The poor boy didn't speak German, but that scarcely mattered. When he was full of love, it didn't matter at all. The pretty boy would surely understand every word. In time. Eventually.
It wasn't as if they didn't have eternity to spend together.
Oh, and how the minutes they did spend together seem to fly by in the wind. The pretty little French boy would always wake up with the dawn... a true shame, that. Herbert noticed it even after he put up the curtains... and nailed them to the window to stop the boy from opening them. He'd pull and tug at the windows, to no avail, and just when he'd given up, Herbert would go in and comfort him. Oh, and how that poor, pretty pretty boy needed his comfort.
He was just like a lovely, living plaything. It was splendid. He was silent, most of the time, and sulky. Herbert loved how The Pretty Little French Boy could sulk. Herbert would follow him everywhere, both seen and unseen. He'd beg to be allowed to brush his hair and help him dress. And oh, the hours he spent brushing every one of those perfect curls of spun gold, and tying it back with silk ribbons. And the Pretty Boy would just sulk.
Herbert found it quite marvelous.
He was a little hurt every time when the Pretty French Boy would protest and demand he leave while dressing, and that he also buttoned his shirts up too high. Herbert didn't push him, though. Never be pushy... Merely... encouraging. Over time, he gleaned that the Pretty French Boy had a name. A perfect, golden French name.
Enjolras.
Herbert knew very precious little French, but he knew that "Ange" meant "angel" and he called him as such. Enjolras became Ange, simple as that. Sometimes it made him think that Ange had merely fallen out of the sky, and not come from France at all. He didn't bother to think much about Ange's origins... the how of how he had made it all the way to the Schloss from France.
But did that really matter? Clearly some Benevolent Being had created Ange just special for Herbert. And Herbert was perfectly content with Handsome Blond Ange.
One evening, Herbert strolled about the corridors of the Schloss, seeking his beloved Blond Ange, when he heard the sound of water splashing in the grand marble tub, and a gentle curse in French. Unable to contain his joy, he sprung forward, his ear pressed eagerly against the thick wooden door. He heard the sound of sweet, pure, gentle humming -French humming!- and pressed his hands against the door, only to find it locked. Undeterred, he knelt before the door and leveled his keen gaze with the keyhole. He saw Ange-ras untie the hair ribbon, pull off the stockings, and then- no! He turned around! Herbert bit his tongue in anxiety and watched as his Ange unbuttoned the blouse and allowed it to slip off his slender little shoulders. The tease. Now his eyebrows contorted, as l'Ange seemed to be fiddling with something else. He tilted his head as much as the little keyhole would allow, very curious. Whatever did the most beautiful Ange in France- nay, the world - need with a very long strip of linen? He held his breath as the Ange turned around with long, pleased sigh.
Herbert's eyes widened and his pupils dilated. Enjolras was put together funny. Very funny. In fact, he was put together so strangely, that Herbert had an epiphany, and felt a cold sweat glisten upon his lofty brow. Enjolras was a girl.
Herbert, with as much dignity as he could muster, abandoned the keyhole and set off to the library. Ah, well. Father could always have him... her...