It is late. The sun hangs low in the sky, the last remaining touches of
light clinging to life for a brief moment before surrendering to the
approaching darkness that waits to engulf them. Sitting in my chair by the
window I envy them in a way, envy their chance to give in, to just let go
and not exist anymore. It would be so easy, such a relief to escape from
the aching bones, the eyes, always less sharp than those of my companions,
that are now failing steadily with each passing year… But no, I must stop
this. I can cope with these ailments, indeed they are insignificant in
comparison with what so many suffer at the hands of old age. No, it is not
the physical, tangible discomforts that torture me. It is the memories, the
thoughts of days long past that should no longer plague me but which refuse
to leave me in peace. It is those that I seek respite from, and the thought
of being free from their spell is so alluring that I often find my mind
turning to ways of attaining such a state. There are many ways that a man
can escape from the inner demons that torment him, it would be easy, so
easy…
"Julien." A soft voice in my ear makes me start slightly, I had been so lost in my thoughts that I had not heard Mariette enter the room. Turning to her I smile, praying that the despair and desperation that fill my heart are not reflected in my eyes. To know that I had caused her pain would be a hundred times worse than any torture I inflict upon myself by refusing to let go of what is dead and gone, and I would do anything rather than hurt this dear woman who has given me so much without asking for a single thing in return. To my relief though she smiles back, her blue eyes gazing lovingly down at me. "It is late… come to bed."
The hand resting against my shoulder is wizened and twisted now, but I can still remember the days when it was smooth and fair, the grip firm despite the slight trembling as I held it to my lips for a moment before slipping that simple gold band over her finger and making her my wife. Gently covering it with my own I once again thank God that he has been kind to me in this at least, though I know deep in my heart that I do not deserve such a blessing.
"You go… I will be up shortly." I reply, knowing from experience that sleep will elude me if I attempt it now while my thoughts are still fixed so firmly in the past. It is surely one of the curses of old age that the mind, if still intact, insists on dwelling on the earlier years of life. It is only natural though I suppose, when a man is nearing the end of his days for his thoughts to be taken up memories of times gone by when there is no future to dream of, to plan for. Nothing left but dreams of what could have been, what should have been… and constant regrets that there is nothing you can do to change it…
The touch of lips pressed softly against my forehead followed by the sound of receding footsteps tell me that Mariette has followed her own advice and gone to prepare for sleep. What will she dream of I wonder? I pray for her sake that sleep will bring her only peace and happy memories – I have enough nightmares for the both of us. Nightmares that must cause her almost as much pain as they do myself, as it is through my shouts and tears during them that she has surely come to learn how my heart belongs to another. Although we can talk of many things, this is something that we have never spoken of - I would not know how to initiate such a conversation and it is not in her nature to confront me with such an accusation. I almost believe that she would rather not know, that she does not want me to confirm what she must surely have realised for so long. So we continue, going through the years as if it never happened, as if he never existed. As if….
Patrice. How is it that even after all these years, the very thought of your name, your face, can still bring tears to my eyes? I thought I would never cry again after that night, that long cold night of hell when we fought for everything we had ever believed in and paid so dearly – you with your life, I with the one thing I held more dear even than that. Indeed, death would have been nothing for me to face that night – I expected, even welcomed the chance to give my life for our beloved France. What I had not ever let cross my mind was the thought that I would survive… survive and have to carry on without you.
You have always been a part of my life, and I cannot remember a time when I did not know who you were, of the joy of having you as a friend. We did everything together – riding, learning to swim, school lessons that we thought we would never manage to make sense of – everything that life threw at us was made bearable by the fact that we had each other, had someone else who understood because they felt the same. If only you were here now, what would you say to me? If you could see how I have lived my life since I lost you, would you be proud? I would like to be able to say that you would, but I can never know, and it is that uncertainty that sometimes hurts more than anything. I miss you so much…
Closing my eyes I let my mind drift, images and memories flooding my senses. I seize upon the first clear thought that forms, clutching at it as a drowning man reaches for the hand that offers the promise of salvation. The Barn. Neither my parents nor your own could understand what attracted us to that place, what could be so special about an old, almost derelict wooden structure filled with nothing but hay and feed for the animals. But from the first we preferred it over any other meeting place – certainly more so than either of our respective homes where we would be constantly under the watchful eye of mothers and tutors. No, they never understood, but they did not need to. It was ours – the one place that we could call our own, a place to spin out our hopes and dreams without the fear of derision or ridicule. I can still see you even now, your golden hair almost matching the rich colour of the hay upon which you are lying as we discuss our latest adventure, our latest discovery. I remember the summer we found Monsieur Moncoutant's orchard – never a day went by when we did not make an attempt on those inviting trees, snatching as much fruit as we could before being seen, then running until we fell laughing through the door of our sanctuary, barring the door against any who had pursued us.
