contact the slightest; raising their heads and looking one another straight in the eyes, blue on mossy green, ocean on hazel. Not even when Cosette smiled. Not even when the fiancée gradually began to step forwards.
He only lost sight of her eyes when he shut his own as their lips touched. Quite slowly, quite slowly, without tearing herself from his grasp, her hand touched his, resting light as a feather, her fingers entwining with Marius's.
After that first kiss, there came a second.
Then a third.
Then a fourth one.
They gave one another so many kisses that, if all of them were poured together into the same flagon, it would be impossible to know how many kisses they exchanged throughout that evening and night.
So it was that the star-hearted heiress and the weary translator were in the glass chamber, and they listened to the story told on the balcony with great interest, from his side, and compassion, from hers. Enjolras and Courfeyrac studied them, watched the way they interacted, how they played off of each other, how the simple touch on the back of a hand could say so much between them. Cosette was so waiflike and elegant, Marius strong and charming. They were like the princes and princesses Jehan Prouvaire liked to hear stories of, the old fashioned hierarchical roles that had disappeared along with the dark days.
The music reached its crescendo and people clapped with fervour the end of the song and so the two departed from the embrace. Yet the princely betrothed did not let go of Cosette's hand and instead led her under everyone’s watchful gaze towards the terrace and from from it through the stairs, stopping at their foot. Just then he released her hand and pointed in front of them, towards the yard in front of the château. The room was very full. Noblewomen stared at her from behind fans and delicate fingertips. The women she'd spoken to watched her with hard eyes that couldn't quite conceal the fear behind them.
She looked away in disgust and disinterest and made sure they saw it.
"Optimistic, aren't you." He turned his head and kissed the inside of her right wrist. The gesture was intimate enough that it would have embarrassed her even in private. In front of these people, all of whom were watching the interaction, it was all Cosette could do to stop herself from sinking into the floor. Her skin burned beneath his lips.
He only laughed at her a little as they danced and she forgot the steps, but she noticed that he made sure to keep his back to her guardian at all times. Dancing with one another was fun, and she was sweet if somewhat mocking, but it was hard to keep her mind on her fiancé...
"Dance with me." After three nights she was starting to know the dances, and she recognized the tune the musicians had struck up. She put her hands in his, though he didn't seem to want to hold onto her right now. She flashed him another smile, hoping that it was more dazzling with her rosy lips. "Dance with me or we're going to arouse suspicion and you don't want that, now do you?"
Jaws tight, teeth creaking against each other, her sweetheart took her hands and spun her out onto the dance floor; turned her in time with the music, then turned her again and she returned her gaze to his face. That face was full of emotion, even if sometimes that emotion was sulking.
"You're so clever," quoth he, eyes shining, for yet he did expect so much from her. His delight in Cosette's wit and her intelligence, her ability to challenge him, to make him laugh was evidence enough. Such things would be important!
For both of them, it seemed like all the air in their lungs was escaping out.
Silence ensued; a silence during which they did not break eye contact the slightest; raising their heads and looking one another straight in the eyes, blue on mossy green, ocean on hazel. Not even when Cosette smiled. Not even when the fiancée gradually began to step forwards.
He only lost sight of her eyes when he shut his own as their lips touched. Quite slowly, quite slowly, without tearing herself from his grasp, her hand touched his, resting light as a feather, her fingers entwining with Marius's.
After that first kiss, there came a second.
Then a third.
Then a fourth one.
They gave one another so many kisses that, if all of them were poured together into the same flagon, it would be impossible to know how many kisses they exchanged throughout that evening and night.
So it was that the star-hearted heiress and the weary translator were in the glass chamber, and they listened to the story told on the balcony with great interest, from his side, and compassion, from hers. Enjolras and Courfeyrac studied them, watched the way they interacted, how they played off of each other, how the simple touch on the back of a hand could say so much between them. Cosette was so waiflike and elegant, Marius strong and charming. They were like the princes and princesses Jehan Prouvaire liked to hear stories of, the old fashioned hierarchical roles that had disappeared along with the dark days.
The conductor motioned with his hands for the flute players to stop playing. They stopped mid-note, and, at the same time, the remaining lights of the façade went out, one right after the other. The music ended.
The ladies and lords were sent out of the room. "We'll have more entertainment later," the host assured them. "Rise," he said. "This is a party, not a funeral, and we're all here for entertainment. Dance, drink. You are all welcome."
Every single person around turned in unison and dropped to the ground. In a rustle of silk, all the party-goers slid to their knees. Enjolras dropped to his knees as well, though his back stayed straight. His head dropped and his hands folded on his lap.
"We must help you," said the bridegroom in a voice so firm and good that it was no question that everything would be arranged; he had a shine to his eyes.
For the second time that day, Enjolras found himself telling his story. When he was finished he made a plea on behalf of Courfeyrac and himself, for they had tried so hard to help one another, and he did not wish to see any of them punished, begging them not to punish the two for their actions.
"Indeed not," said the heiress and her fiancé; then they reassured and praised the students, and said they were not angry for what they had done, saying that they were not cross at all (disant qu’ils n’étaient point du tout fâchés,), because that meant for Cosette that it was worth, for her, the acquaintance of such interesting good friends of her fiancé's, and that they had done the right thing... as long as this mistake was not made a second time, given the standing of all four young people in society, lest they should not succeed as well as the first time, or worst, lest they should not succeed at all. Then they called Enjolras and Courfeyrac forward, praising them for their actions though they were not to repeat it again, and that they should never raise false hopes without being sure. But this time they were to be rewarded for it.
"How brave you are!" the heiress exclaimed. "So young and still walking all alone along the length and width of France! Here you two will be safe, you are out of harm's way, for you surely need to rest... How can we help you? Will you dine with us and stay the night? We'd like to keep you rested and well-fed to keep up your health and strength. You may call me Cosette, for I feel for you a great likeness to myself and therefore we can converse as friends. You do not seem to be anything at all like my ladies-in-waiting." Warmth rushed to Enjolras' cheeks at the compliment he knew it was, as he breathed out a sigh of relief.
The fiancés also, greatly impressed at the ingenuity and bravery of the two students, praised them, complimented them in a warm voice, and reassured them that they were not cross at all with them, in spite of the breach they had made against all the rules of etiquette; but they warned them that young men of their rank should not recommence with the same mistake of intruding upon a couple during a tryst, ever again, since all three young men were at least acquaintances, and it all had been simply an affair of mistaken identity, but not to do such things too often; for such liberties were never allowed at any castle or estate of high society. "Yes. I am not going to punish them," Marius narrowed his eyes. But, in spite of all that, they should not recommence once more with such affairs, lest they would not succeed that well in prospective tryst-crashes."How brave you are!" the heiress exclaimed. "So young and still walking all alone along the length and width of France! Here you two will be safe, you are out of harm's way, for you surely need to rest... How can we help you? Will you dine with us and stay the night? We'd like to keep you rested and well-fed to keep up your health and strength. You may call me Cosette, for I feel for you a great likeness to myself and therefore we can converse as friends. You do not seem to be anything at all like my ladies-in-waiting." Warmth rushed to Enjolras' cheeks at the compliment he knew it was, as he breathed out a sigh of relief.
On the other hand, they would be rewarded as they rightfully deserved; anyway, their hosts wished to offer them rewards. Still after they had convinced himself that the bridegroom was not Grantaire, Enjolras and Courfeyrac responded warmly to the couple. They were surprisingly not angry that some young stranger had broken into the Palace with the help of connections and had woken them up from their rêverie in the night.
In fact, all they could feel for the boys was sympathy. They had even praised them for such a noble deed, but had asked for them not to do it again.
"Would the two of you rather prefer the cause of liberty, without any responsibilities," the heiress asked them with a friendly look in azure eyes, "or do you prefer a place here, an official appointment as conseillers or advisors to our venture, with the right to everything that these fixed appointments entail? Would both of you wish to be raised to a high position?"For both the fiancés had even promised to give them a reward: they offered them fixed official appointments as "courtiers" in local society and advisors to the Fauchelevent-Pontmercy venture, on the condition that their revolutionary gatherings at the Café Musain be a thing of the past, and that the that the key to the staircase be returned, but both Enjolras and Courfeyrac, though they responded warmly to the couple, refused the official appointment, bowing in sign of thankfulness; not thinking it best for their personal future, but deciding so since they knew that they had to die young and the future of the nation had priority.
