Hapaxanthous: a. having one flowering period only
There were two of them, to begin with. Strolling through the Luxembourg side by side, they could not have been less alike. The first was a carefree sort, forever bearing a laugh in his eyes and a quick retort on his lips, sparing an appreciative glance for anything in a skirt. The other was more somber, taller and quieter, seeming to lack the vivacity any boy that age should possess.
Youth, ideally, was vibrant, full of life, shining invincibly for the short time it was allotted. No prison or poverty could ever confine it, it seemed, although in reality it was not so. There was no way to shelter such an abstraction, safely enclosing it like a girl in a garden. And still the first boy was there, sublime in recklessness and ignorance.
Valjean had never experienced such sublimity firsthand, and knew, of course, that there was no way to put a stop to suffering singlehandedly, and that nineteen years and far less were enough to erode even the sunniest smiles into grainy nothingness. But during the occasional encounter with the young man in the garden, he allowed himself to forget as much as he was able. His companion remained dark and awkward, with no such effervescence about him, and it was rather disappointing when he took to walking alone. For a long time, there was no trace of the bright boy from before.
He did not see him again until June, hair like leaves browning in autumn, shining eyes dimmed, quick wits lost forever. There was nothing to do then but close those eyes, brush the hair off the unlined forehead, and forget how to forget once again. More could be done, building schools and factories and gardens to fill the world, knowing full well that it would never be enough to spare those who deserve to be spared. Valjean cast a last glance at the dead boy before he turned to attend to the other—the dark, sullen one, the persistent lingerer who would never leave.
But his daughter loved him, and that was enough.