Third Time's the Charm
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Jesuit school in possession of two hundred young bloods on the cusp of manhood must be in want of healthy distractions.
"It could be worse," Brother Eugène told Brother Jacquelin as they sat down to business in a flurry of black robes. "Over at Saint-Elme, I've heard, they're handing out footballs. On the Lord's day, too."
"So typical of the Dominicans." Brother Jacquelin crossed himself, either out of contrition for the deadly sin of pride or as a quickie exorcism for the outrageous football. "It's all corpore sano with these people, intellect is a dead cause to them. No wonder their boys can't hold their own when it comes to Rhetoric."
"Hollo, holla!" The cheerful voice of their Principal and commander-in-chief could be heard bouncing against the stone walls as he walked up the corridor. "Have I just heard Brother Jacquelin utter the R-word? Then you two must be in medias res. Well, brothers, here I am, ready to hear all about this year's casting. I suppose we're doing the Infant Jesus Found at the Temple?"
"When are we not doing the Infant Jesus Found at the Temple," Brother Eugène muttered under his breath. He was in charge of costumes, and having to sew up new camel suits every year for the younger and breeziers actors had soured his otherwise beatific temper.
"An excellent exercise for fifteen-year olds," came the heated reply. "It doesn't overtax their memories since they can debate ad lib, provides speaking parts for the bolder elements and pantomime for the blushers, and stimulates competition for the leading parts."
"Not that there's any doubt as to who will be our young Lord this year. And look the part, too." The Principal's eyelids drooped in dreamy contemplation. "Golden curls to match his silver tongue..."
"And good luck for stopping that once you hoist him on a stage," Brother Eugène grumbled on, unheeded.
"Cheeks in the pink of bloom..."
"Eyes as blue as Our Lady's cloak..."
Brother Eugène, by far the oldest in their council, gave a catarrhic little cough. "Speaking of which, have you decided who shall wear the cloak this year?"
The others' sighs collapsed into painful groans. Every year brought back the same quandary. Religious drama as such was a hit with the boys, especially when it included parades and animal parts. Not so much the female roles, which had been pared to the bone but could hardly exclude the Virgin Mary.
"Who's writing the parts?" the Principal asked. "Perhaps we can prevail on him to make the role more interesting..."
Brother Jacquelin lifted his hands in a non-committal gesture. "There's writing, and then there's good writing, and then there's Monsieur Prouvaire's Muse and her flower power. We'll be lucky if he doesn't turn the Temple into the Jardin des Plantes by the time he's done. Last time I saw him, he was looking for a rhyme for geranium."
"I don't think he appreciated my offer of cranium," Brother Eugène murmured.
"If we cast by the Rule, the Sainted Family goes to the top three in Rhetoric. That means Enjolras, Grantaire..."
"I'm not casting Grantaire as the Holy Mary!" Brother Jacquelin's groan would have done the Miserere proud." One disaster a term quite fits the bill. Remember what happened when we let him greet the Bishop on prize-giving day?"
The Principal shuddered. "How he even managed to find cherry-brandy on these premises..."
"The Dominicans had a field day over this," Brother Eugène echoed somberly. "No, we need a zero-risk policy here. A gentle lad, soft-spoken, broad-minded, open to new experiences, a tender and serious spirit with a taste for theatre and a liberal approach to virility..."
The three Jesuits locked eyes almost in synch.
The play started off without a hitch. The pilgrims from Nazareth paraded up and down, the camels and asses gamboling on their heels until the Holy Family stopped at the steps of the Temple (an impressive scaffolding covered with about every red curtain that could be pilfered from the dormitories). Joseph helped Mary down from the donkey while everybody pretended not to notice that the Infant Jesus's blond head towered a good two inches over theirs. Or that Joseph's praise of Mary had grown quite flowery overnight, with an interesting cameo on "that dazzling, dying flush on your geranium cheek".
Whereupon Brother Jacquelin's keen eye caught young Grantaire collecting a few bets from the boys in his row. But none of them seemed to exceed twenty sous, and the Jesuit reminded himself of Saint Ignatius's admirable words about the divine wisdom of silence.
The Holy Family walked up the steps, the Doctors waved their scrolls of Scripture about, and the curtain fell on a belated camel jogging up after his peers and a round of applause. Since most of the parents had been invited to see their sons perform, Monsieur Enjolras Père, a leading merchant in the silk business and one of their wealthiest patrons, had been given a seat of honour to the right of the Archbishop. To his left sat Madame Enjolras in a profusion of lace and velvet that outdid even the Bishop's garb. All three were beaming, and Brother Jacquelin's soul pulsed with innocent pride as he walked round the improvised stage to cheer his charges.
In a haze of self-congratulation, he stepped out of the refectory-turned-proscenium to grant himself a pinch of snuff under cover of the pigeonhouse roof. The tobacco left him in such a relaxed state that he missed the curtain rise, and would have missed all of act II if a young Jesuit, panting and geranium-hued, had not run up to him.
