Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Les Miserables. I also don't own A Christmas Carol, for which this was inspired. As such, most of the dialogue isn't mine, since I do so love the original. Some of it will be changed, but the really recognizable speeches and lines are still there, except for one: you will not find my Scrooge saying "Bah, Humbug." I don't own the lyrics to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen…wow this is a long disclaimer. Do I even own myself? It's questionable…
It was a dark night at the Café Musain. A raging blizzard outside meant that nine young men were stuck in the back room, which they'd been in all night for a meeting. As the meeting wound to a close, several of the young men became aware that, because of the snow, they'd not be going home any time soon.
One of the young men, a vivacious dandy named Courfeyrac, realized the situation and became determined to make the best of it. Addressing Bahorel, a brawny riot-enthusiast, "Did I ever tell you about my great-uncle Didier de Courfeyrac? He saw ghosts, you know."
Bahorel shook his head, always willing to listen to Courfeyrac's anecdotes, even the wilder ones. Combeferre, a medical student who believed in progress above all else, looked on skeptically, but listened.
"It's true! The first thing you should know is that…"
*** *** *** *** *** *** …Is that old Theirry Joly was as dead as a doornail. Nine years dead to the day that Christmas Eve. Our story begins in a small bank on the Faubourg St. Antoine. Lying near the building was a crutch that belonged to a small sandy-haired cripple boy named Gavroche. Now Gavroche sat, waiting for his father to finish his work. A group of carolers were singing nearby and the lad wasn't surprised to find himself singing along.
God rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay!
Remember Christ our Savior was born this Christmas day!
To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray.
As we look inside the building, we see first a shivering young clerk, holding his frozen fingers over the slight warmth of a candle. This man, as you may have guessed, is young Gavroche's father, Marius Pontmercy. Pontmercy risked a quick glance at his employer. Since the old man seemed to be absorbed in his work, Pontmercy cautiously got up to tend the fire.
"Pontmercy!"
"The fire's gone cold, Monsieur." At old de Courfeyrac's beckoning, the clerk warily approached. The old man slowly looked up, revealing a weathered, closed off face. One would find themselves shocked if such a face ever smiled.
"Coal is expensive, Pontmercy. We'll not be using any more today. If you are cold, dress more warmly in the future."
"Yes, Monsieur," Both men turned back to their work. Less than fifteen minutes afterwards, a young man came in, bursting with all the energy of his age, curls escaping from under his rakishly angled hat.
"Merry Christmas, Uncle Didier." It was Martin de Courfeyrac, the older man's nephew. Martin had come in so quietly that this was the first moment that old de Courfeyrac knew of his presence.
"J'en ai marre," was the old man's mumbled response. And he was sick of Christmas.
"Sick of Christmas? Surely you don't mean that, Uncle." A puzzled look had settled on the lad's face. Although he knew of his uncle's disposition, this anti-Christmas sentiment was one that he'd never truly understood. It was also one that Martin knew deep down that he didn't want to understand. To him, it represented the first step to becoming a miserable old man like his uncle…alone in the world, and seeming to be content to be so.
"Oh, but I do. Merry Christmas…What right have you to be merry, what reason? You're poor enough." He retorted sharply. Every word of it was meant wholeheartedly. His nephew was simply being a fool
Martin took this all in stride with a smile. "Well, then, what right have you to be so dismal and morose? You're rich enough."
This seemed to stump the old man, for he returned to his original statement of "J'en ai marre."
"Oh, don't be cross, Uncle. I was only teasing."
"What else can I be, when the world's gone mad with 'Christmas'?" The last word was practically spit, and was dripping with venom. "What is Christmas, Nephew, but a time for buying things without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your checkbook and finding every item dead set against you. If I had my way, every idiot who went about with 'Merry Christmas' on their lips would be boiled in their own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through their hearts."
This bought a surprised "Uncle!" from Martin. He hadn't thought his uncle that far gone.
"Nephew! You keep Christmas in your way and let me keep it in mine!"
Martin let out a sigh before giving the obvious answer. "But you don't keep it at all, Uncle."
"Well, then, let me leave it alone. Much good it may do you…or has ever done you for that matter."
The smile dropped from Martin's face. "There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round - apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that - as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a single sous in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"
Pontmercy, who had been quietly observing all this time, made himself known by applauding this speech. As well he should, it was quite a fine one.
De Courfeyrac turned on his clerk, in a high fury. "Perhaps you'd like to keep Christmas by losing your work?"
The clerk shook his head. That was, perhaps, the last thing he'd want.
"Well, then, not another sound from you." He turned back to Martin. "Well, nephew, it seems you have a talent for speaking. It's a wonder you haven't been elected to the National Assembly."
The slight smile was back. "Don't be cross, Uncle. Come and dine with us tomorrow!" The look on de Courfeyrac's face—cold, cross, and stubborn – was answer enough for Martin. "Why, then? Why refuse such genial company?"
"Why did you get married?" The old man shot back with a hint of sarcasm.
"Well…because I fell in love!" Martin answered as if it were the most obvious statement in the world. Why else would someone marry?
The old man repeated the reason sarcastically, and then attempted to close the conversation with a brusque "Good afternoon."
"Uncle, I ask nothing of you, I want nothing from you. Why can't we be friends?"
"Good afternoon!"
"I'm sorry, Uncle, with all my heart to find you set so stubbornly against happiness. Well…I've made this trip full of the Christmas spirit, and in its name, I'll end it that way. Merry Christmas Uncle!"
"Good afternoon!" With each repetition, his voice grew a bit louder, so that he was almost shouting at this point.
"And a happy New Year!" Martin called out as he made to leave.
"Good afternoon!" This time, it was indeed shouted.
Martin noticed Pontmercy on his way out, and wished him, too, a Merry Christmas. This time, the sentiment was returned.