"I want to change the world," you told me one day as we lay side by side, each eating one of the juicy apples that we had stolen that afternoon during one of our raiding expeditions. "I want to make a difference." I had paused, the fruit half way to my mouth as I considered your words.
"You will," I told you confidently after a moment, finishing my fruit and reaching for another immediately. "How could you not?" You laughed at me then, the flash of seriousness lost for the time being to the more pressing concerns of eating and enjoyment that so characterise the wonder that is called youth. But despite the joking, I knew somehow, even then, that you meant what you had said, just as I had been sincere in my reply to your words. Who though could have known then that it would end like this?
As we grew older those long lazy days had to be left behind, education and the burdens of approaching adulthood taking the place of freedom and adventure. But although so much changed, we still remained together – made closer than ever through the new challenges that we faced and overcame, the new discoveries that we had never even dreamed of…
Looking back now I can almost believe that it was inevitable, natural in a way that we should turn to each other for the one thing that we did not yet share together but which was for any teenage boy an ever increasing issue. My body began to behave in a way that it had not done before – feelings and desires that I had never experienced the like of coursing through me when I least expected it, setting me on fire with need and longing and a thousand other things that I could not put a name to. We did not talk of it, but somehow I became aware of the fact that you felt it to, the irresistible pull that beckoned, the almost palpable tension that flared even stronger when your eyes met mine across the table where we were working. I did not understand, could not put what I was feeling into words, but it was there, waiting for a chance to be explored, to come to life.
It was late one night, the candles that cast their dim light about the room burnt down to almost nothing as we worked, oblivious to everything except for the books in front of us and each other. I can still remember glancing over at you, admiring the way the light seemed to illuminate your crystal blue eyes until they sparkled, the small frown of concentration on your face as you considered what you were reading. It was Hamlet, the copy you worked from the very one I had given you as a gift on your 18th birthday and which we had enjoyed so many subsequent nights reading together. You had often said that I was your Horatio, a comparison that although I laughed at it, secretly pleased me.
"As long as you don't plan to kill the king and then go insane…" I often warned, laughing at the pure absurdity of such a suggestion. It is only now, looking back, that I do not laugh when I think of it, wondering if somehow, even then, some force was at work, already planning to take you away from me… I made the same comment that night, knowing you expected it from me and delighting in the way my heart jumped slightly at the smile you threw me before lowering your head back over your work again. I tried to return to my reading, but somehow I could no longer concentrate. My gaze continually returning to you, studying your face, your hands as they turned each page, and I found I could not tear my eyes away, even when, sensing my steady stare, you looked up to meet it with one of your own.
Time seemed to stop in that moment, the sudden hunger I could see so clearly on your face reflecting that which was burning ever stronger inside of me with each passing second. Suddenly, somehow, I was standing, reaching down to pull you to your feet so you stood facing me and I could more clearly see the desire that burnt in those clear depths.
"Patrice…" my voice was barely a whisper as you took my hand in yours, those long elegant fingers moving from my wrist to my arm before coming to rest hesitantly against the side of my face. You were shaking, we both were – from fear and suspense and something that had been suppressed for far too long and now demanded release. Before I had time to think about it your lips were against mine, soft and warm and so deeply arousing that I had to cling to you in order to remain standing upright .I remember how hesitantly I pulled the red ribbon from your hair, running my hands through the golden strands that fell about your shoulders as you moved to unbutton my shirt. Experienced we were not, but the night was no less memorable for it as we touched and explored, discovering each other for the first time with hands and mouths until we finally lay exhausted and spent in each others arms. It felt so good, so right to be like that with you, that I felt no shame when we awoke the next morning, your hand still tightly holding my own as you gazed at me with so much love in your eyes that I knew at that moment it would be impossible for me to ever leave you.