The former would not accept it on account of his calling as a rebel leader, and the latter for more personal reasons:
"For I would rather have my independence, even if it means..." said Courfeyrac, bowing in a sign of reconaissance, "I am a true Gascon, one whose life shall be nipped in the bud for the sake of a noble cause, fully convinced that I shall die young in battle sooner or later, and thus I would never compromise to 'make something out of my life'... and if I were made a courtier, I would have to settle down and marry a fine lady, and not be allowed to flutter-by or dilly-dally, and that would not suit me at all (as he put it). You see, I am too young to have my wings clipped, and very sharp-tongued when I am unhappy. Eh, Marius? No, if you give anyone a gift, it ought to be our leader over here, for he has come very far looking for his friend who left him, and if our friend Grand'R won't treat him properly, then someone else ought to." In spite of his duelling scar, he was a weak man when it came to willpower. "I think I’ll have another glass of this excellent wine."
Oui, liberty and freedom were worth more than assured comforts!
It was thus also agreed on the spot that, from that day on, no one of them would ever enter into the Conseil d'État.
"Of course," Marius said, leaning over and kissing Cosette on the cheek before rising and exiting through the curtains on the other side of the large balcony. Still she remained locked in a state of virginal purity, unable to move to a condition of mature adult sexuality until she became Madame Pontmercy, surrendering all that she had been until then. The couple was passionately drawn to each other, but without a trace of erotic desire. They were both far too young for such serious fun.
And then the fiancés, who really gave the impression of a storybook prince and princess, summoned servants to have a bed made up in a spare room for Enjolras and another for Courfeyrac, to take them upstairs for a hot bath and a comfortable place to sleep, and to bring them bread and butter from the kitchens for their supper, and the fair leader slept on a soft mattress, in a large silken four-poster bed with a canopy over it, for the first time since he had left his lodgings in Montmartre.
Over a meal of a thick, hearty soup, and bread as fragrant and dense as anything he had ever eaten from the Musain, Enjolras shared once more his journey, told of his trek across the land. Unable to stop staring at him in rapt enthusiasm, Cosette and Marius hung on every word. And as the blond student came to the present time, Cosette laid down her napkin and told him, with little fanfare, that the unexpected decision of hers to tie the knot had led him here. That it had carried Enjolras far across the land, further than he could ever have dreamed to pass, and brought him here, to them, for them to help her on her way. On his quest to find Grantaire.
As they ate through many courses of mushroom and leek soup, fine beef and carrots, and more fruits for dessert, the fiancés talked about only the kind of things that the clever and knowledgeable could talk about. And the guests laughed with their company as Marius recounted his first visit to the palace, tutted as Cosette complained of the loneliness that had been her ladies-in-waiting...
Enjolras looked at Cosette and then at Marius, who was leaning over to her and whispering and making her blush; then caught Marius' loving but resigned glance at the woman to his left, as he took her hand delicately in his. But Cosette shook it off, telling her fiancé not to misunderstand her, not to think it was another of her thoughts that flitted through her brain with little or no rhyme or reason. And told him, emphatically, that she knew she was right.
The translator prince turned to his gracious bride, "Shall we give them spare beds tonight?"
And Cosette nodded. "Yes, Marius dear, that is perfectly alright with me."
“Poor thing,” he replied, looking over his shoulder at the sleepy blond. “He has travelled such a long way.”
“Maybe there’s something we can do to help him.” Cosette said, raising a hand to stroke the head of raven hair on her shoulder. “We can’t just let him leave dressed like that. He’ll never survive the winter.”
And so her guardian, to give the two lovebirds some well-deserved privacy, gestured for the guests to take the beds, showing them the way to the spare rooms, insisting despite their protests. They ascended two floors and, in between supper and bedtime, Enjolras had been given a long and comfortable, splendid dressing gown of warm cherry-red velvet with a collar and cuffs lined with lace to sleep in, and he had been thoroughly scrubbed with Marseille soap and lavender water by the master's own valets, the blood and skin from the blisters on his sore footsoles washed away and massaged with lavender oil ere his feet were bandaged with gauze. They took him and Courfeyrac into a suite of sumptuous rooms and dressed both students in dressing gowns they called "refreshingly simple." The bedclothes of crimson red velvet brocade were also scented with soothing, fresh lavender, calming the young blond and bringing back to him fond memories of springtimes in his childhood in the Camargue, when he as lonely and weary as both Marius and Cosette had been before their paths ever crossed. When he had made himself at home in the spare bedchamber, with a great canopy bed in the middle, the bed-curtains thickly embroidered with gold and silver thread... Cosette's guardian had showed him the way and, as both of them stepped onto the estrade covered with costly tapestries for carpeting through which one arrived, told Enjolras that he should lie down and rest, for he could plainly go no farther that night. He was a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair, and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed.
"Monsieur, you have already shown me more kindness than I deserve," the fair leader protested, though his body ached for the comfort of that soft-looking bed, to the point of accepting the host's offer that he get into this luxurious bed once he himself was well fed and cleansed.
"Nonsense," said Courfeyrac, who had also come to bid him goodnight, smiling a crooked smile not unlike Grantaire's own. "Sleep now. We'll talk in the morning. And call the young hosts Marius and Cosette, by first name," he insisted, gesturing again for Enjolras to take his bed, and wishing him goodnight. He could not do anything more for the day -- and he couldn't do more than that, could he? At last the puzzled Gascon closed the door, and left the blond in the twilight.
The fair leader had not the strength to resist, and so he lay down in the lavender-scented bed and was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow. It was the first time he had been able to sleep in safety and comfort in many months, and it was not grand and large like many of the other rooms in the castle, but rather it had a cosy feel to it, though it was twice the size of his own back home in the Camargue, the spread the colour of autumn leaves, the wispy curtains opened wide to the gently falling drizzle on the other side of the glass. The roof was curved like a dome and the floor was soft and carpeted.
And thus Enjolras retired to the room they had prepared for him, belly full of comforting food and hot chocolate, and a warmth in his heart that had been missing for years. Stripping down to underclothes and snuggling under a comforter that was thick and fluffy and felt like a cloud... Sleep came swift for a body and mind exhausted.
Pulling the embroidered curtains of his canopy bed together, Enjolras wrapped himself in a cocoon of lavender-perfumed silk sheets drawn up to his nose and fell asleep, thinking and murmuring with gratitude: "How kind everyone is -- men and women both... How nice the people are. How good people are! How good some human beings are. How much kindness people have for a stranger in the wide world...! que les hommes et les femmes ont de la bonté pour moi! Oh! que les hommes et les femmes sont bons dans le vaste monde! How nice people can be. Everyone is so very good. I am truly lucky. But still, this is all certainly noblesse oblige. The world, and not only France, needs many more Fauchelevents, or else, we young people will have to hoist the flags of freedom once more..."
Laying in bed only allowed as much, he’d knew each corner of the room by heart. While at first the sight was wondrous, it quickly lost its luster. In spite of its cosy atmosphere, this was a pretty and rich chamber, but it served as a time capsule, preserving the sleeper in its comfortable bed, keeping him tucked and sweating in the thick covers. Then, he shut his weary eyes and fell fast into a peaceful sleep.
While he slept, it seemed to him that he was back in the backroom of the Café Musain, surrounded by all of his friends once more. Joly was there, checking for eye-bags in the mirror; and Feuilly was there, ranting about the Hungarians oppressed by Austria; and Grantaire was there, dozing off by a flickering candle and a few empty bottles; and Enjolras himself was there, waving the flag and trying to convince them that this was not a game at all... and Combeferre sat beside a chessboard; he had a stick of charcoal and a sheet of paper, and was sketching all of them while they worked at their respective passions. Then, all of a sudden, Joly left saying that it was time to go to bed and it should be at least ten hours of sleep; and Feuilly left, chanting the Szózat... and Courfeyrac left, saying his latest ladylove had invited him over to this Liszt concert; and nearly all the others left, one by one, Combeferre the last, until only Enjolras and Grantaire remained en tête-à-tête in the Café, both of them flustered, staring at one another but not knowing exactly what to say; Grantaire didn't smile when he was left en tête-a-tête with Enjolras, but only nodded, as if he'd been waiting for him.
