Failure No More

I am Clément Mathieu, a failed musician, an unemployed prefect.

As the clouds gather above me, I stand outside what once was Fond de L'étang.

Action, reaction!

I see myself, hauled out to the front in that gloomy assembly, forced into lock-up.

Choose a name at random.

What?... Boniface.

Boniface, Rachin's favourite. Yet it had been so hard to hate him, and only easy to dislike him. How is Boniface, I wonder? He had been a soprano, hadn't he? Is he even alive?

Action, reaction!

The slamming of an iron gate.

It isn't Saturday, Pépinot! Move along!

Pépinot never had visitors come visiting time. My mother came, but often I missed her, being in lock-up. I do not remember seeing her often.

My hand drifts over the old stone bricks. A part of me is glad that this place has not been restored. There are still remnants from the fire here and there.

My mother commented on them when she took me from here to Lyon. I never returned again- until today.

Mama.

No, that cry is too young for me, I have outgrown it. She is gone, and I cannot go to her. I cannot tell her what she never knew, that Mathieu liked her, loved her. I had hated him for it.

Forgive me.

He did.

Now I stand directly below the room, and even as I close my eyes, I can remember.

Cerf-volant

Volant au vent

Ne t'arrête…

Mathieu, I can see Mathieu walking away. And all of a sudden, I am no longer standing at the foot of an abandoned building, I am in a barricaded room, singing, singing with my classmates. I am farewelling Mathieu.

Farewelling him, yes, that was the end. I have never seen Mathieu since, and I will never see him again. He is dead, Pépinot informed me of that. All I have of him is his album that he wanted me to have.

Why didn't you come to try and find me? I always remembered you.

Yes, I remembered him! I didn't remember his name, but he was always there, always, in the back of my mind.

Nobody remembered him, then. He was a name who would pass into oblivion, but he deserved so much more.

Vois sur ton chemin

Gamins oubliés égarés

The music is still in the album. Clément Mathieu kept his music with him, always.

I knew that one day someone would play my music.

Yes, someone! Delinquents. Boys doomed to be the failures of France. Is that all?

No, it cannot be. It will not be. Not if I, Pierre Morhange, the world's best conductor, can do anything about it. Mathieu gave me my solo; I must give him something in return.

He kept the paper plane.

I was not very good at drawing notes back then, I had not been taught how to do it properly. Yet I can still read everything that I had written- shaped in an imitation of Mathieu's own pieces. It was not much, but he kept it.

Is there nothing I can do in return? For there is something I must do for Mathieu, for the man I have not seen for fifty years, for the man who changed my life.

Quickly, I glance down at the diary, and find the page.

My name is Clément Mathieu. I'm a musician and each night, I compose for them.

Yes, of course, it is so simple… the music.

I knew that one day someone would play my music!

Yes, someone will play your music, Clément Mathieu! I will find the finest boy's choir in France, and the world will remember you.

I will remember you.

Slowly, I head back towards my car. There is much work to do.

Don't let it be too late. I will remember you.

---

A/N: I don't like this as much as my other 'Les Choristes' fics, but I may as well put it up here. This is unbeta-d, as neither of my betas has seen this film, and I don't want to ruin it for them, so there are probably some grammatical errors in there, somewhere. Just a note- this is my third fic and final fic in which I will attempt to explore Morhange and Mathieu's odd, estranged teacher-student relationship.

Please review, if you've bothered to read this far!