We were discreet – to be otherwise was simply not in either your nature or my own. But although outwardly nothing changed, inside it felt as if I were suddenly living for the first time. I loved you, loved you with such passion, such an all-consuming intensity that it would have scared me if I had not known that you wholeheartedly returned my feelings. And so the days passed, turning into weeks and then months as our relationship deepened still further. I needed nothing that you could not give me, my life was complete as long as you were by my side, in my arms, and there was no hurt that your soft lips against mine could not heal.
I should have known, should have realised that something so good, so perfect could not last forever. But I wanted to believe, and indeed, for a while, it looked as if it would almost be possible. I still do not know who it was, who planted the seed in your mind that led to the tragedy that fate unfolded before me, and now, it hardly matters. It was too long ago, too far back in the mists of the past for me to start trying to place blame now. And besides, whoever it was is more than likely dead now – almost certainly perished at that cursed barricade that claimed the lives of all I knew, all I cared for.
"Revolution," you told me, your face shining with excitement as you paced before about the room, mesmerising me as always with your graceful movements. "We are going to bring down the monarchy." I almost laughed at you then, but one look told me that you were speaking in earnest and, forcing down my scepticism, I listened to what you had to tell me. Soon, as with everything, I became swept along, caught up in your enthusiasm and excitement until I found myself even believing what you were saying. Closing my eyes now I can still see the squalor, the stinking streets and crowded basements that you showed me, the people in them without love, without hope. Those were the people you planned to help with your scheme, the ones who would benefit from the revolt while you, you would get your wish and earn a place in history. I could refuse you nothing, and slowly, without my even realising it, your fight became my own, and that of enough other like minded people to make it seem possible that we would succeed.
I was not jealous, felt no resentment that I now had to share you with something else, that your mind was now occupied with something other than me and our time together. No, how could I when I was as much a part of this aspect of your life as I was of everything else? I made certain of it, refusing to be left behind while you made your mark on the world. And you welcomed me gladly, knowing as well as I did that we were only complete when we worked together and could achieve so much more than if we attempted it alone. The others noticed this from the start, and some I think even guessed that our closeness was far more than just that of a good working relationship. But nothing was said, the fact that he and I were one being accepted if not understood by the other men who rallied to the call of Freedom and Liberty.
So we planned, and we waited, days continuing much as before, although now there was no longer as much time to ourselves, long nights spent with maps and books rather than in seeking pleasure in each others bodies. I even found myself half believing that the time we prepared so thoroughly for would never arrive, that I would not have need of the gun that lay in the draw by my bed and with which I would be expected to shoot, to rob someone of their life. It did not seem real, a dream of what would be without the realisation of what would be necessary in order to achieve it.
I was not with you that day when the rioting broke out during Lamarque's funeral procession through the city. I could hear the shouts from where I sat working, the noise sharp and clear through my window which was open in a futile attempt to allow some air in to diffuse the stifling summer heat. Before I could even stand to find out what was happening though you were there, bursting through the door and taking me in your arms, your exhilaration evident in every move, every gesture.
"It's happening," you told me, already releasing me so you could grab the papers and plans that would be so crucial over the next few hours. "The time is here Julien." Needing no further prompting I followed you, pausing only momentarily to pick up my rifle before running out into the street towards our final fighting place. Men were already there, manoeuvring tables and paving stones into a wall that we could shelter behind and from which we hoped to achieve our victory. I still remember it clearly to this day, the heat and the agony of screaming muscles, but I barely felt it as I worked by your side, taking heart from the encouragements that you shouted to others who were starting to tire. By evening we were finished, and, with no sight of the men sent by the government to destroy us, we settled down to rest for the coming fight. You could not settle though, and, waking from the light doze I had drifted into I found you no longer by my side.