At last he came with an excuse, saying he could not help having a lark with Courf', who came across him on his way from the lecture hall; that they had had great fun.
"You are not summoned here for fun, but for serious business," was the stern leader's salutation.
"All right, all right; don't look at me as if you wanted to find out what I have eaten for supper, or rather, been drinking. To be serious, I must have fun first. So must you; putting all that pressure on will make you particularly ill. Now give me my instructions, Lord Commander, and I swear, my lord, I will act as if it were the jolliest joke," replied Grantaire, seating himself flat on the floor.
"Your inclination for intoxicating drinks will send you to the madhouse ere long," said Enjolras, suppressing his laughter at the jester's inimitable grimaces.
"Oh, ah, bah! My arse! I think I'm there already," was his answer, while coolly raising his wrist.
"No more of your jesting now," said the immovable leader; "listen to what I have to say. You know the National Guard will give a performance tomorrow evening, and we intend to give one in return; in this our performance, you will take an important part. I expect we shall see some wonderful thrill tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is our opportunity, and we must take the best advantage of it to liberate our beloved France. Thus, Grantaire, I want you to watch studiously for the first moment you can---"
Then, quite unexpectedly, licking his lips, the savateur with hair the colour of black coffee purred in a low voice. “Well, I’ve yet got to see under that waistcoat. Darling, you are dressed up like an onion, I’ve got to peel you layer by layer.” He swayed closer and Enjolras almost gagged at the intensely alcoholic breath that was blown into his face, but the fair leader held his composure, knowing that his nighttime would be easier if the lush drifted to sleep on his own, rather than being incensed with him and watchful of his every move.
The savateur subsequently pulled the fair leader to himself and he hit his chest with his own. He would try to get out of his grasp, weren’t it for the Marseillais' hands firmly pressing Enjolras' hips to his own, kneading his ass as best he could. The shock was so huge that the fair leader couldn’t find any words nor strength to muster any action. He simply froze in the man’s arms and watched as his face got closer and closer, alarm ringing in his ears.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to cause any resistance which could cause him trouble. He just wanted to go on and let the group take what they wanted. He didn’t care about the possessions. One coat was enough, he would find a way. But this was something he didn’t count with and it pushed against his threshold.
“Chéri, I hope you taste as delicious as you look. You won’t mind me taking a taste, will you?” Grantaire kissed his jaw lightly and whispered into his ear with a sirupy oath. “I promise I’ll be gentle and I know how to reward… very well.” His short stubble tickled Enjolras on the cheek and if it were any different circumstances, he might like the soft quality and enjoy the pleasant fragrance, but the only thing he could feel was anxiety gripping on his throat and a shout crawling up.
"Do not push your obstinacy too far, adored sun-god," resumed the savateur, in a bittersweet voice; "many a young maiden, and stripling besides, has repented, through a long life's suffering, the obstinate refusal of devoted love. Remember, beauty of my life, that the patience of the mighty is soon exhausted, and that---revenge is sweet. Tomorrow I will come again with yet more costly presents. For I still do the utmost to please you. Farewell, then; but, cher Enj---remember!"
Moving his mouth in an effort to produce a smile he again seized the blond's hand to kiss it, when the doors suddenly opened and the Green Faery made an unexpected entrance, fluttering into the room, cajoling the dark-haired student, so that he released Enjolras' hand, and clasping him in her arms; as soon as both of them were leaving through the front corridor, surreptitiously Marianne, the only mistress Enjolras thought he would ever love, coiffed with her bright scarlet Phrygian cap and bare-breasted and all, wearing a tricolore for a cape, marched in at a resolute step and, with a quick motion, packed him by the wrist, tearing him out of the Café by force, and dragging him along in a southward direction, as the Green Faery and the dark, ungainly sceptic got into that baroque carriage across the Musain and took off for the north. For a while, the fair leader looked over his shoulder and, with unchecked tears in his eyes, screamed out: "GRANTAIRE!", as Marianne urged him to march like a soldier at her brisk pace in the opposite direction; the one he sought disappearing from view, without even looking back to take a glance at his despair. “Take me to him! I must see him at once. It could be him!” He choked that out and fell down to his knees, unable to stand anymore. His face felt so hot, the stiff shoulders protested and the next thing he knew, he slid behind. All became completely dark and last thing he could hear was a Marseillaise sung by a powerful female in a contralto voice. And, after "abreuve nos sillons", Marianne chiding her votary: "The villain is very fond of you, and suspects everything in you is a trick; therefore, it will be easy for you to..."
But all of this was nothing but a dream, only a dream, and consequently vanished as soon as he awoke, with the first lights of dawn. Reeling from the shock, in a cold sweat, with a deep gasp, his vocal cords tied in a dreadful knot; sun-rays stealing across the curtains, in a silken four-poster bed, and rather relieved that everything at the Musain had disappeared and he had only dreamt it all, that Grantaire and the Café Musain were as far away as ever; he had been sleeping on his belly with only the back of his neck uncovered from the ribbon-laced covers.
When he came to himself, he bolted upright at the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, before the previous night came rushing back to his mind's eye; he was in a room with high ceiling scattered with gold stucco, the walls papered with rococo floral motifs. Quick sweep of his surroundings assured him he’s in a rich household. Canopied bed with golden tassels; gilded chairs, tables, and cabinets, all furniture of a dark shining wood; silken draperies for window-curtains. The floor was covered with a thick and elegant Persian carpet, and one entered the bedchamber through an estrade covered or paved with costly tapestries for carpeting. A thick gold cord, a beautiful embroidered bell-rope, hung close to the bed-curtains. A servant girl at his side, peeking through the bed-curtains, jumped out of her chair and ran out of the room shouting so fast that he didn't have the time to ask anything.
"He’s awake!”
"What are you doing here?" he said drowsily, brushing his hair from his eyes. After a reassuring quarter of an hour more sleep to recover from the shock, Enjolras awoke slowly, his body hesitant to remove itself from comfort he had long been missing. But he stretched, first one leg, then the other, back arching, before his eyes fluttered open and he sat up, the covers pooling around his waist; trembling from weakness as he tried to prop himself on the elbows.
The young man with the fair hair shot to the girl, not leaving his gaze from her, which made the maid feel pinned down like a butterfly.
She tucked her bright red hair behind her ear and tugged at her bonnet. The maid was watching his every move and the anticipation could be cut with a knife.
Then, rising up and putting two and two together, he welcomed the mild light of day. Enjolras swallowed, feeling his throat dry and moistened his dry lips to speak. His voice was so raspy he didn’t even recognize it at first.
"Bon... jour."
The girl stepped up front, welcoming look on her gentle face.
"Maid, shut up! I’ll do the talking!”
The blond boy yelled at her like an agitated cat.
“Sorry, your Highness!”
She filled a glass with water. Then she helped the fair leader to drink a little, asking him gently if he had enough and should he need something. He managed to nod or shake his head only, focusing on handling the storm of thought rushing in his mind.
The room could be seen clearer now that it was day. It was very cluttered with strange ornaments, paintings, and cabinets. The walls were crimson with gold lacy patterns decorating the corners, the spread upon the bed the colour of autumn leaves, the wispy curtains opened wide to the gently dawning sun on the other side of the glass. The room was regally fitted up. The choicest refreshments were placed upon a side-board, should the guest wake up feeling dry. Rare flowers were placed about the room in profusion, musical instruments in the fashion of those times, besides games and other inventions for pastime. If it were not for those openings in the ceiling, made to let in the perfumes from the garden, he should have been suffocated.
When Enjolras looked down, he saw the bed was very high off the ground. On the floor was another servant, a valet, packing an open suitcase. After his awakening had caught the servants' attention, the valet and maid lifted the fair leader from the bed and sat him in a fancy armchair.
"Bonjour, how did you sleep... um... how shall I address you?" the valet began, bowing low.
"Enjolras; that will do just fine. And there's no need to bow, I am nothing but a Law student," he said as he woke up, and his voice was groggy, laced with sleep as he spoke. The servants looked baffled. "And I slept just fine," he lied easily.
