Rousseau, that enviable pillar of paternity, once said that the first and
most important quality of a woman is gentleness. Chrysanthe was a living
embodiment of this statement. As a young girl, her demeanor had prompted
declarations along the lines of, "She's quite a nice child, never saw one
sweeter." She had a face that was prettier than most, a mind that was
exercised less than most, and a soul she would have sold to anyone her
family requested-- with the possible exception of the devil and the
probable exception of Rousseau. Her parents were upstanding folk, after
all, and they had their limits.
In addition to her gentleness, Chrysanthe was demure, polite, and reserved, and she always took great, if unnecessary, pains to remain inconspicuous. In short, she was something of a spineless puppet. A credit to her family, fit to be married off and put on the shelf, not necessarily in that order.
It was her brother they truly doted on. Chrysanthe was acutely but quietly aware that her own birth had been something of a disappointment. The ideal family called for a firstborn son, not a daughter. Six years afterward, when Gauthier had been born, her parents had been ecstatic. They saw to it that he was educated as befitted a young man of his stature and, when he was old enough, they proudly sent him off to Paris to study law. Chrysanthe, for her part, watched this progress through downcast eyes, marveled at her brother for so ably bearing the weight of their parents' expectations, and thanked the Lord she had been born female.
Gauthier, it seemed, had his own opinions on those expectations, one he eventually demonstrated by pointedly not fulfilling them. But those particular opinions had yet to be revealed. As far as his parents were concerned, he was intelligent and well-mannered and perfectly groomed to someday take his place as another illustrious name on the family tree.
But Gauthier could find fault with anything, and viewed their pride in him as pomposity. He was forever turning things over in his head-- always seeking out their flaws, it seemed to his sister. If the sun were given to him, he would complain it burned his hands. And yet she fervently admired him for his boldness and intellect, knowing all the while that he looked down on her just as fervently for her lack of it.
Even trips into town weren't enough to stop his sulking. Chrysanthe could recall dozens of carriage rides during which her brother gazed moodily out the window and "Look at those people," he would declare, picking out beggars and street vendors from amongst the more well-off individuals. "They would appreciate this more than I do, but they'll never have so much as a chance if everyone keeps on ignoring their troubles."
Then Maman would affectionately tap him with her fan and Papa would say even a demon would appreciate all they did for him more than he did himself.
Gauthier would promptly retort, with an uncanny acumen for a boy of twelve, that they certainly deserved it more than he did.
Maman would jokingly suggest he leave the carriage and bring back a street child to take his place.
Gauthier would exclaim that poverty was no joke and inevitably launch into a lecture on why the country had fallen into the state it was in and what needed to be done to pull it out again.
Chrysanthe, silently but duly amazed, would wonder exactly what her brother had been reading lately and what his tutors thought of it.
And then Papa would silence her brother with a glare and Gauthier would resume staring sullenly out at the world passing alongside them.
As they grew older, Gauthier's critiques became both more vehement and more frequent, and Chrysanthe's amazement slowly changed to confusion. "Do you know," he demanded of her one afternoon, as she sat reading, "how many sets of clothes that book could buy?"
Chrysanthe, who had been turning the gilt-edged pages without really reading them, looked up in bewilderment.
Gauthier, barely fourteen, scowled at her like an indignant clergyman. "Do you know how many people are starving?"
Never having considered such a thing, she set the ivory-bound volume on a nearby table.
"No, don't put it down," her brother admonished. "Go on and read, there's no need to stop know that you know what it's worth."
Entirely at a loss, Chrysanthe left the room in disorientation-but not in frustration; that was unbecoming of a girl like her.
Gauthier was there for a time while Thébault Blanchard courted her, and she saw his face tighten in disapproval for some reason she couldn't understand. There was nothing to be upset about that she could determine; she could do far worse than Thébault, and their parents supported the marriage. Besides, she was getting old, twenty-two.
She heard shouts coming from Papa's study one night when her brother was visiting from Paris. He passed her when it was over, head held high with all the loftiness of a determined sixteen-year-old.
He was young and bad-tempered, there was no helping that, and although Chrysanthe comprehended neither his passions nor the altercations they provoked, she remained convinced there was no harm in them. At approximately that point, Chrysanthe decided to put her gentleness aside, at least for an hour or so. /She/ would confront their parents. /She/ would valiantly defend her brother's right to experiment with whatever it was he was advocating. /She/ would stand daringly before them and speak her mind, delivering such a dazzlingly articulate argument that they would have no choice but to listen.
But somehow, she found herself stepping into the room as timidly as ever and inquiring, in a roundabout, ladylike manner, why they were so averse to Gauthier's beliefs, whatever they were. Papa snapped a reply before she could complete the question-how did she think his behavior would reflect on the family name? Chrysanthe had known that point would be raised and, having no ready answer for it, she left in resignation.
Gauthier stood in the hall as if he had been waiting for her all along. Without knowing why, she burst into a babbling explanation of what had just transpired. Predictably, she began to falter under his cold, unresponsive gaze until all she was able to do was twist the ring on her finger and give up.
"I tried to tell them for you," she finished lamely.
"Don't make a martyr of yourself for my benefit," he said icily. Chrysanthe opened her mouth, but he cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. "Go back and let them step on you some more."
"But there isn't anyone stepping on me. Not now." The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, begging to be spoken.