"They won't attack tonight…" I told you quietly when I found you, sitting atop the barricade and restlessly scanning the deserted street with eyes that were swollen red with sleep and worry. We were alone, and settling down beside you I took you in my arms, holding you close and taking comfort from the reassurance of your warmth, the steady beat of your heart under my hand. And so we kept watch together, silent through the long still night until the faint paling of the sky warned us of the soon approaching dawn.
"We should wake the others…" you murmured softly against my shoulder, your body already tensing in preparation for moving away from me. I nodded, but somehow I could not bring myself to let you escape from my arms, knowing as I did that it could be the last time I would ever get to hold you.
"A moment longer…" I begged, softly kissing your lips when you turned your face up to mine. You did not protest, tenderly returning my offering for a moment before settling back against me and gazing out at the fast approaching day that lay before us. Sighing I closed my eyes, burying my face in your hair for a moment as I tried to gather the strength I would need in the hours to come.
"I want you to take this," you told me suddenly, reaching into your coat as you spoke. Looking down I found myself holding a small parcel – what felt to my probing fingers like a small book wrapped in the thick brown envelope that surrounded it.
"What…" I began but a sudden sound from the street cut me off, the glint of muskets I could see on turning forcing everything from my mind other than the knowledge that the moment for action had arrived at last. With one last kiss you were gone, rousing the rest as you hurried from one side to the other until all were awake and ready.
My mind tries to shy away from the memories of the next few hours, from the blood and the pain and the roar of cannon as we fought for what we believed in, fought for our lives. Even now it is too much, too much for me to bear. You were one of the last to die so they tell me – you and the one person at that barricade who I believe loved you almost as much as I did, but who would never know the joy of having his love returned. I did not see it – three thrusts of a bayonet to my chest were enough to fell me, my body screaming out in agony as I lay there in the rubble, unable to move or cry out as the pain coursed through me. This is it. I had thought, gazing up at a sky that was no more than a blurred wash of colour since my glasses were no longer there to aid my vision. You are dying. Closing my eyes I had welcomed it, your face before me in my mind as I prepared to meet my maker.
One thing I have learnt from that day though is that fate strikes where you least expect her to. Unlike so many others who lay around me, their bodies broken by shot and ball, I did not breathe my last on that tumultuous summer morning. I awoke just over a week later to be told how lucky I was to escape, what a miracle it was that I had survived when all others had perished.
"But… but how?" I had asked shakily, trying desperately to process what I was being told, what it meant. I recognised the package that was held out to me immediately, instantly recognisable even through the dirt and blood that stained the once smooth surface. I had hastily shoved it into my jacket pocket on seeing the National Guard start its advance, giving no further thought to the gift given to me by my lover as we leapt into battle. Two deep gashes now marked the front of it, the paper torn clear away and uncovering what lay beneath. The result of the other thrust was still burnt into my chest, but being the last and not as powerful as the first, had not been enough to prove fatal. Tearing away the remaining covering I examined the book for the first time, my heart in my throat as I read the title on the spine – Hamlet. He had been returning it to me, this cherished gift that had brought us so much pleasure and was so dear to him, almost as if he had known that I would be the one who would be able to ensure its survival even if he could not. Turning the cover I tried to focus on the words but tears blinded me and I could not read them. You were gone, how could I carry on? I did not want to, did not think I could stand to continue with a life that did not contain you.
Forty summers have come and gone since that fatal June morning when you breathed your last. And although I did not think it possible, somehow, I have managed to struggle on alone. No, not alone, for I have had the joy of Mariette beside me, her soft voice and gentle touch a soothing balm against the wounds of my heart. It is not enough, but it has to be, as there is nothing I can do to bring you back, although I would sell my soul a thousand times over if I thought it would achieve this. Those who say that time heals all do not speak the truth – there is only so much that the passage of years can do to ease such a grief as that which I carry even now in my heart. It is true, I do not feel it as sharply or as strongly as I did back in those early days when my loss was still so new, but the dull steady ache that refuses to go away is often, in a way, so much worse, always ready to burst into flame at a memory, a reminder of what was taken away from me. Patrice, I love you…
The candle beside me splutters suddenly, flickering for one last moment before plunging the room into darkness and rousing me from my reverie. Pushing away my thoughts I glance at the clock over the fire – it is late, and Mariette will be wondering where I am. With a sigh I force myself to stand, my joints stiff from the long time I have been sitting and rebelling against the sudden movement. Pausing for a moment to pick up the by now well-worn book that is never far from my side I turn towards the stairs, a promise on my lips as I begin the long climb towards my bedroom. Soon Patrice… soon. I can feel it. And this time fate will not be able to keep us apart.