"Well, eh... Enjolras... which outfit will you wear today?" The servant laid out an array of coats, dresses, robes, uniforms, and other strange items of clothing. Enjolras thanked no and chose his usual ensemble, which in the meantime was, after a thorough scrub with Marseille soap and lavender, drying up in a sunny glade of the estate grounds: simple trousers with a silky shirt that wrapped comfortably around him, and the bright red waistcoat braided with gold like a hussar's pelisse. The maid bowed low and told them that the ensemble would be dry around noon, after breakfast time, just in time for the guest's departure, as Enjolras thanked her.
"But breakfast first, before you leave. You must keep up your strength if you wish to win
him back. And, by the way... do you like your morning tea weak or strong?" the valet asked very brightly, with a flourish.
"In fact, I am more the coffee-drinking classic Frenchman, thanks. But, if there is no other choice than Earl Grey at the breakfast table, I would prefer it with just a spot of milk."
The morn of that day he was dressed from head to foot in costly silk and velvet, in his splendid warm cherry-red dressing-gown that was as soft as if made of spun sunset clouds. A servant helped him to put on the fine dressing-gown and charming little slippers of drap d'or with cherry-red peony flowers, as if Enjolras were a baby, and he would gladly have declined, but felt that the gesture should rather be rewarded with courtesy. So that following day, they had dressed the fair leader to his heels in silk and velvet, and had even made sure to get him some boots and gloves. They had arranged for a carriage to take them to the next town, where the lordship or ladyship there would be able to help him further (or so they hoped).
That morning the fair leader and his Gascon lieutenant were greeted by those who seemed a prince and princess, who spoke very kindly to them.
That morning, the guests were served breakfast in a great hall, sweet clotted cream out of a silver bowl, eaten with spoons of sterling silver, with orange juice to wash it down with, along with silver trays filled with macarons and croquignoles, and marrons glacés, followed by little chocolate truffles with strawberries baked in them, and of course a porcelain cup of Earl Grey with just a spot of milk as Enjolras himself had requested; and the Fauchelevents, who were dining with him, talked to him about what he had seen on his journeys, and about art, which Cosette had studied a little, in between reading philosophy books, and about military tactics; and they invited him to stay in the palace for a few days, where they would make sure he would always be looked after, as long as he pleased, to rest and enjoy himself, and spend his life in the middle of fêtes, invited to remain at the château, where he would have everything he could wish for, living a life of luxury as it was worthy of the rightful rank Enjolras had been born into, and they would pamper him to his heart's content; but he kindly refused, and so did Courfeyrac. They also wanted to appoint the blond as valet de chambre to the heiress's fiancé, and give him a powdered wig and lacy cravat, and embroidered livery, and a beautiful bedchamber at the château, most probably the room where he had spent the night, but the fair leader, though he responded warmly to the couple, shook his head and courteously declined that offer as well. "That's very kind but I have to say no."
Marius sighed and turned the page in his book, which seemed to be some handwriting he had scribbled about a boy and a heathland rose. "I told you he would say that..." And he began to sing the verses in that poem to a beautiful melody by Schubert. This was the 'second way of speaking' that Courfeyrac had heard of, for when Marius cleared his throat and played for Mademoiselle Cosette her heart, already swayed by his words, was thoroughly captured.
"Vit un gars une rose en fleur,
rose des bruyères
si jolie dans ses couleurs;
il s'approcha de tout coeur,
et il s'enjouit guère!
Petite rose toute rose et rouge,
rose des bruyères!"
Cosette blew her fringe out of her eyes in frustration. "I know. But you can't blame me for trying. All right," the heiress said gently, patting the fair leader's hand. "We will not give you just anything. Though I'd hardly call this offer trivial. But tell me, tell us, what you want." The heiress tucked a strand of her golden hair behind her ear and rose gracefully to her feet before settling into one of the cushy chairs. "Please." She indicated to another chair.
When Enjolras seated himself, the softness and comfortableness almost sent him to sleep, it was so relaxing.
Then she said lightly, "You were gracious to refuse my first impulse to give you anything. I trust you. Anyway, there is no need at all for you to go forth on a quest like this... Please. Go and find your savateur and send him our regards, right? I want to meet this Grand'R, who inspired such courage and persistence in my fiancé's friends."
They sat surrounding the table protectively and all kind of emotions passed over their faces. Cosette was clumsily wiping her tears as she cried in solidarity. Her guardian scowled even deeper and his face resembled the worst autumn storm. Marius nodded throughout the monologue spoken by the fair leader and looked sad.
As they ate through many courses of tea and cake, chocolates and pastries, and more fruits for dessert, the trio talked about only the kind of things that the clever and knowledgeable could talk about. And the guests laughed with their company as Marius recounted his first visit to the palace, tutted as Cosette complained of the loneliness that had been her ladies-in-waiting...
Enjolras looked at Cosette and then at Marius, who was leaning over to her and whispering and making her blush; then caught Marius' loving but resigned glance at the woman to his left, as he took her hand delicately in his. But Cosette shook it off, telling her fiancé not to misunderstand her, not to think it was another of her thoughts that flitted through her brain with little or no rhyme or reason. And told him, emphatically, that she knew she was right.
But, in response, Enjolras shook his head, for he did not even think of accepting any of these offers, and asked only for a new pair of boots, to replace his own that were so worn, and a little carriage or a rideworthy reliable horse, and provisions to continue his journey, so that he could more easily search, and so that he could drive out into the wide world again; he wanted to resume immediately the search for his friend, yearning to ride once more out across the wide world and find Grantaire once more.
Little did he expect that they would be far beyond generous. Her guardian, that tall and strong silver-haired bear of a man with severe features softened by age and kindness, though slightly reserved, was the nicest old person Enjolras had ever met. No wonder that Cosette had been so thankful to be rescued from her first guardians, of whom she did not even breathe a word, and given such an education and such loving care, which, as a child (if she ever had been one), she must have needed with all her heart and soul. And why shouldn't such a benefactor, and his sure successor, who had not been the slightest intoxicated by their position of power, run out of kindness and lavish some more on a wayward bohemian student on a quest? None was going to argue with that, not even his ward or her fiancé. All three of them were as good as their word. Someone with natural virtue sees virtues in others, and receives goodness from them in turn.
He was given, not just the loveliest little boots of flexible leather with spats, but also a fine pair of white chamois gloves, and a warm crimson peacoat of velvet to wear above the now already half-worn scarlet waistcoat (whose soutaches had been sewn back into their rightful place, making the garment look once more like a hussar's gold-braided pelisse; aside from the whole ensemble having been thoroughly washed in Marseille soap and lavender), and a cravat of cobalt blue satin, and even a new cherry-red ribbon for his queue, after he had thoroughly cleansed himself in the château bathroom for a second time. They swarmed him and put that beautiful embroidered waistcoat on him and the peacoat on top of that, a whole ensemble of new clothes for the long journey north, making extra sure Enjolras wouldn’t freeze to death. As they tied the cravat around his neck and the ribbon in his hair to tie it back, a kiss from Cosette was pressed onto his cheek and he could just nod with throat tight. She smiled at her fiancé.
"Well, at the very least I can be contented that you'll have a suitable dress and shoes as the season is changing for the colder."
And when he was beautifully dressed like this, so finely clothed, and ready to go, since he wanted to leave without delay... he and Courfeyrac, when they were prepared to depart, ie ready to leave, were taken aback by the sight that there drew up to the door; in the yard before the front entrance to the château, there came round and stopped a fine calèche for Enjolras to ride in, a white one with silver inlays; pulled by four fine, tall horses, geldings with hide a deep chestnut colour like chocolate, each with a black mane and tail and a blue crest upon his headstall. Each horse's saddle and bridle were trimmed with silver bells, and their crested headstalls and saddle-cloths, just like the blue velvet upholstery, had the Fauchelevent and Pontmercy coats of arms and initials, entwined, embroidered on it in silk thread. Upon the door panels of the carriage, the same coats of arms, belonging to the households of Fauchelevent on the left and Pontmercy on the right, shone brightly, glistening and glittering like two dazzling stars; each coat-of-arms shone from its panel like a dazzling star upon it. True to his word, M. Fauchelevent, who had given the orders since the guests wished to leave without delay, had prepared the best carriage he had. He motioned to the servants, and the maid and valet from that morning rushed with packages and winter clothing towards the attelage. In the stables, there were the best steeds, brought over from Andalusia and from Slovenia; far finer than those that had been reared at the Manoir Enjolras or anywhere else in the Camargue. The coachman, the footmen, and the postillions—for there were postillions as well—all were wearing powdered wigs on their heads. The coachman and the postillions à la Daumont --yes, there were even postillions-- wore powdered wigs and plumed tricorns on their heads and splendid liveries or costumes of silver brocade, and on the seat across from Enjolras there was a basket full of... or rather piled high with candied fruits, dragées, marrons glacés, macarons, croquignoles... and under the seat there were a pair of bottles of lemonade and a bottle of white wine of the region, in a trunk right beneath that seat; as well as a volume of Shakespearean tragedies, which a good friend of the heiress's guardian and of Marius's had translated in his spare time, for the young blond to read and enjoy. Rien n'y manquait. In sooth, so many honours made both the guests feel light-headed, or so they claimed, not without a good reason. The sight was overwhelming for both of them and, if not for his need of it, the blond would never have accepted such a lavish gift.
