Dedicated to my friend Buffintruda,
for her birthday;
and in honor of the 6th of June,
the day the rebels died.
Child of Laughter
The gamin exists still today.
Still he runs and plays in the bright hours of the day. Still he swears, laughs, and teases; still he wanders, loves, and dances: he is free.
"Ah! ah!" you cry. "But surely he is not still alone?"
If by alone, you mean without brothers and sisters in the streets—he has never been alone. But if by alone, you mean without family—some have mothers, some have fathers, some have homes. Still, many do not.
Still this child loves theater. He no longer can enjoy a drama so often. Prices have been raised; this is the fault of society. But perhaps once every few months the good hand of Fortune blesses him, and he can rush to the theater.
Just as the gamin is the child of Paris, he is the child of Laughter. Paris, the mother; Laughter, the father.
He laughs. Whether it be a comedy, a tragedy, something in-between, he laughs: his father comes out in him. The other spectators hate the child, for he disturbs the act; but the child, full of innocence and youth, cares not.
But there is one play, a musical, at which this Child of Laughter dares not chuckle. The play is entitled 'The Miserable', and the reason is their brother.
Their kin graces the stage: he sings, he laughs, he plays... and then he falls.
The misery of others may at times be joy to the gamin, but the misery of himself is not.
He sits in silence, watching; the tale affects him: it is a tale set in Paris, a tale of his brother, his sister, his mother, his father. In truth, none of the act is amusing: it is solemn, it is real. His pure innocence, the gift of childhood, is for a few hours affected.
After the drama has unfolded, the Child of Laughter becomes himself again; but when he grows old, he still remembers the tale of the Miserable.
He remembers eyes wide with wonder; he remembers the song of the people; he remembers it all. He recalls his sister, after the curtain falls, directing his brother to them: "There are your brothers. Go greet them."
He remembers the bright eyes of his fellows, he remembers the brush of his rough hands against his brother's smooth ones as they shake. He remembers the exchange of words between them.
"So! did you enjoy the show?"
"Aye, 'tis the only show we do not laugh at."
"You laugh at others?"
"All others."
"Why not this one?"
"This one is about us."
Then their brother must leave, and he must return to his mother, that great city, Paris; but he avoids his father for just a little longer. There is no room for Laughter among Misery.