"Julien." A soft voice in my ear makes me start slightly, I had been so lost in my thoughts that I had not heard Mariette enter the room. Turning to her I smile, praying that the despair and desperation that fill my heart are not reflected in my eyes. To know that I had caused her pain would be a hundred times worse than any torture I inflict upon myself by refusing to let go of what is dead and gone, and I would do anything rather than hurt this dear woman who has given me so much without asking for a single thing in return. To my relief though she smiles back, her blue eyes gazing lovingly down at me. "It is late… come to bed."
The hand resting against my shoulder is wizened and twisted now, but I can still remember the days when it was smooth and fair, the grip firm despite the slight trembling as I held it to my lips for a moment before slipping that simple gold band over her finger and making her my wife. Gently covering it with my own I once again thank God that he has been kind to me in this at least, though I know deep in my heart that I do not deserve such a blessing.
"You go… I will be up shortly." I reply, knowing from experience that sleep will elude me if I attempt it now while my thoughts are still fixed so firmly in the past. It is surely one of the curses of old age that the mind, if still intact, insists on dwelling on the earlier years of life. It is only natural though I suppose, when a man is nearing the end of his days for his thoughts to be taken up memories of times gone by when there is no future to dream of, to plan for. Nothing left but dreams of what could have been, what should have been… and constant regrets that there is nothing you can do to change it…
The touch of lips pressed softly against my forehead followed by the sound of receding footsteps tell me that Mariette has followed her own advice and gone to prepare for sleep. What will she dream of I wonder? I pray for her sake that sleep will bring her only peace and happy memories – I have enough nightmares for the both of us. Nightmares that must cause her almost as much pain as they do myself, as it is through my shouts and tears during them that she has surely come to learn how my heart belongs to another. Although we can talk of many things, this is something that we have never spoken of - I would not know how to initiate such a conversation and it is not in her nature to confront me with such an accusation. I almost believe that she would rather not know, that she does not want me to confirm what she must surely have realised for so long. So we continue, going through the years as if it never happened, as if he never existed. As if….
Patrice. How is it that even after all these years, the very thought of your name, your face, can still bring tears to my eyes? I thought I would never cry again after that night, that long cold night of hell when we fought for everything we had ever believed in and paid so dearly – you with your life, I with the one thing I held more dear even than that. Indeed, death would have been nothing for me to face that night – I expected, even welcomed the chance to give my life for our beloved France. What I had not ever let cross my mind was the thought that I would survive… survive and have to carry on without you.
You have always been a part of my life, and I cannot remember a time when I did not know who you were, of the joy of having you as a friend. We did everything together – riding, learning to swim, school lessons that we thought we would never manage to make sense of – everything that life threw at us was made bearable by the fact that we had each other, had someone else who understood because they felt the same. If only you were here now, what would you say to me? If you could see how I have lived my life since I lost you, would you be proud? I would like to be able to say that you would, but I can never know, and it is that uncertainty that sometimes hurts more than anything. I miss you so much…
Closing my eyes I let my mind drift, images and memories flooding my senses. I seize upon the first clear thought that forms, clutching at it as a drowning man reaches for the hand that offers the promise of salvation. The Barn. Neither my parents nor your own could understand what attracted us to that place, what could be so special about an old, almost derelict wooden structure filled with nothing but hay and feed for the animals. But from the first we preferred it over any other meeting place – certainly more so than either of our respective homes where we would be constantly under the watchful eye of mothers and tutors. No, they never understood, but they did not need to. It was ours – the one place that we could call our own, a place to spin out our hopes and dreams without the fear of derision or ridicule. I can still see you even now, your golden hair almost matching the rich colour of the hay upon which you are lying as we discuss our latest adventure, our latest discovery. I remember the summer we found Monsieur Moncoutant's orchard – never a day went by when we did not make an attempt on those inviting trees, snatching as much fruit as we could before being seen, then running until we fell laughing through the door of our sanctuary, barring the door against any who had pursued us.
