"Let all the women and fathers of children go from here."
The young, brown haired medical student turned to his side. A shorter, but not by much, figure stood there. He removed the black cap and revealed tumbling waves of brunette hair that shined in the morning light. The porcelain skin of the young woman glowed. "You must go, Claire."
"I'm staying, Marcus," retorted she, grabbing hold of his white sleeve. The student tore his arm away from her grip. The girl stood her ground, determined. "It is too dangerous for you and the child." "The child shall be alright as long as it is near its father." "Do not make this a difficult decision, Claire. I am telling you to leave this place before the enemy awakens." "Marcus I am not leaving you. I shall not leave you until I know you are alive and well," snapped the girl.
Marcus Joly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you not understand, woman, that you may very well die here? Not only you, but the future of France?" His hand pressed against her stomach, feeling the small but definite bump.
"Nothing shall happen to me or the child! Marcus, I assure you that we will be alright." "You are a fool, Claire," he snapped at her. "You are a hypocrite! You want me to leave when you yourself won't! Enjolras said that women AND fathers must leave." Her small, dirty hands covered his.
"You are a father," she told him quietly. ""So you should be leaving as well."
The doctor's hand trailed away from his lover's clothed stomach. He had no words to answer her with. For she was right. He was to be a father. He should be leaving the barricades with the other men and women. But here he was, standing at the point of no return.
"...You are leaving."
Joly grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the barricade. He whistled to Feuilly and Combeferre. All the while, he managed to keep a strong grip on the struggling girl. "No! No! You FOOL, Marcus! You let me go now! Let go of me!"
He ignored her angry shouts. The one thought that crossed his mind was the safety of the growing child in Claire's belly.
"Be careful with her," he told his friends as he instructed them to lift her over the barricade. "She holds the future of France in her womb." "MARCUS, DON'T YOU LET THEM!" He turned to the trembling girl and held onto her shoulders. "Do you think I have pleasure in doing this?" He shook her. Tears brimmed the doctor's eyes. "Do you believe I enjoy telling the woman I love to go and run to safety while I stay here and fight for my life? Do you honestly believe I am not heartbroken at the thought of never seeing my child grow up?"
The woman's hazel eyes released the tears. She grabbed onto his gun-powdered, blood spotted vest. Her knees grew weak and gave out. The doctor caught her as she slid onto the wooden cart they stood upon.
"I don't want you to die," she sobbed into his chest. "If you die, I die! I want us to be together, no matter what happens! In life, in death!"
Joly's lips pressed against her dirtied hair. He took a look at her. She looked perfect, despite the condition she was in. She was lovelier in a man's shirt, jacket, and breeches than in a tight, constricting dress. He rubbed his thumb on her cheek and kissed it. His kisses ended at her lips, to which he captured with his mouth.
The act of passion lasted for what seemed like ages. He gently pulled away from her. Tears fell from both of their eyes. Joly wiped her eyes. "No more tears," he told her hoarsely. His eyes turned down to her stomach. Bending down, he kissed the bump. "Je t'aime," he told the unborn child. "Do not give your mother any trouble. And grow to be healthy as a horse! Be a strong child. A child that I would be proud of."
Claire's eyes glistened. Her doctor turned his attention back to her. "Go to our rooms and take whatever you desire before the police come," he instructed her. "Take the picture of you and I so that our child will know what I looked like."
"Take the money and envelope in the bottom drawer of the bureau. It has all you need and more. Most importantly, an explanation for you and the child."
The girl whimpered. "Marcus.. I-I-" The man captured her lips again. "..I know."
Feuilly's hand touched the doctor's shoulders. "Joly, let us get her to safety." Joly nodded and stood Claire and himself up. "You'll be safe. When you get over the barricade, run. Don't stop and turn back. Run." He brushed a hand through her hair and took one last look at her. Her growing belly, glowing face, and disheveled, yet beautiful, condition. "Marcus Joly, Je t'aime de tout mon cœur," she cried softly to him.
The young student took her hand and kissed it. "Moi aussi," he replied. "Keep the child safe."
Feuilly and Combeferre quickly and carefully assisted the girl over the barricade. Once on solid ground, she broke into a run.
Marcus went to return to his post. Something stuck his heart. He looked up to the sky. His pocket felt heavy. Of course! He scrambled up the wall of the barricade. In the distance, the figure of his beloved was fading away.
"CLAIRE! CLAIRE!"
The woman turned around. A slim figure of a man was waving at her. Something fell from his hand. It glistened in the morning sun as it traveled closer to her. A clink sounded as the item fell to her feet. Her slim fingers captured it. The tiny, scratched silver ring shone. Engraved was the initials of the man who it belonged to. Claire's lips pressed against it before sliding it onto her ring finger. With one last look at the barricade, she disappeared.
The body was delivered to her the next morning. She dressed in a black mourning gown when the knock sounded at the door. She listened to the men offer their fake condolences. She knew the two soldiers were happy about the death of the young man. At the burial, her hands tightened against her belly. "I swear to you, Marcus," she told the gravestone. "Your child shall know everything."
Years passed and seasons changed. Men grew old and died. The young women became mothers and widows. Soon, ten years had passed since the insurrection. Most of the grieving lovers had moved on and married. All but one.
"Maman, are we going to see Papa today?"
"Yes, James. Now put on a coat and we shall be off."
The young brown haired boy sat impatietly in the carriage. Claire stared at her son in amazement. He is the spitting image of his father, she realized. Indeed he was. He had his father's same hair, but had his mother's ever-changing eye color. He was growing like a weed.
James was informed of everything that happened at an early age. His mother kept no secrets from him. It was a promise she had made Marcus before he died. She had showed her son the note at the age of eight. He cried for days afterwards. But on the fourth week of mourning, something changed in the eight year old. He seemed far more mature than any other eight year old. He carried himself with pride and dignity, even when the whispers sounded on the streets.
The son of Marcus Joly and Claire Durant was called "The Bastard Child of a Traitor" by most of the old soldiers who had been at the June Rebellion. They had kept tabs on the surviving lovers of the deceased and taunted them constantly. The first few years had been hard. Now, Claire ignored them. It was a skill that had taken years of practice.
The nine and a half year old ran through the graveyard. He had memorized where his father and uncles' graves were. At last, he stood in front of them. He read them all silently. His eyes stopped over his father's:
Marcus Joly
1809-1832
He stood in solemn silence until his mother caught up with him. The brunette knelt besides her son and held him close. "...Father knew about me, didn't he?" "Yes." "Did he love me?"
Tears filled the woman's eyes. She tightened her hold on her son.
"More than words can say."
James walked forward and sat down besides his father's tombstone. "Father, it is me. Your son. I promise you, you will not have died in vain. I will make sure no one hurts Mother again. I will be your son." Claire stared at her boy in astonishment. The nine year old sounded more mature than his years. He is indeed your son, Marcus, she thought to her deceased lover. Her eyes traveled down to look at the silver ring on her finger. After nearly ten years, it never left her sight.
James turned to his mother. "Is Father proud of me, Mother?"
Claire went to her son and took his hand in hers. "I'm sure he is. In Heaven, he and Les Amis are so proud of you."
Just watch him, Marcus. He will do great things. I am sure of it.
I do not own Les Miserables.
(Just thought this would be a fun little thing to do.)
( Joly-Jamie Muscato.)