Cosette and Marius themselves helped Enjolras to climb into the carriage, each fiancé taking him by one hand and her guardian lifting his well-shod feet so that they could reach the high-off-the-ground seat; the royal-looking couple in all but name saw him off, told him to send the others at the Musain their regards, and wished him success and all sorts of the best good luck possible, giving warm wishes of luck and words of encouragement; the blond climbed in hastily, the thick clothes making it hard to move around, and turned quickly to the fiancés to thank them and say goodbye. Touched by the kindness of those that seemed a storybook prince and princess, Enjolras had to pretend to tighten the laces of his boots for a minute, until he was able to kiss the fair princess farewell and shake the translator prince's hand without embarrassing himself.
"Allez! Get on, there are supplies packed and ready in the trunk on the back. We even had some coals warmed and put them in a heater so your feet don’t freeze. And make sure you two visit us on your way home,” Cosette said as she clasped both of Courfeyrac's hands in her own. "I want to meet this Grand'R, who inspired such courage and persistence in my fiancé's friends."
A heartwarming leave-taking was in store as Marius helped the blond into the carriage. “I hope you find your friend. He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
“If you find him, be sure to send your friend back.” Cosette said, one hand curled around the carriage door. “We would love to hear how this tale turns out.”
“I will.” Enjolras assured them. “Thank you for all your help.”
She stepped back and Marius' hands replaced her own. He kissed Courfeyrac's knuckles. "Your bravery and determination even when the odds have seemed against you will always make me remember the remarkable young people you and your leader are. I can't wait to see you again soon." He stepped back and wrapped an arm around his fiancée's waist and called to the coachman that they could go.
Right then, a detachment of armed men in uniform appeared from the servants' quarters and saluted the two young men who had entered the carriage. Their hosts had had the gentleness to send them off with a troop of armed guards. "They will escort you through the shire until you reach the forest, which is full of thieves and wolves and princes on quests, lurking about."
Courfeyrac accompanied him for the first three miles, while old M. Fauchelevent, the heiress's guardian, bid them goodbye from the garden gate, waving in farewell.
“Well then! Off we go! With fireworks!” Courfeyrac waved with elation. The two passengers sat beside each other, for the Gascon couldn't stand driving backwards; he got carriage-sick if he had to ride sitting backwards.
The last he shouted and as it was the planned command, the fireworks illuminated the sky with loud roars, exploding over the vast courtyard, and people cheered the highpoint of the party. The horses moved ahead eagerly, and, as the coachman held onto the reins, the fair leader sat on the soft upholstery for a while looking back at the crowd and his patrons, who got smaller and smaller, until he couldn’t see their waving hands anymore. His friends shouting their goodbyes and well wishes made his heart aching with joy and sadness at the same time, wishing he could meet them once again, while the heiress, cheerful again, waved one hand and held Marius tightly with the other. Their kindness was overwhelming...
"Be safe. Goodbye..." Cosette waved as the coach took off, her long blue gown kicking around her legs as she jogged after the coach. "Find Grantaire!"
Tears ran freely down her cheeks as she waved goodbye and the calèche started moving down the road.
Her fiancé began to take up Keats once more and sing, a somewhat melancholy tune.
"Thank you!!!" Enjolras called towards them from the distance, waking up from his stunned state, thanking them warmly for all they had done for his quest. “Oh, thank you!” he called toward the library windows as he climbed up inside. “Farewell, friends.”
“Adieu, et bon voyage, et bonne chance, fare you well, fare you well, farewell, farewell, may you find what you are searching for,” called out the heiress and her fiancé, who gave the impression of a prince and princess, each one of them drying up a single teardrop on a lace-lined handkerchief, as they stood in the gateway and saw the students off; and Enjolras waved back at them, restraining the tears in his own eyes, as the coachman turned the horses' heads north. Thus he and his Gascon friend continued to wave until they could see the fiancés no more; leaned out the window and waved until they were too far away to see.
Enjolras remained with that fixed expression, though lost in thought, and Courfeyrac was shedding tears as well, as both students said farewell to all of them, hearts filled with gratitude for their kindness, and waved goodbye as the carriage pulled away from the great white castle. Then watched it grow smaller in the distance until it disappeared completely. Leave-takings are warm and a little sad, because one feels affection for their helpers, for they had grown fond of them... And soon they were on their way, Enjolras and Courfeyrac sitting beside one another; they waved at the villagers as they glided through the shire, and threw sweets to the children who had come rushing out of their houses to see the regal carriage pass through their street. That's how they went along for the first few miles. Finally they got to the country where it was colder.
At the village entrance, after a few miles, Courfeyrac himself would say farewell too, and that would be the saddest leave-taking of all so far. That was the hardest separation of them all.
"Are you certain that you wish to go on seeking your friend?" the Gascon lordling asked as they left the palace gardens. "The way is long, and filled with dangers, and you do not even know for certain that you will find him. If you like, you can stay here in my stomping grounds and enjoy yourself with me. To be honest, I have never seen you smile until this morning, eh, Enj? I have only known the real you a short while, but already I like you very much indeed, and would be sorry to see you go."
Enjolras thought of Grantaire, who now could have been left alone in a desolate place without a single human soul for company; here was another parting that he regretted. He seemed to be forever leaving people behind on his journey, and it was very tiresome always being so alone.
But then he thought of Grantaire once more, and he knew that he could not stay, anymore than he had been able to stay in the Camargue, or at University, or in the "prince and princess's" palace.
When Marius had told him, at the breakfast table, that he was quite content to give up the bohemian world of revolution entirely, as long as he could remain with Cosette, Enjolras had been surprised, and had wondered at the sort of man who would make such a sacrifice.
Now, he did not wonder any longer, for he thought he was beginning to understand.
And thus, he had bid both the fiancés farewell, albeit with a heavy and regretful heart, as the horses' heads were turned north; then, after a few miles, a heavy-hearted Courfeyrac also said "adieu," the turn having come to him as well; and so he bid Enjolras farewell, with a heavy and regretful heart, embracing his classmate and leader. This was the hardest leave-taking of all so far, the hardest separation! Now Courfeyrac had to say his own goodbye, and that was the hardest and harshest parting of them all.
Suddenly Enjolras felt that a handkerchief was pulled on his head and over his eyes, so he couldn’t see anything at all for a moment. That was all it took for the Gascon to use the chance and steal a deep kiss from his fair leader, which lasted short.
"Though it may not seem that way, I’m really bad at goodbyes. So do me a favor and let’s make this short, right? Oh, one more favour. When you pass the woods and it gets suddenly colder, don’t stop at any cost, all right? Promise!”
The fair leader clutched his friend's hand, feeling the still lingering kiss on his lips and the still lingering touch on his own palms, and nodded.
“I promise.”
"Well then...! Allez-y!"
"Au revoir," the fair leader called back.
As Enjolras drove away, the horses' hooves rang loudly against the cobbled ground, and the silver bells on their bridles sparkled in the sunlight. Courfeyrac, his duelling scar throbbing with unease, leaned against a linden tree by the road, at the village entrance, and watched the carriage go, and continued waving and flapping his black-sleeved arms in farewell until the horses, the calèche, and its passenger had disappeared from sight, for as long as he could see the carriage, which gleamed as bright as the sun; until the carriage, which was sparkling and shining in the distance like the brightest sunshine, disappeared.