"I want to change the world," you told me one day as we lay side by side, each eating one of the juicy apples that we had stolen that afternoon during one of our raiding expeditions. "I want to make a difference." I had paused, the fruit half way to my mouth as I considered your words.
"You will," I told you confidently after a moment, finishing my fruit and reaching for another immediately. "How could you not?" You laughed at me then, the flash of seriousness lost for the time being to the more pressing concerns of eating and enjoyment that so characterise the wonder that is called youth. But despite the joking, I knew somehow, even then, that you meant what you had said, just as I had been sincere in my reply to your words. Who though could have known then that it would end like this?
As we grew older those long lazy days had to be left behind, education and the burdens of approaching adulthood taking the place of freedom and adventure. But although so much changed, we still remained together – made closer than ever through the new challenges that we faced and overcame, the new discoveries that we had never even dreamed of…
Looking back now I can almost believe that it was inevitable, natural in a way that we should turn to each other for the one thing that we did not yet share together but which was for any teenage boy an ever increasing issue. My body began to behave in a way that it had not done before – feelings and desires that I had never experienced the like of coursing through me when I least expected it, setting me on fire with need and longing and a thousand other things that I could not put a name to. We did not talk of it, but somehow I became aware of the fact that you felt it to, the irresistible pull that beckoned, the almost palpable tension that flared even stronger when your eyes met mine across the table where we were working. I did not understand, could not put what I was feeling into words, but it was there, waiting for a chance to be explored, to come to life.
It was late one night, the candles that cast their dim light about the room burnt down to almost nothing as we worked, oblivious to everything except for the books in front of us and each other. I can still remember glancing over at you, admiring the way the light seemed to illuminate your crystal blue eyes until they sparkled, the small frown of concentration on your face as you considered what you were reading. It was Hamlet, the copy you worked from the very one I had given you as a gift on your 18th birthday and which we had enjoyed so many subsequent nights reading together. You had often said that I was your Horatio, a comparison that although I laughed at it, secretly pleased me.
"As long as you don't plan to kill the king and then go insane…" I often warned, laughing at the pure absurdity of such a suggestion. It is only now, looking back, that I do not laugh when I think of it, wondering if somehow, even then, some force was at work, already planning to take you away from me… I made the same comment that night, knowing you expected it from me and delighting in the way my heart jumped slightly at the smile you threw me before lowering your head back over your work again. I tried to return to my reading, but somehow I could no longer concentrate. My gaze continually returning to you, studying your face, your hands as they turned each page, and I found I could not tear my eyes away, even when, sensing my steady stare, you looked up to meet it with one of your own.
Time seemed to stop in that moment, the sudden hunger I could see so clearly on your face reflecting that which was burning ever stronger inside of me with each passing second. Suddenly, somehow, I was standing, reaching down to pull you to your feet so you stood facing me and I could more clearly see the desire that burnt in those clear depths.
"Patrice…" my voice was barely a whisper as you took my hand in yours, those long elegant fingers moving from my wrist to my arm before coming to rest hesitantly against the side of my face. You were shaking, we both were – from fear and suspense and something that had been suppressed for far too long and now demanded release. Before I had time to think about it your lips were against mine, soft and warm and so deeply arousing that I had to cling to you in order to remain standing upright .I remember how hesitantly I pulled the red ribbon from your hair, running my hands through the golden strands that fell about your shoulders as you moved to unbutton my shirt. Experienced we were not, but the night was no less memorable for it as we touched and explored, discovering each other for the first time with hands and mouths until we finally lay exhausted and spent in each others arms. It felt so good, so right to be like that with you, that I felt no shame when we awoke the next morning, your hand still tightly holding my own as you gazed at me with so much love in your eyes that I knew at that moment it would be impossible for me to ever leave you.