"Brother, Brother ! You are wanted off-stage..."
Off-stage were Brother Eugène, Brother Macaire, Brother Saint-Sulpicien, Joseph, Mary, various pack animals whispering excitedly, Jehan Prouvaire with a quill stuck in his hair and, much to Jacquelin's surprise, a fuming Principal.
"A scandal!" the Principal was hissing. "Where on earth have you been? You are to stop this outrageous display at once!"
From the stage, young Enjolras's voice could be heard, its fluted treble laden with passionate vibrato. "The Law of the Lord is that all men on earth should have equal rights to lodging and food! Even now, children are persecuted by the Herods of hunger and illiteracy because the 1698 Ordinance on basic education..."
"Told you so," Brother Eugène muttered in grim satisfaction.
"Jesus!" Brother Jacquelin felt the sweat pearl on his balding crown and raised a trembling, black-clad arm to his brow. "He's sabotaging my play!"
"We'd better go softly-softly there," Brother Macaire warned. "Look at his parents!"
They looked at Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, both sporting ecstatic smiles at their son's vocal bravura. In fact, Monsieur's cane was drawing flourishes of approval in the air. The Archbishop, on the other hand, was slmost black in the face and only prevented from leaving by Madame's ruffled skirts, which had become entangled with his robes.
"Someone step out and shut me that boy!" the Principal spluttered while the Infant Jesus, pacing up and down the stage, tried to appeal to his audience's reformist fibre by snatching one of the dorm curtains and draping himself in it. The none-too-solid scaffoldings began to shake, and the Doctors squealed in terror.
Grantaire's voice rose from the audience. "Hey, Jesus! Wanna pull it down in less than three days?"
"This is a nightmare!" the Principal wailed. "I can't interfere without offending his parents, and I can't let this go on without alienating His Grandeur! Dear Lord! I swear I'll flog that young scamp within an inch of his life once I've caught him."
"I'll lend a hand," Brother Jacquelin offered darkly.
"No you won't," a quiet voice said, and the Virgin Mary – young Combeferre in a blue gown and veil – stepped up to them, his face a study in resolution. "I'll stop him now if you like, and the show will go on, but I want your word of honour that you won't punish him in any way. He is not trying to offend anyone; it's just his nature speaking out."
The Jesuits exchanged quick glances.
"All right, hurry up, go, switfly now," the Principal hissed back. "Before I lose the rest of my sanity and thrash your protégé on stage! And that goes for the two of you if you fail and he carries on with his – his – his carrying-ons."
"Oh, I won't," was the phlegmatic answer as Combeferre stepped onto the stage with a nod to Joseph to follow him. The others watched as he walked straight to the fair-haired soliloquist, never once stripping on his gown, and wrapped sudden arms around him.
"My child! Your father and I have been looking for you everywhere!"
The Infant Jesus opened his mouth for a new swoop of rhetorics, but Combeferre was swifter. He tucked Enjolras's head down and against his neck, bent his own and dropped a loud kiss on his friend's temple.
There was a moment's silence while everyone gazed at the scene, entranced. When it became clear that Enjolras was no longer speaking - was, in fact, averting his face, the camels rushed in again for the departure scene and Brother Jacquelin's voice concluded loudly and hastily: "And he told them he was going about his Father's business..."
"My Fatherland!" Enjolras protested, but he kept his gaze lowered as Combeferre grabbed his hand and pulled him off-stage.
"...and they all went home safely, amen! Which is more than you deserve, you poisonous little Danton," Brother Jacquelin added with a furious squint at his former prize pupil. "You're not getting the cross again any time soon, let me tell you."
"He won't misbehave again," Combeferre promised. "Not here, not unless he wants me to kiss him again."
"Judas," Enjolras growled, trying to disengage his hand.
But in the years to come, the years that would see so many children strain and ripen into manhood, the memory of that kiss stayed with them. It resurfaced in the long, feverish evenings, when Combeferre watched Enjolras burn his midnight oil at his desk, writing and rehearsing his speeches. Sometimes, when the last drop of oil had been consumed and Enjolras reeled with exhaustion, Combeferre would walk over to him and gather him in his arms, wordlessly, and kiss his cheek or forehead.
"Enough," he said quietly, and Enjolras, with half a smile and half a sigh, gave in to the touch. It was always one-sided and never spoken upon, but the kiss was a sign that they both heeded. Days were incandescent with the white fire of rhetoric, and nights were obscure, given over to rifle hunting and harsh tractations with tinkers, workers, soldiers, spies. But now and then, Combeferre wrapped his arms around him, and all it took for Enjolras to let himself be guided to his rest was the silent press of his friend's lips.
They kept the sign to themselves, even as the months went by and the burning went up.