Instead, she stood silently, eyes on the floor, as he strode away. There were so many things she could have said, but all Chrysanthe Enjolras knew was that, for the first time in who knew how long, she had spoken from the heart, and her little brother had just crushed it under his heel.
In addition to her gentleness, Chrysanthe was demure, polite, and reserved, and she always took great, if unnecessary, pains to remain inconspicuous. In short, she was something of a spineless puppet. A credit to her family, fit to be married off and put on the shelf, not necessarily in that order.
It was her brother they truly doted on. Chrysanthe was acutely but quietly aware that her own birth had been something of a disappointment. The ideal family called for a firstborn son, not a daughter. Six years afterward, when Gauthier had been born, her parents had been ecstatic. They saw to it that he was educated as befitted a young man of his stature and, when he was old enough, they proudly sent him off to Paris to study law. Chrysanthe, for her part, watched this progress through downcast eyes, marveled at her brother for so ably bearing the weight of their parents' expectations, and thanked the Lord she had been born female.
Gauthier, it seemed, had his own opinions on those expectations, one he eventually demonstrated by pointedly not fulfilling them. But those particular opinions had yet to be revealed. As far as his parents were concerned, he was intelligent and well-mannered and perfectly groomed to someday take his place as another illustrious name on the family tree.
But Gauthier could find fault with anything, and viewed their pride in him as pomposity. He was forever turning things over in his head-- always seeking out their flaws, it seemed to his sister. If the sun were given to him, he would complain it burned his hands. And yet she fervently admired him for his boldness and intellect, knowing all the while that he looked down on her just as fervently for her lack of it.
Even trips into town weren't enough to stop his sulking. Chrysanthe could recall dozens of carriage rides during which her brother gazed moodily out the window and "Look at those people," he would declare, picking out beggars and street vendors from amongst the more well-off individuals. "They would appreciate this more than I do, but they'll never have so much as a chance if everyone keeps on ignoring their troubles."
Then Maman would affectionately tap him with her fan and Papa would say even a demon would appreciate all they did for him more than he did himself.
Gauthier would promptly retort, with an uncanny acumen for a boy of twelve, that they certainly deserved it more than he did.
Maman would jokingly suggest he leave the carriage and bring back a street child to take his place.
Gauthier would exclaim that poverty was no joke and inevitably launch into a lecture on why the country had fallen into the state it was in and what needed to be done to pull it out again.
Chrysanthe, silently but duly amazed, would wonder exactly what her brother had been reading lately and what his tutors thought of it.
And then Papa would silence her brother with a glare and Gauthier would resume staring sullenly out at the world passing alongside them.
As they grew older, Gauthier's critiques became both more vehement and more frequent, and Chrysanthe's amazement slowly changed to confusion. "Do you know," he demanded of her one afternoon, as she sat reading, "how many sets of clothes that book could buy?"
Chrysanthe, who had been turning the gilt-edged pages without really reading them, looked up in bewilderment.
Gauthier, barely fourteen, scowled at her like an indignant clergyman. "Do you know how many people are starving?"
Never having considered such a thing, she set the ivory-bound volume on a nearby table.
"No, don't put it down," her brother admonished. "Go on and read, there's no need to stop know that you know what it's worth."
Entirely at a loss, Chrysanthe left the room in disorientation-but not in frustration; that was unbecoming of a girl like her.
Gauthier was there for a time while Thébault Blanchard courted her, and she saw his face tighten in disapproval for some reason she couldn't understand. There was nothing to be upset about that she could determine; she could do far worse than Thébault, and their parents supported the marriage. Besides, she was getting old, twenty-two.
She heard shouts coming from Papa's study one night when her brother was visiting from Paris. He passed her when it was over, head held high with all the loftiness of a determined sixteen-year-old.
He was young and bad-tempered, there was no helping that, and although Chrysanthe comprehended neither his passions nor the altercations they provoked, she remained convinced there was no harm in them. At approximately that point, Chrysanthe decided to put her gentleness aside, at least for an hour or so. /She/ would confront their parents. /She/ would valiantly defend her brother's right to experiment with whatever it was he was advocating. /She/ would stand daringly before them and speak her mind, delivering such a dazzlingly articulate argument that they would have no choice but to listen.
But somehow, she found herself stepping into the room as timidly as ever and inquiring, in a roundabout, ladylike manner, why they were so averse to Gauthier's beliefs, whatever they were. Papa snapped a reply before she could complete the question-how did she think his behavior would reflect on the family name? Chrysanthe had known that point would be raised and, having no ready answer for it, she left in resignation.
Gauthier stood in the hall as if he had been waiting for her all along. Without knowing why, she burst into a babbling explanation of what had just transpired. Predictably, she began to falter under his cold, unresponsive gaze until all she was able to do was twist the ring on her finger and give up.
"I tried to tell them for you," she finished lamely.
"Don't make a martyr of yourself for my benefit," he said icily. Chrysanthe opened her mouth, but he cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. "Go back and let them step on you some more."
"But there isn't anyone stepping on me. Not now." The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, begging to be spoken.
Instead, she stood silently, eyes on the floor, as he strode away. There were so many things she could have said, but all Chrysanthe Enjolras knew was that, for the first time in who knew how long, she had spoken from the heart, and her little brother had just crushed it under his heel.