For about an hour, Courfeyrac kept on waving goodbye, leaning against that tree at the village entrance, for as long as he could see the calèche glittering in the light of the sun, till it disappeared into the treeline, and continued on deep into the woods, as the Gascon, the sun beating down on him, watched the carriage, that glistened as though it were made of sunlight, that glittered and shone in the distance like the brightest sun on the waters, oui, which flashed as brightly as the day-star itself; following the vehicle as far as he dared to, for as long as he could see the carriage, which gleamed as bright as the sun... until it disappeared into the deep dark northern forest.
It was not until that moment of stopping and saying that farewell that Enjolras was truly alone again.
Perhaps, when he finds Grantaire and takes him back home, they can stop by. Perhaps the savateur would like them as well. Perhaps when there will be still place left in his heart for Enjolras, there will be place left for other good people.
Perhaps.
With those thoughts, the fair leader settled back into the velvet-covered seat and tried to enjoy the hot coals warming up his boots. He couldn’t afford to daydream now, not when he was so close. His eyes scanned the road before him as he continued on deep into the woods.
The border of the northern fey kingdom was getting closer. And there he would find Grantaire.
And so he finally ducked back into the calèche that glittered in the sunlight like fresh hope, the sound of faint music lingering in the air. The coachman and footmen in the scarlet and silver livery did not speak a word.
And so he finally ducked back into the calèche that glittered in the sunlight like fresh hope, the sound of faint music lingering in the air. The coachman and footmen in the scarlet and silver livery did not speak a word.
...
Elsewhere, somewhere dark and foggy in the far North, Grantaire was sitting on a cold stone throne of a twilit throne room, in the chamber that had been set aside for him. He felt numb and bitter. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. A whirring sound could be heard through the shut door to his left, growing louder and louder, nearer and nearer, the one who approached coming closer and closer. Suddenly his chamber door swung open and the Lady of the Green Kirtle walked into the hall. Her skin was brittle birch-bark or icing-sugar, her hair crowned with a wreath of ivy, and she wore a necklace of shiny black nightshade berries. "Voilà mon cher, here you are."
"Where else would I be?" he snapped, not even bothering to look at her.
"Are you all right?" She asked in a patronizingly sweet tone.
"Of course I'm not!" he lashed out, forgetting how afraid he was of the person he was addressing. "I've been betrayed, taken from my home, it's freezing cold, and my stomach hurts!"
"Poor little thing," she whispered, pulling herself closer to him. "Such a pessimist." She started stroking his stubbled cheek with the side of her cupped hand.
As she tangled slender fingers into his whiskers, Grantaire recoiled slightly; he wanted to vomit. Her icy touch repelled him. He couldn't believe that in less than two weeks he'd be leading her ranks. He thought he'd rather kill himself first if only he could get his hands on a suitable knife or a long piece of rope. Unfortunately there weren't any dangerous objects in the chamber.
"You've grown up nice, you know," she whispered.
In response, he shuddered and tried to pull away from her.
"Why so weary today? Why the look in your eyes slightly troubled?" She flung her arms around his neck, and let him slump wearily on her bent knees. She kept him with his dark head thus reclined upon her skirt, and began to toy once more with the curly raven crown of that youthful brow. She filled him with flattery, fanned his flustered face, and around the air that the two of them breathed there fluttered, flitting and floating, countless words of love like flutterbies. Yet Grantaire resisted for the first time in ages to her enchanting influence, and did not fall vanquished utterly unconscious.
"Why wide awake, and down, and troubled, my sweetheart?" Her voice was quivering with concern. "What heavy thought or feeling, what worry keeps you so tense? Is it not by chance the fatigue of your training that has bleached your countenance with such pallor?"
"No," he brusquely replied. Still, there was something friendly about the lady that made him want to confide in her. "You know well that my body never yields to weariness... 'tis my spirits that are shaken and stirred. This feeling, that gets into both my head and my chest and tears everything to shreds..."
"What feeling is that?"
"Today... today I recalled something of my past life. Entering a backroom, and there seeing a table surrounded by many young people; methinks I knew them all. I joined the group, and listened eagerly to what they discussed. The leader stood upright, fire in his icy blue eyes; slender as a lily-stem, long golden locks fluttering in his wake and gold-frogged his scarlet waistcoat... and thus I waited until all the others had left and we were left en tête-à-tête, then I played all my cards of hearts, but with such misfortune that he turned his back on me, shut the door, and left; so I lost everything I cherished and so much of a muchness more... I have suffered dreadfully; that living boy-doll I saw, before whom gathered my fortunate rivals, has left the fire-branded memory that tortures me and makes me despair. I wish I were the owner, the master of that darling! I loathe myself for having lost, and envy those who have won..."
A thoughtful look coursed through her features, as she listened eagerly to Grantaire's tale. So the past, like a rising tide, was returning...
"Oh for you pure and innocent soul, unaware of every wicked feeling!" she screamed in both anger and sadness when he had finished his account. "At last you are lost to me... tranquil crystal of my transparent lakes! Already your waves are stirred and disturbed, and already your surface has reflected back the treacherous image of passion... 'tis but an illusion, a delusion, falsely reflected in a liquid mirror! Nevermore lulled or reassured by anyone's caress, having nullified the warm influence of my affections... Your thoughts flee away from me and out of my reach, your heart throbs under the spell of bastard affections, and your brow already creased by the first wrinkle in a lifetime..."
Each and every word of hers was a pebble falling into that liquid mirror and disturbing its surface even further. She lifted the young man up on his knees and pressed him to her bosom, like a mother to her only child come of age, as Grantaire wistfully and eagerly addressed her in a heart-rending tone:
"Give me... respite!!"
"And respite you shall receive," she replied, "thanks to the influence of the narcotic drug which I shall prepare with my own blood, for it to produce oblivion and lethargy unto you. Those sparkles no longer spring unexpectedly from your eyes; the affections and the passions that rise deep within your chest cannot be overcome unless they have been drugged. So wait, hope, my darling wretch... respite and nepenthe shall be your lot, mais hélas! for your awakening will not be with a smile like the erstwhile ones..."
The Lady in Green slashed a vein open from her wrist and poured out her blood into a crystal phial. Nor did her sorrows cease, however, as the drops of her dark green blood fell into the little vessel.
She then turned to the floor where the young man tossed and turned, and, reaching out her wounded arm, offered her the phial with the narcotic.
"Drink!"
Grantaire quaffed that liquid down to the last drop, and fell instantly into deep senselessness at her feet.
And the lady waked and looked down, self-absorbed in her own thoughts of losing him, as if she were waking over the corpse of that boy turned a man.
He didn't stand up to embrace her. He didn't turn to face her. Nothing. No movement. He was sleeping. One would know he wasn't dead because his chest moved up and down and he moaned twice. The quaffed nectar flowed throbbingly through every vein, with a joy akin to pain.
She had forewarned him that the first light of awakening would not come with a smile; indeed, Grantaire awoke and headed for the entrance making the greatest effort he could remember, rising up on his arms both heavy-hearted and heavy-headed. A ray of light stole through the entrance to the keep and stroked his face. "Already the sun is up...? Fuck the dawn and its first light, for killing all my respite! Look... Once more the colour of the sunlight rekindles the memory of that person and said memory oppresses my brow..."
And, as she stood on the threshold and ready to leave, he was finally up on his feet, though hardly standing upright steadily, tugging at her sleeves and leaning on her for a crutch, as he addressed her:
"Your draught has made me dream most deliciously... I have seen at my feet the loveliest person there ever was, if she could be called one in the first place; I have sated in her my ambition, and attained thus all the best could wish for... Tomorrow I shall drink your precious elixir once more. I want to dream... I want to dream, and nevermore return to reality!"
She let out a sigh and took out a small crystal flacon from the folds of her dress and, after pouring her own green blood into it, placed it in his hands. "Here, drink this."
He looked down at it suspiciously. "What is it?"
"It's for your stomach," she lied, yet it was but a half-truth. "Let us drink to your health, Lord General!" she winked with a friendly smile. "May your stay here be long and prosperous!"
The dark student figured it wasn't for anything of the sort, he wished it was poison, but knew that she had no reason to kill him now. She wanted him alive. Whatever it was for, it didn't matter. He took out the cork, put it to his lips, and drank it, until the very last drop had disappeared from sight into his insides. It didn't taste too bad. Sort of watery and bland now, but not too bad; he licked his lips and incisors to taste the few drops that lingered upon them.
"How do you feel?" she asked him.
