Feuilly had seen Jehan Prouvaire scribbling in a notebook more than once, but he payed little notice and never thought anything of it. It wasn't until the boy stood up and read one of his sonnets to the group that Feuilly realized that Jehan was a poet. He was intrigued by this, and decided to strike up a conversation. He was fond of poetry, though he couldn't write it for all the cobblestones in France. He liked the way it flowed, and the way it rolled off his tongue when he read it aloud to himself. Most of the people Feuilly had ever met had no time for something as frivolous as poetry. Apparently, Jehan didn't care about being sensible. After all, he wrote poetry when he should have been listening to Enjolras speak or Combeferre chastise him about ink poisoning.
He walked over to the table where Jehan was hunched over a notebook and sat down across from him.
"Er, hello," he said a bit awkwardly, as he had never really paid much attention to the shy young man in the corner.
Startled, Jehan looked up from his notebook and blushed. "Hello...um... Oh, I'm terribly sorry but I'm not very good with names and I've forgotten yours so if you would please refresh my memory..."
"Really, it's quite all right. My name is Georges Feuilly."
"And I'm Jean-Baptiste Prouvaire, but no one calls me that. Everyone calls me Jehan."
Feuilly leaned over the table. "I understand you write poetry, Jehan. May I read some?"
Jehan quickly closed his notebook. "It's not very good. So, Feuilly, what do you do?"
"I paint fans, but that is nothing compared to writing poetry."
Jehan brightened. There was nothing he liked more than a good argument, though one could never tell from looking at the boy. He was quiet and rarely spoke unless spoken to, and his large gray eyes were always downcast. Now his eyes flickered up to rest on Feuilly's face. "But a picture is worth a thousand words!"
"Nonsense. You can, with your words, create a vision in a reader's mind. I can only show them."
"Anyone can write pretty words. Only a gifted few can create beautiful art."
"No, no, no, Jehan, you're all wrong. Anyone can draw a tree that looks like a tree. Only poets can string words together that make one imagine a tree." Feuilly was entranced by Jehan's enthusiasm and a bit jealous that he wasn't able to word his arguments as well as the boy. He was, after all, older and wiser. But then again, Jehan had gone to school. Feuilly was entirely self-educated.
"But words are only ink stains," Jehan protested.
"So is art," Feuilly said, laughing. Jehan smiled. "So we agree," Feuilly continued. "Both, when it comes down to the bare skeletons, are no more than ink stains contorted into pretty shapes."
"Yes," said Jehan. "Only ink stains."
'I like him rather,' Feuilly thought to himself. 'He's interesting and young and idealistic and different than anyone I've ever met. And he's a damn good opponent in a debate.' He found himself fervently wishing that he had spoken to Jehan before this. Who knew what else the young man knew?
Feuilly stood, took Jehan's pale hand in his rough one and kissed the boy's inky fingers. "Please continue with your pretty ink stains, Jehan. You have no idea how wonderful they are." He walked away, leaving poor Jehan blushing and utterly surprised. He looked at his fingers as if to check that they were still there and not magicked away and then bent over his notebook once again and wrote furiously. Pretty ink stains indeed. Painting was far better than poetry.