We were discreet – to be otherwise was simply not in either your nature or my own. But although outwardly nothing changed, inside it felt as if I were suddenly living for the first time. I loved you, loved you with such passion, such an all-consuming intensity that it would have scared me if I had not known that you wholeheartedly returned my feelings. And so the days passed, turning into weeks and then months as our relationship deepened still further. I needed nothing that you could not give me, my life was complete as long as you were by my side, in my arms, and there was no hurt that your soft lips against mine could not heal.
I should have known, should have realised that something so good, so perfect could not last forever. But I wanted to believe, and indeed, for a while, it looked as if it would almost be possible. I still do not know who it was, who planted the seed in your mind that led to the tragedy that fate unfolded before me, and now, it hardly matters. It was too long ago, too far back in the mists of the past for me to start trying to place blame now. And besides, whoever it was is more than likely dead now – almost certainly perished at that cursed barricade that claimed the lives of all I knew, all I cared for.
"Revolution," you told me, your face shining with excitement as you paced before about the room, mesmerising me as always with your graceful movements. "We are going to bring down the monarchy." I almost laughed at you then, but one look told me that you were speaking in earnest and, forcing down my scepticism, I listened to what you had to tell me. Soon, as with everything, I became swept along, caught up in your enthusiasm and excitement until I found myself even believing what you were saying. Closing my eyes now I can still see the squalor, the stinking streets and crowded basements that you showed me, the people in them without love, without hope. Those were the people you planned to help with your scheme, the ones who would benefit from the revolt while you, you would get your wish and earn a place in history. I could refuse you nothing, and slowly, without my even realising it, your fight became my own, and that of enough other like minded people to make it seem possible that we would succeed.
I was not jealous, felt no resentment that I now had to share you with something else, that your mind was now occupied with something other than me and our time together. No, how could I when I was as much a part of this aspect of your life as I was of everything else? I made certain of it, refusing to be left behind while you made your mark on the world. And you welcomed me gladly, knowing as well as I did that we were only complete when we worked together and could achieve so much more than if we attempted it alone. The others noticed this from the start, and some I think even guessed that our closeness was far more than just that of a good working relationship. But nothing was said, the fact that he and I were one being accepted if not understood by the other men who rallied to the call of Freedom and Liberty.
So we planned, and we waited, days continuing much as before, although now there was no longer as much time to ourselves, long nights spent with maps and books rather than in seeking pleasure in each others bodies. I even found myself half believing that the time we prepared so thoroughly for would never arrive, that I would not have need of the gun that lay in the draw by my bed and with which I would be expected to shoot, to rob someone of their life. It did not seem real, a dream of what would be without the realisation of what would be necessary in order to achieve it.
I was not with you that day when the rioting broke out during Lamarque's funeral procession through the city. I could hear the shouts from where I sat working, the noise sharp and clear through my window which was open in a futile attempt to allow some air in to diffuse the stifling summer heat. Before I could even stand to find out what was happening though you were there, bursting through the door and taking me in your arms, your exhilaration evident in every move, every gesture.
"It's happening," you told me, already releasing me so you could grab the papers and plans that would be so crucial over the next few hours. "The time is here Julien." Needing no further prompting I followed you, pausing only momentarily to pick up my rifle before running out into the street towards our final fighting place. Men were already there, manoeuvring tables and paving stones into a wall that we could shelter behind and from which we hoped to achieve our victory. I still remember it clearly to this day, the heat and the agony of screaming muscles, but I barely felt it as I worked by your side, taking heart from the encouragements that you shouted to others who were starting to tire. By evening we were finished, and, with no sight of the men sent by the government to destroy us, we settled down to rest for the coming fight. You could not settle though, and, waking from the light doze I had drifted into I found you no longer by my side.
"They won't attack tonight…" I told you quietly when I found you, sitting atop the barricade and restlessly scanning the deserted street with eyes that were swollen red with sleep and worry. We were alone, and settling down beside you I took you in my arms, holding you close and taking comfort from the reassurance of your warmth, the steady beat of your heart under my hand. And so we kept watch together, silent through the long still night until the faint paling of the sky warned us of the soon approaching dawn.
"We should wake the others…" you murmured softly against my shoulder, your body already tensing in preparation for moving away from me. I nodded, but somehow I could not bring myself to let you escape from my arms, knowing as I did that it could be the last time I would ever get to hold you.