All of a sudden, Grantaire couldn't keep his eyes open no matter how hard he tried. "I feel... sleepy..." he muttered as his eyelids shut and his body sank back into the chair.
"That's what I thought," the Lady said with a smirk, taking the empty flacon away as she walked out of the room. It was sunset.
He heard her words, and smiled on her who spoke them, but spoke not himself, his eyelids heavy already.
He didn't stand up to take his leave of her. He didn't turn to face her. Nothing. No movement. He was sleeping. One would know he wasn't dead because his chest moved up and down and he moaned twice. The quaffed nectar flowed throbbingly through every vein, with a joy akin to pain.
In his state of deep sleep, he couldn't hear a word. If he heard any noise at all, it was only like a light wind, like a gentle breeze lulling him. He didn't feel the touch of the throne armrests either.
After this the dream called two cavaliers up---one in red and golden, the other in cobalt blue and silver armour-like uniform. After the customary formalities of a fencing match had been gone through, they commenced cutting at each other in furious earnest, their swords piercing the metal breastplates most marvellously, and severing limb after limb from their hips and shoulders. But oh, wonder! Each limb, as it touched the platform, grew into an armour-clad uniformed chevalier, who fiercely set upon his opponent. By this means of hydra-like asexual reproduction the whole stage was soon crowded with red-golden and blue-silver clad warriors, hacking each other mercilessly. Suddenly a slight move of the golden leader sent them laughing; they all threw down their arms, shook hands, and embraced one another.
Wearily the dreamer awoke, and off they flew like leaves before the wind.
I couldn't so much as twitch without agony, and my throat was as raw as though I'd drunk broken glass, but of course that had nothing to do with anything truly being wrong. I suppose leaving me festooned with scars, and the sensation of lingering damage, would fit.
Trusting vainly in his own strength, never looking upwards, forgetting all that was best in the past, he had fallen a hopeless victim. He was infatuated by the fascination of her. Though... His feelings for her bore no resemblance to true love.
With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him. He went after her straight-away as a fool to the correction of the stocks, till a dart strikes through his liver.
He raised his cup again before bringing it to his mouth—but waited until she sipped before taking a draught himself. She watched him, the bright green liquid pouring over his lips and into his mouth... and he swallowed...
And thus, each and every evening, ever since the one when Grantaire had first acquired the taste of decadence, the Lady gave him to drink the narcotic prepared with blood from her veins; the young man was always eager to quaff it, in order to give a truce, a respite to the struggle of raging passions that tore at him from within; thus the nectar flowed throbbingly through every vein, with a joy akin to pain.
And she was gradually wasting away, little by little; life ebbed forth through the wounds she had open on her wrists, no sooner freshly scarred till slashed again into bloody fountains where Grantaire eagerly drank his fill of respite.
Oh, I will slake my thirst, I will drink so deep...
Of course he had no intention to leave; there it was so pleasant, and he was a little dazed, but happy after all... Whoever does not remember anything does not know anything about what they have to do either. And besides, they do not feel guilty. Not the slightest twinge of remorse. That person is ostensibly happy, yet at least slightly dazed.
And, no matter how pleasant the effect, this was inhuman, for those are not humans, those who forget everything, especially their true selves; and, if someone forsakes both the world and oneself, and gives up on all of one's positive thoughts, then that person is gone.
COMMENTARIES
(Once more, feel free to see a "to be continued" arrow in your mind's eye and hear the guitar riff at the start of Yes's Roundabout in your mind's ear as you picture yourself the last scene in this chapter!)
At the start of this chapter, the Charenton Bridge (over the Seine, in Paris) is a reference to the lyrics "The Advent of Panurge" and the Rabelais story in which it was based. This song instantly brings to mind Parisian university bohemians (and of course, E/R! ;) )
Courfeyrac as the crow... a composite of both crows... is the most recent character I casted. It could only be someone so savvy and so much into high society, right? Also given that this chapter and the corresponding source material are both pretty much underpinned by sweet, sweet dramatic irony (the identity of the young bridegroom is known to us readers, but not to the castle-crashers)...
I like your Courfeyrac (always bouncing in and out of people's lives, connecting them) and your Enjolras with his stillness and reserve, pulling R up with just a word when he rants.
As for Mariusette - it was obvious that they had to be the prince and princess (my favourite characters in the original Snow Queen tale), right? I thought of casting Fauchelevent/Valjean as the owner of the springtime garden, but I was obliged to portray him as Cosette's guardian, so I have skipped that chapter entirely (and got earlier to Mariusette)... At the end of the day, Story the Third is mostly a long big-lipped alligator moment in which the only relevant event is Gerda leaving home on her quest, right at the start. So I pruned away all these big-lipped alligator moments, influenced by the Snow Queen play by Evgeniy Shvarts, which simply does off with both the 3rd and the 6th Stories, as well as the whole prelude about the shattered Mirror of Truth... as well as introducing the king, father to the princess, and the rift he has with his only daughter and in-law, a conflict of viewpoints between midlife and youth (and an element of the subplot absent from Andersen's tale!). Although I had JVJ appear quite friendly towards the guests in this chapter, he is actually putting on the bravest of all brave faces he can muster.
In the original tale, the court staff did not give the failed suitors even as much as a glass. let alone a drop, of clear cool/lukewarm water ("De blev [···] tørstige, men fra slottet fik de ikke engang så meget, som et glas lunket vand. / They were growing [···] thirsty, but no one from the castle brought so much as a glass of lukewarm water.")... Valjean would NEVER be that cruel, amiright? And this, in turn, would have raised a few eyebrows among the suitors when it came to the alleged narcotic that disabled them at the moment of the fateful test-interview...
Speaking of which, if anyone is missing Javert (I can already see at least one raised hand and hear "where's Javert? We have not even seen the shadow of his salt-and-pepper whiskers..."), in this AU he is garrisoned elsewhere (either in the Foreign Legion or a tropical colonial outpost) and is waiting for a reassignment to European France so he can capture JVJ, but still so dutiful that he remains tied to his post. So it will be a long while until he comes to bother the Fauchelevent clan!
I'm really loving how you incorporate all the different characters.
(And I adore the steampunk feel, you've pulled it off much better than I was able to).
I really like the way you've told this tale and the entire setting seems so wonderfully beautiful. I look forward to the rest of it, most definitely.
Thanks! I feel a little bit guilty, actually, because I am slavishly copying from the originals in a lot of places.
I really love how you incorporate all the different Les Mis elements into such an authentic-feeling fairytale. It reads like something from the 18th century, with a really consistent and engaging tone. And did I mention the story's hooking me in like crazy? :D
It reads like something from the 18th century
Yay, thanks! That's exactly what I was going for - a sort of Charles Perrault/Brothers Grimm/Philip Pullman feel (it probably helped that I ripped off Andersen's original prose like mad at the begining and end of each section).
The Snow Queen's always a good fairytale to adapt ensemble casts to (there's an utterly awesome Jaimienne one out there, in this very blog), because Gerda runs in to so many different characters while she searches for Kai.
This was lovely. The way you write reminds me of the Wizard of Oz a little bit or the Magician's Nephew. It is *wonderful*
And it needs cute Denslow illustrations, it really does.
Thanks! I'm doing serious fairytale-style pastiche here, with not a few borrowings from Hans Christian Andersen's original version, but I read half the Oz books and all of the Narnia books in primary school, not to mention half the ASoUE series (which I completely finished off a summer in Sweden as a teen), so it wouldn't surprise me if some influence from them crept in.
it needs cute Denslow illustrations, it really does
In my head, everything looks an awful lot like watercolours by Trina Shart Hyman or Christian Birmingham, or Anastasia Arkhipova. With a full-page illustration devoted to Marius and Cosette standing in the palace balcony, he in his suit and she in her betrothal royal blue dress.
(Of course, that is whenever things don't look like CLAMP 1990s anime, the kind with character designs by Tsubaki Nekoi! Because in my head, everything looks an awful lot like Nekoi-era CLAMP as well)
There's a feeling of craftsmanship and sensitivity towards the telling of the tale. The language is lovely, that formal, flowery language that beckons a child to set down, and get lost in the tale being told.
I'm really impressed. I'd say more, but I have my coat in hand, my slap on and I'm about to head to a dinner. I'm interested to see where this will go.
