Disclaimer:
None of the Amis belong to me (Victor, how much do you want for them?), and Gavroche isn't mine either. They're all Victor Hugo's, I must reluctantly admit. So don't sue me, don't imprison me, and, most of all, don't hit me. Because then I'd be very offended.
Aha, BUT. Jean-Luc is mine. Not that he's very interesting, or that he's anything more than a terribly obvious device to introduce Hugo's characters with, but he is mine. I did get one original character in this section. I'm so proud.
Chapter 1: Gamin
On the 5th of June, 1832, a chimneysweep came hop-skip-and-shuffle through the pounding rain washing down the roughly cobbled Rue de la Chanvrerie. His worn wooden shoes clattered loudly on the wet stones, and the noise echoed against bolted doors and shuttered windows. In one damp, soot-smudged hand he clutched a single sou with the absurdly fierce possessiveness that is characteristic of someone (especially if that someone is a child) who actually carries something of relatively little value. Chest thrown out, he whistled a dreadful rendition of a theater tune he had recently heard, his eight-year-old brain churning with the importance of being a family breadwinner.
Past rickety buildings braced with beams and steaming trash heaps he tripped, seemingly unaware of the dreadful oppressiveness that lingered in the muggy summer air, unaware of the little piles of glass beneath each shattered lamp, unaware even of the distinct odor of melting metal. He flipped the coin in the air, admiring the way the hardly visible sun sent glimmers of sharp gold off its edge. Ahead of him, the street before him narrowed off sharply, and the boy followed it with only a brief glance about to make sure he was still heading in the right direction. The cobblestones finally ended in a seeming dead end at more half-collapsed house-fronts, from behind which rang out the anxious clang and babble (had the boy been paying more attention, he would have noticed the clang and babble was a little more anxious and yet a little more subdued than usual) of the Les Halles markets beyond.
Twenty-five yards before the house-fronts that bounded Les Halles, the Rue Mondétour slashed across the gutters, providing the only two routes off the end of the street. On the corner of the right intersection hulked a squat house; at only three stories, it ranked as the shortest building on the block. The boy finally looked up from his coin, and nearly dropped it in surprise at the appearance of this building and the intersection.
He passed this place nearly every day, occasionally rapping a stick on the old blue post driven into the ground next to the gutter. The post was still here today, its pitted surface displaying a roughly painted sketch of a bunch of grapes and, in gold lettering, the words "The Grape of Corinth". Yes, the sign was still there, and the building itself was still there, but the street had been dismantled.
Overturned cobblestones lay crookedly across the opening of the Rue Mondétour on the left. The street ahead of the boy, too, was blocked by wooden furniture, broken cobblestones, beams and old winecasks piled five feet high. Standing on the partially constructed barricades were men of all types, jacketed or shoeless and bare-chested, holding carbines, muskets and scattered pikes. A handsome young man stood proudly at the pinnacle of the larger barricade, urging on those hauling up more rubble. His blond brows were tightened passionately in his high forehead, and his piercing blue eyes blazed with excitement.
The boy stood dumbfounded in the shadow of the mounting heap. He timidly placed his empty hand on the leg of a table protruding from the stones. Resolve hardened his jaw, and he began to clamber, unnoticed, up the barricade.
A loose stone shifted unexpectedly beneath his foot, and he flung an arm upward, trying to find a handhold. Finding none, he groped out wildly across the sheer side of the blockade, beginning to topple backward. A small dirty hand shot down and clutched his forearm. The boy looked up, startled, as soon as he had scrabbled to a sturdier perch.
A ragged child with scraggly red hair poking from beneath a baggy cap hung gamely to a higher ledge while holding the younger boy steady. The little chimneysweep, with the help of the older boy, managed to climb further up the barricade to sit next to him.
The older child looked at him with a scolding, superior air.
"Little boy, you shouldn't be here. We're at war. See these fellows?" He jerked his head at the men sweating below them. "They're helping me build my barricade. You wanted to come over, you should've come through that little passage, see? We're leaving it open for now." He then grandly held up a rusty, hammerless pistol. "I might of thought you were with the National Guard. I would've shot you. Then where'd you be? Dead on the street like Hercules. Your blood might have soiled our city's fine clean gutters. Vive la République!"
Nearby, a tall, slender young student with long dark hair and a solemn face, deftly fastening a table to the barricade, smiled sarcastically. "Certainly these gutters have never tasted blood before."
The chimneysweep understood little of the older boy's monologue or the student's reply. At the gamin's shout, another young man had glanced down at them from atop the barricade, grinning. He waved his carbine aloft, and his red sleeves flapped in the air.
"The Guard! To arms!"
The chimneysweep cringed fearfully, but no one fired. In fact, no one showed the slightest interest in what the man in red was so excited about. A short man with longish brown hair, who was grunting with exertion over a cobblestone, called over to the "red man" (as the chimneysweep was now thinking of him), kicking a sword aside.
"Bahorel, what manner of citizen are you accosting now?"
A wiry youth nearby scowled. "One or another streetrat kid."
The chimneysweep bit his lip, warily watching the man called Bahorel clamber towards him. Bahorel bounded lightly down beside the older boy, clapping him on the shoulder.
"You're doing a fine job, citizen," Bahorel drawled with affected gravity. "You've built up this deck of our great revolutionary ship very well." The older boy beamed, cocking his dirty cap forward at an even jauntier angle. Bahorel turned to gaze at the chimneysweep, running a hand through his rumpled sandy hair. "And who is our friend, the little blackened monkey?" He frowned amiably.