"A moment longer…" I begged, softly kissing your lips when you turned your face up to mine. You did not protest, tenderly returning my offering for a moment before settling back against me and gazing out at the fast approaching day that lay before us. Sighing I closed my eyes, burying my face in your hair for a moment as I tried to gather the strength I would need in the hours to come.
"I want you to take this," you told me suddenly, reaching into your coat as you spoke. Looking down I found myself holding a small parcel – what felt to my probing fingers like a small book wrapped in the thick brown envelope that surrounded it.
"What…" I began but a sudden sound from the street cut me off, the glint of muskets I could see on turning forcing everything from my mind other than the knowledge that the moment for action had arrived at last. With one last kiss you were gone, rousing the rest as you hurried from one side to the other until all were awake and ready.
My mind tries to shy away from the memories of the next few hours, from the blood and the pain and the roar of cannon as we fought for what we believed in, fought for our lives. Even now it is too much, too much for me to bear. You were one of the last to die so they tell me – you and the one person at that barricade who I believe loved you almost as much as I did, but who would never know the joy of having his love returned. I did not see it – three thrusts of a bayonet to my chest were enough to fell me, my body screaming out in agony as I lay there in the rubble, unable to move or cry out as the pain coursed through me. This is it. I had thought, gazing up at a sky that was no more than a blurred wash of colour since my glasses were no longer there to aid my vision. You are dying. Closing my eyes I had welcomed it, your face before me in my mind as I prepared to meet my maker.
One thing I have learnt from that day though is that fate strikes where you least expect her to. Unlike so many others who lay around me, their bodies broken by shot and ball, I did not breathe my last on that tumultuous summer morning. I awoke just over a week later to be told how lucky I was to escape, what a miracle it was that I had survived when all others had perished.
"But… but how?" I had asked shakily, trying desperately to process what I was being told, what it meant. I recognised the package that was held out to me immediately, instantly recognisable even through the dirt and blood that stained the once smooth surface. I had hastily shoved it into my jacket pocket on seeing the National Guard start its advance, giving no further thought to the gift given to me by my lover as we leapt into battle. Two deep gashes now marked the front of it, the paper torn clear away and uncovering what lay beneath. The result of the other thrust was still burnt into my chest, but being the last and not as powerful as the first, had not been enough to prove fatal. Tearing away the remaining covering I examined the book for the first time, my heart in my throat as I read the title on the spine – Hamlet. He had been returning it to me, this cherished gift that had brought us so much pleasure and was so dear to him, almost as if he had known that I would be the one who would be able to ensure its survival even if he could not. Turning the cover I tried to focus on the words but tears blinded me and I could not read them. You were gone, how could I carry on? I did not want to, did not think I could stand to continue with a life that did not contain you.
Forty summers have come and gone since that fatal June morning when you breathed your last. And although I did not think it possible, somehow, I have managed to struggle on alone. No, not alone, for I have had the joy of Mariette beside me, her soft voice and gentle touch a soothing balm against the wounds of my heart. It is not enough, but it has to be, as there is nothing I can do to bring you back, although I would sell my soul a thousand times over if I thought it would achieve this. Those who say that time heals all do not speak the truth – there is only so much that the passage of years can do to ease such a grief as that which I carry even now in my heart. It is true, I do not feel it as sharply or as strongly as I did back in those early days when my loss was still so new, but the dull steady ache that refuses to go away is often, in a way, so much worse, always ready to burst into flame at a memory, a reminder of what was taken away from me. Patrice, I love you…
The candle beside me splutters suddenly, flickering for one last moment before plunging the room into darkness and rousing me from my reverie. Pushing away my thoughts I glance at the clock over the fire – it is late, and Mariette will be wondering where I am. With a sigh I force myself to stand, my joints stiff from the long time I have been sitting and rebelling against the sudden movement. Pausing for a moment to pick up the by now well-worn book that is never far from my side I turn towards the stairs, a promise on my lips as I begin the long climb towards my bedroom. Soon Patrice… soon. I can feel it. And this time fate will not be able to keep us apart.