Thanks so much! I'm copying the style off the original (along with the occasional stolen quotation and some of the dialogue), so the floweryness is not all me, but I'm trying to make sure the parts I re-write/add-in fit the original.
Oh man I'm loving this. The repeating "we don't believe it" was especially great, that last time fierce and warlike.
This is is so whimsical and fantastic, I can't wait to see the rest.
Thanks! The "he is dead and gone"/"we don't believe it" exchange is straight from the original, only there Gerda is talking to the sunlight instead of paintings and flags and weapons.
I love the fairy tale you're doing, and the style in which you're writing (it's so very true to the form), and everything about this. Can't wait for more!
Thanks! I'm pretty much copying the style from Hans Christian Andersen and Philip Pullman and Lemony Snicket and another old fairytale book I had as a little girl (like Grimm's Fairytales, but with author tales). More is in the works -- it's a five-act story, so there are two more sections to go.
Okay, so I really really love this like woah. Everyone's so perfect!
Yay, thanks! Mariusette were one of the first things I thought of when I started this (well, after deciding who Gerda, Kai, and the Old and Young Robbers were going to be).
*awed*
Okay, I know you said that you were blending some of the original story text in there but that really can't account for just how gorgeous the prose in this entire story is. So very pretty and so very spot-on for the original fairy tales I loved *feeling nostalgic*
Enjoltaire are just lovely and I love how you worked everyone else in there. Totally squee moment there once the lightbulb went on for me. <3
Okay, I know you said that you were blending some of the original story text in there but that really can't account for just how gorgeous the prose in this entire story is. So very pretty and so very spot-on for the original fairy tales I loved *feeling nostalgic*
Thanks so much! I read a huge number of fairytales when I was little (the Brothers Grimm, Andrew Lang's coloured fairy books, etc.), so pastiching it isn't really as hard as it looks. The hard part is trying to keep some amount of canon characterization while still having everyone speak in fairytale speak and keep that kind of innocent air protagonists in fairy tales aimed at children tend to have.
Honestly, the cameos are my favourite part of the fic thus far.
Wow, Cosette's always been a bit of a nonentity for me as far as characters go - mostly she just doesn't seem to show up much I think - but I adored her here. She was awesome! The whole chapter I was pondering who you'd cast as the Prince and Princess (my favourite characters in this story) and considered Marius and Cosette but it wasn't until Courf mentioned her backstory as an indentured servant that it really clicked - so much fun to read. ^_^
Thanks! I wish I could say I took Cosette's characterization straight from canon in this (because a Cosette would could canonically write love letters in Latin would rock), but I actually took most of it from the original fairytale, where the Princess is the smartest person in three kingdoms (so smart that she's "read all the newspapers in the world") and wants a prince who is her equal. But since Cosette is married to Marius, she must have married him for his brains rather than, say, charm or tact or looks -- because Marius is not bad looking, but Cosette, at the start of their relationship, is definitely out of his league -- hence making the Princess her.
Heee, I really liked this chapter, with Courf-senpai oh so crazy ironic. Cosette and Marius totally blindsided me, I actually expected him to be Grand'R pretty much right until you out and out said it wasn't, lol, I am too gullible to read fairy tales. I am definitely going to have to read the original after finishing yours!
Yes! Read the original! It's great!
I was totally shocked and crushed the first time I ever read the Snow Queen to find that the prince wasn't Kai (and then relieved, because he couldn't marry some random princess when he obviously was supposed to marry Gerda; and, besides, Kai could not have escaped the Snow Queen's fortress).
It's what stories are made of, rich imagery, delightful helpers, and a protagonist with a stout heart to win his love fair.
Love, love, love.
Oh man, I'm loving this, with how you've worked in the others as fairy tale people. It's just marvellous. And the language is rich and beautiful. It's like a guessing game inside a story.
Thanks! *grins* Finding ways to work all of the classic characters into the story is in a lot of ways the most fun part of writing it.
Some favourite lines are these:
When Marius had told him, at the breakfast table, that he was quite content to give up the bohemian world of revolution entirely, as long as he could remain with Cosette, Enjolras had been surprised, and had wondered at the sort of man who would make such a sacrifice.
Now, he did not wonder any longer, for he thought he was beginning to understand.
I got a happy little heart clench. <3 Sometimes we don't know quite how important something is until we've lost it.
Oh. You've taken my most beloved fairy-tale and gave it a new spin, staying so true to the style, the emotion and the ideas, that now I have tears in my eyes.
I love clever retellings and I admire people who do them well as it's so hard to maintain the balance between one story and the other. Here the characters fit stunningly, both these serious ones and those serving rather as humour reliefs. It's unbelievable how few details needed to be changed to merge these two universes. Hats off to the author. ;-)
Can't wait to see who will play the role of the Little Robber Girl. I'm sure (s)he will fit wonderfully.
Cosette herself isn't dim – no, she devised a clever idea that would get her a husband. She put an advertisement in the newspaper, for that would eliminate quite a great deal as many in the kingdom didn't even bother reading the newspaper.
-O. M. G. I laughed SO HARD AT THIS. What a build up! And then: 'she put out an ad' XDDDDD
Man, it must be real lonely to be Cosette surrounded by idiots.
ALTRUISTIC Cosette is even better! I like seeing that side/take of her.
The folk song Cosette sings while thinking of "why she should not marry?" is a real-life French nursery rhyme, "En passant par la Lorraine," which might have referred to Marie-Antoinette herself.
Also, the silver candlesticks that Valjean received from Monsignor make a cameo in this chapter - see if you can spot them!
There was a Shakespeare translation of all the dramatic works written by Victor Hugo fils (junior), the son of the author of Les Misérables, at about the same time that his dad was working on the "Brick." So pardon me if I attributed the translation to Hugo père (senior) and take it as a license, right?
As for lobster thermidor, the official history dates this classic, scrumptious French seafood recipe to the Belle Époque (to be more precise, 1880-1881) and the ur-première of a play called Thermidor about guess which coup d'état? So here's another decade license. There is also the legend (true or not?) of General Bonaparte returning from the war front to Paris in the wake of the Thermidor coup, and asking for a gratinated lobster laced with Cognac and Chardonnay at a Left Bank restaurant - so the reason why Courf' knows of (and relishes!) this recipe in this AU is that that myth is true.
The song of the red rose that Marius chants is his own translation (actually, my own translation) of the first stanza of Goethe's Heidenröslein/Heathland Rose (which I have also Englished); and he sings it to the corresponding Lied tune by Franz Schubert, which, being Napoleonic-era (1815), is historically accurate.
While the aria sung in the background during the Mariusette dance in the ballroom is "Sì, ritrovarla io giuro" ("Yes indeed, I swear to find her"), the Prince Charming's aria in Rossini's Cenerentola / Cinderella, which premièred during the Napoleonic era too. So that detail is accurate as well.
The Marianne in this AU is actually Athena from the Riordanverse, but dressed as the Marianne in La liberté guidant le peuple (a painting very familiar to anyone well-versed in Mizzie lore!). There was so much that the Marianne cult borrowed from Athena lore, including her status as a culture shero, a warrior, and a champion of reason... She is also a female allegorical counterpart to Enj, as the Green Faery is to R.
Speaking of classical gods, the statues that flank the estate ballroom - you might picture yourself Athena (aegis, owl, armour, spear) and Hermes (caduceus and wings on his hat and footwear); Flora and Pomona are lesser deities, the former presiding over flowers and the latter over fruits in general and apples in particular. These two nymphs are rarely seen apart in visual art. You might picture yourself statues of these two as shown in this Pre-Raphaelite style. The pediment is inspired by personifications of Charity which I have found all over Valencia, basically at the old orphanage turned high school/university and many rococo churches; the detail of her teaching children literacy comes from the fountain monument to the Marquis of Turia.
And Enj got a warmer coat! To be more precise, he is now wearing the embroidered scarlet waistcoat we all know and love beneath the crimson overcoat from the 2012 musical film.
PS. In the first drafts, I said "Received Pronunciation" for that highbrow British accent - then I found out from Wikipedia that this term is from the 1920s, and that Victorians said "the Queen's English" to describe the accent actively cultivated by the British elite; and I was compelled to set that right. So I can take some licenses, if they are a few decades away, but this case is a completely different kettle; of Roaring 20s vs. Victorian fish!
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