Young Julien awoke to a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning. The shutters slammed open to reveal the torrential downpour outside. The trees were bending so that they looked as if at any moment they might snap. Julien was a very young child, hardly four, and he was terribly frightened. He cowered beneath the blankets, hoping for some measure of protection, but the next boom of thunder was enough to send him flying out into the corridor.
The child scampered down the hall in a state of panic, tears streaming down his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Julien spotted a light peeping under the door of the drawing room. Hoping desperately that it was not his father sitting awake, he crept into the room. To his relief, he found that it was his mother sitting in the high backed armchair in front of the drawing room fire. She did not notice him as he walked in, and he approached her quietly. She was in her dressing gown, and did not appear to have been doing anything in particular – just staring into the flickering light and thinking. Her face was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the flames. In that moment, young Julien thought that his mother was the most beautiful thing in the world – her delicate features and her soft blond curls cascading over one shoulder. Her bright and thoughtful eyes. And she was always so much kinder than Pére. He loved her very dearly.
"Julien, my darling," his mother said tenderly, only slightly surprised as he padded, barefoot, into view. "What are you doing up so late, cheri?"
There was a flash of lighting and a clap of thunder, and the rain seemed to pound ever harder upon the roof. Julien jumped in fright. Madame Enjolras beckoned her sniffling, wide-eyed child closer, and he gratefully climbed into her lap, attempting to drown his fear in the folds of her dressing gown. She drew him to her, and Julien buried his face into her neck and breathed in her scent: clean and soft – like a cloud. Thunder rumbled once again in the distance and he trembled in fright, then nuzzled deeper into his mother's hold, clinging to her with all his might.
"Oh, my sweet," she murmured, stroking her child's sweet blonde ringlets. "Hush, do not be afraid." She cooed and stroked Julien, and held him close. Gradually, he felt himself relax into her warmth – her peace and calm. He felt safe enough to begin to doze. All too soon, however, Madame Enjolras shook her Julien gently awake, and told him they must return to bed. Julien looked decidedly out of sorts, so his mother offered him an appeasement.
"Now, Julien," she whispered, her voice sparkling with life, "would you like some warm milk?"
"Oui, Maman," Julien replied eagerly. And he felt himself privy to a great secret as they crept down to the kitchens, and Julien's mother fixed his milk herself.
Madame Enjolras had never grown accustomed to servants to attend to her every need. She grew up a simple farm girl – the only reason Monsieur Enjolras had married her was her incredible beauty. She, of course, had married him because it was quite the done thing. If an affluent young nobleman asked your hand in marriage, not a single flicker of doubt would cross your mind. You married him for the betterment of everyone you knew and loved. You married him for the sake of your children and your children's children. You married him because you could live a comfortable life, if not a happy one. You married him because there was no other choice. Madame Enjolras' one regret was that she was not allowed a hand in running her own home. She knew how to be a good wife, and she would have sorely liked to be able to do it, but it was not how a respectable upper-class woman was supposed to behave.
Sometimes, though, she would tell her son fantasies about living in a happy little cottage by the sea where everything was true and good. Both mother and child longed for such a place, and it was something they could share when they were together like this, in the middle of the night. So, because Madame Enjolras could not have what she really wanted, she made do with doing small things for the people she loved. Like heating some milk for her son instead of allowing the maid to do it. Her husband would constantly insist that she learn her place, but she knew where she really belonged.
Julien drank his milk and his mother took him to bed, tucked him in and lulled him to sleep with dreams of their cottage by the sea. Julien never feared a storm again.