The Sweet Child
He made such a sweet little child, his relatives said. Paul Julien Combeferre. He gazed at everyone with very dark brown eyes, and was blessed with a head of reddish-gold ringlets that straightened as he grew older. He smiled, and laughed, and was very like any other child. His immediate family was quite aware of this, but because he wasn't any other child--he was their child--they let him believe everything he did was stupendous.
He grew up sweetly, and at nine, he was very fond of gardens. He was an oddly dutiful child in study, and it seemed as though he felt he *needed* to finish anything he began. His parents acquired for him a tutor, and he went on being diligent in his remarkable way. Yet any time he had spared he spent in the gardens.
The gardens were all due to his mother. She was a young woman with beautiful red-gold hair, and Paul looked very like her. Her fancy was to have gardens everywhere that she could sit in whenever she pleased. Just as Paul had gained her looks, he had gained her love of the gardens, and he would sit neatly in the middle of a bed for ages, watching the flowers and grasses. He was like a cat in that he never stepped into anything, but around it. He knew exactly where to walk so as to never crush anything. He could stay for hours in a single spot, watching one iris standing still. He sketched some plants, and some he considered too sacred to sketch.
In the summer, he endured bugs, and his reddish-gold hair dampened with sweat. In the winter, he sat through snowflakes, and touched the frozen stems of rosebushes with his fingertips.
No one worried about him. He never neglected anything, and he knew precisely how much attention to lavish on his parents so that they would know he was growing up very well. He occasionally arranged tiny bundles of flowers, which annoyed his father slightly, but delighted his mother and made her grey eyes sparkle.
He sometimes slept in the flowers. When he did, it was always in the bed of evening primrose that grew around the tiny pond. His mother smiled and wondered aloud if the fish sang lullabyes to him. This invariably irritated his father.
Often, Paul lay on his stomach in the orchard, and when he flattened himself down, the tall grasses there covered him and no one could see him. He put his spectacled face close to the ground and touched the leaves of the weeds with a rod of straw. His dark brown eyes were rather big for his face, and it made him look perpetually afraid of something.
He was lying there one day in October, and the grasses were golden. It was a Saturday; he would be ten in six days; and he was looking back quietly on being eight, and thinking he had been utterly childish back then. At twelve, he would likely look back in the same way on being ten.
He got up after half an hour or so of being enthralled by a certain clump of grass. He wandered quite a distance, picking up a stick somewhere along the way, and feeling quite like a traveller. He tore his trousers in a patch of briar, and took off his shoes when they began to hurt his feet. He was extremely nervous about leaving them behind, because he was sure he'd not find them again, but they were too bothersome to carry. He put them behind a rock and promised himself he'd get them on his way back. This was all, in his opinion, horribly irresponsible of him, and it made him feel quite guilty for around fifteen minutes. He then forgot it.
A little further, and he sat down in the middle of the field he'd been walking through for the last half hour, and which he thought was never going to end. He closed his eyes and was listening to particular sound of something fluttering its wings when he heard a little shriek and a girl perhaps a year younger than he was fell on him.
"I didn't *see* you!" She scrambled back, and sat away from him. Her hair was very dark.
"It's all right," he mumbled, staring at her with his already too-wide eyes.
"Who are you?"
"Paul Julien Combeferre."
"Well, I'm Nathalie Jeanne Gaudin," she said, mimicking his introduction. "I'm running away from home." She smoothed her dress down importantly. "I shan't go back. No one ever notices me, and now they'll notice because I shan't be there any longer. And I shall laugh."
"You shouldn't. They'll be upset."
"They'll deserve it. Your eyes are too big. They're ugly."
Paul closed them. "That's because I can't see perfectly," he lied, trying to preserve his dignity. "I can't see like you. I'm terribly different from you. That's why I have to wear eye-glasses."
"Really?" Nathalie sounded interested, then, and she reached out to take them. "Funny. Well, they look much nicer than your eyes. They're all funny. I like them."
"Please give them back. I can't see anything."
"How dreadful," said Nathalie, quite undisturbed.
"Give them back," Paul pleaded.
"Why should I? I like them. I think I'll keep them."
Paul still had his eyes closed. "If you don't, I'll find your parents and tell them where you are."
"Ugh, you wouldn't."
"I would so. I know exactly where they live. I'll tell them right this moment. Then they'll find you and punish you for running away, and for taking my eye-glasses." He was, of course, lying again, and he felt horrible.
"Bother you. I hate you. Fine; take them." She thrust the spectacles in his face, and he took them gratefully. "You're an ugly peasant."
"I am *not*," Paul said indignantly.
Nathalie put out her tongue, laughed, and ran off, calling back over her shoulder, "Ugly!"
Paul cringed inwardly, and picked his stick back up. He started back home immediately, feeling dreadful, but remembered to fetch his shoes, because of his guilt.
He whispered the awful insult to his mother, and she stroked his red-gold curls and petted him. She told him that Nathalie was the sort of girl who made her husband miserable, and a number of other things that he didn't understand exactly, but which made him feel better. He slept well that night, secure in the knowledge that he'd not meet Nathalie again.
He went back to being a sweet child growing up in a world of gardens, with his mother and his father and his flowers. It was odd, however. He never met Nathalie again, indeed, but he never forgot what she'd said. And when he was older, he still had eyes that were too big for his face, but he wore his forelock long and brushed down so that it half-hid them.
It made his mother laugh and say he looked like a woolly puppy, and annoyed his father considerably.