The older boy turned to look at the "blackened monkey" too.
"Dunno know the môme's name," he admitted.
The chimneysweep swallowed.
"Jean-Luc," he said softly.
The older boy thrust out a grubby paw.
"Gavroche. Good t' knowya." Jean-Luc stared at the proffered hand but didn't shake it. Gavroche's smile didn't waver as he dropped his hand.
"The pleasure," Bahorel noted, "would seem to be all his." He dipped in a sardonic half-bow to Jean-Luc. "Bahorel." He grinned and raised his eyebrows, adding, "Of the Parisian Reds." He winked sarcastically at Gavroche, then noticed Jean-Luc glancing nervously at his carbine.
"I don't shoot alleycats," he added. "Just Guards."
"He's no cat," remarked Gavroche flippantly. "A good-sized cat'd eat him. Already ate his tongue, no?"
Jean-Luc flushed in embarrassment and scowled at his feet. He was grateful for the diversion provided by the short sword-wielding student who had spoken to Bahorel earlier. This student suddenly sprang up from his pavingstone, damp curls flying in the light rain, at the clatter of hooves at the entrance to the Rue Chanvrerie from the Rue Saint-Denis. Two dusty white horses pulling an omnibus came cantering towards the main barricade, and the student ran at them through the small passage between barricade and houses, crying, "An omnibus doesn't pass by Corinth!"
Bahorel looked up with a jubilant smile. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted after his running friend.
"Courfeyrac! For the barricade?"
Courfeyrac threw him a glance over his shoulder and grinned in affirmation. Upon reaching the omnibus, he sprang for the thin leather reins and gathered them in his hands, bringing the horses to a stop. The coachman climbed down from his perch and conferred with Courfeyrac for some minutes. Then he opened the omnibus door, explained the situation to the passengers, and left the street with great haste.
The abandoned passengers scrambled out and stood in the street uncertainly. Courfeyrac unhitched the horses and slapped their rumps to send them off. The horses reared nervously, and then thundered off back from whence they had come. Courfeyrac then led the four passengers through the gap in the barricade, calling up to the blond man as he passed.
"Enjolras! These lovely ladies," - he smiled roguishly here - "and their escorts need to get through to the Rue du Cygne."
The student called Enjolras waved them through impatiently. He looked rather harshly at Courfeyrac, irritation at such a petty interruption etched across his handsome visage.
"Fine, hurry. Matthias, Bossuet-! Gather some men and drag the omnibus to the barricade. Feuilly, fix the flag up on its pole."
Men swarmed out across the barricade to follow his orders. Feuilly, the tall dark student who had earlier spoken to Gavroche and Jean-Luc about blood in the gutters, sprinted after them with the flag. Courfeyrac brought the passengers to the little Mondétour barricade, motioned the men over, and inclined his head respectfully to the two women. He offered his arm courteously and helped them over, smiling and chatting easily all the way. The younger women, scarcely more than a girl, flashed him a flirtatious smile before following her companions down the street. Courfeyrac blinked, watching her go. Finally, shaking his head and shrugging, he rejoined his friends at the main barricade.
Gavroche glanced down at Jean-Luc, who was watching the proceedings with wide-eyed interest. He cuffed the smaller boy gently on the shoulder.
"Guard's going to attack soon. It won't be pretty, and no kid like you should see it. Go – wherever you were going."
Jean-Luc looked at him curiously.
"Why are you staying? Aren't you a- a kid?"
"A môme like mézig is an orgue," Gavroche countered easily. Jean-Luc furrowed his brow in confusion at the street argot, and Gavroche clucked his tongue, laughing loudly. "Ah, forget, you're an honest working-class child. Very sorry." He chuckled a bit longer, then straightened. "Now, go home."
"Yes . . ." Jean-Luc hesitated, uncertain, then shook the raindrops from his soot-blackened hair. Gavroche stood up next to him.
"You know how to get through here?"
Jean-Luc nodded. "I'm going to the markets with my money for food." He fished his coin out of a tattered pocket and held it up proudly. "For the whole family."
Gavroche nodded distractedly. "Good. I dunno if there are many stalls left open – most people've left. They're scared. Won't fight for mother France. Ah." He shook his head contemptuously. "Oh well."
Jean-Luc nodded importantly, sharing Gavroche's scorn. He turned to go, then pursed his lips and looked back at Gavroche.
"M'sieur?"
Gavroche sighed. "Hmm?"
"You think you'll die in your war?"
He noticed Courfeyrac, who was sitting nearby counting weapons, look up sharply and suck in his cheeks thoughtfully, then lower his head slowly back to his task.
Gavroche grinned expansively.
"Me? With those so-called guns the Guard carries? Ha! We pups, we're too fast to get hit by those artifacts."
Feuilly stood up further along the barricade, having finished fixing the flag to the omnibus pole. He flexed his shoulders and looked at the two boys.
"You should get that 'fast pup' out now. The Guard'll be coming."
Gavroche laughed and leapt excitedly up the barricade, gaily crying out, "Aha, men, they'll be here soon! Is our reception ready?"
Jean-Luc looked earnestly up at the milling mass of revolutionaries, watching Gavroche dance about atop the barricade for some moments. He then looked back down at his coin, shining it on his sooty shirt with a protective air. Finally, he turned on his heel and scampered off down the Rue Mondétour, away from the raucous sounds of rebels in their final hours.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
More to come . . .