He made such a sweet little child, his relatives said. Paul Julien Combeferre. He gazed at everyone with very dark brown eyes, and was blessed with a head of reddish-gold ringlets that straightened as he grew older. He smiled, and laughed, and was very like any other child. His immediate family was quite aware of this, but because he wasn't any other child--he was their child--they let him believe everything he did was stupendous.
He grew up sweetly, and at nine, he was very fond of gardens. He was an oddly dutiful child in study, and it seemed as though he felt he *needed* to finish anything he began. His parents acquired for him a tutor, and he went on being diligent in his remarkable way. Yet any time he had spared he spent in the gardens.
The gardens were all due to his mother. She was a young woman with beautiful red-gold hair, and Paul looked very like her. Her fancy was to have gardens everywhere that she could sit in whenever she pleased. Just as Paul had gained her looks, he had gained her love of the gardens, and he would sit neatly in the middle of a bed for ages, watching the flowers and grasses. He was like a cat in that he never stepped into anything, but around it. He knew exactly where to walk so as to never crush anything. He could stay for hours in a single spot, watching one iris standing still. He sketched some plants, and some he considered too sacred to sketch.
In the summer, he endured bugs, and his reddish-gold hair dampened with sweat. In the winter, he sat through snowflakes, and touched the frozen stems of rosebushes with his fingertips.
No one worried about him. He never neglected anything, and he knew precisely how much attention to lavish on his parents so that they would know he was growing up very well. He occasionally arranged tiny bundles of flowers, which annoyed his father slightly, but delighted his mother and made her grey eyes sparkle.
He sometimes slept in the flowers. When he did, it was always in the bed of evening primrose that grew around the tiny pond. His mother smiled and wondered aloud if the fish sang lullabyes to him. This invariably irritated his father.
Often, Paul lay on his stomach in the orchard, and when he flattened himself down, the tall grasses there covered him and no one could see him. He put his spectacled face close to the ground and touched the leaves of the weeds with a rod of straw. His dark brown eyes were rather big for his face, and it made him look perpetually afraid of something.
He was lying there one day in October, and the grasses were golden. It was a Saturday; he would be ten in six days; and he was looking back quietly on being eight, and thinking he had been utterly childish back then. At twelve, he would likely look back in the same way on being ten.
He got up after half an hour or so of being enthralled by a certain clump of grass. He wandered quite a distance, picking up a stick somewhere along the way, and feeling quite like a traveller. He tore his trousers in a patch of briar, and took off his shoes when they began to hurt his feet. He was extremely nervous about leaving them behind, because he was sure he'd not find them again, but they were too bothersome to carry. He put them behind a rock and promised himself he'd get them on his way back. This was all, in his opinion, horribly irresponsible of him, and it made him feel quite guilty for around fifteen minutes. He then forgot it.
A little further, and he sat down in the middle of the field he'd been walking through for the last half hour, and which he thought was never going to end. He closed his eyes and was listening to particular sound of something fluttering its wings when he heard a little shriek and a girl perhaps a year younger than he was fell on him.
"I didn't *see* you!" She scrambled back, and sat away from him. Her hair was very dark.
"It's all right," he mumbled, staring at her with his already too-wide eyes.
"Who are you?"
"Paul Julien Combeferre."
"Well, I'm Nathalie Jeanne Gaudin," she said, mimicking his introduction. "I'm running away from home." She smoothed her dress down importantly. "I shan't go back. No one ever notices me, and now they'll notice because I shan't be there any longer. And I shall laugh."
"You shouldn't. They'll be upset."
"They'll deserve it. Your eyes are too big. They're ugly."
Paul closed them. "That's because I can't see perfectly," he lied, trying to preserve his dignity. "I can't see like you. I'm terribly different from you. That's why I have to wear eye-glasses."
"Really?" Nathalie sounded interested, then, and she reached out to take them. "Funny. Well, they look much nicer than your eyes. They're all funny. I like them."
"Please give them back. I can't see anything."
"How dreadful," said Nathalie, quite undisturbed.
"Give them back," Paul pleaded.
"Why should I? I like them. I think I'll keep them."
Paul still had his eyes closed. "If you don't, I'll find your parents and tell them where you are."
"Ugh, you wouldn't."
"I would so. I know exactly where they live. I'll tell them right this moment. Then they'll find you and punish you for running away, and for taking my eye-glasses." He was, of course, lying again, and he felt horrible.
"Bother you. I hate you. Fine; take them." She thrust the spectacles in his face, and he took them gratefully. "You're an ugly peasant."
"I am *not*," Paul said indignantly.
Nathalie put out her tongue, laughed, and ran off, calling back over her shoulder, "Ugly!"
Paul cringed inwardly, and picked his stick back up. He started back home immediately, feeling dreadful, but remembered to fetch his shoes, because of his guilt.
He whispered the awful insult to his mother, and she stroked his red-gold curls and petted him. She told him that Nathalie was the sort of girl who made her husband miserable, and a number of other things that he didn't understand exactly, but which made him feel better. He slept well that night, secure in the knowledge that he'd not meet Nathalie again.
He went back to being a sweet child growing up in a world of gardens, with his mother and his father and his flowers. It was odd, however. He never met Nathalie again, indeed, but he never forgot what she'd said. And when he was older, he still had eyes that were too big for his face, but he wore his forelock long and brushed down so that it half-hid them.
It made his mother laugh and say he looked like a woolly puppy, and annoyed his father considerably.