The sky is scarcely beginning to lighten when Jehan Prouvaire, still blinking the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, slips out of his room, along the broad corridor and out of the little door at its end, into the servants' stairwell. The treasure he bears is a smallish, brown leather-bound book bearing upon its spine, in faint gold lettering, the words: Reveries of a Solitary Walker. You might note, reader, that this work is by the same Jean-Jacques Rousseau over whom Enjolras and Jehan's rather unlikely camaraderie had begun. This is not a coincidence; Jehan has a notion, young as he is, that he might perhaps try to be for Henry Feuilly what Enjolras has been to him.
His knock upon Feuilly's door is soft. A moment passes, and then footsteps patter on the floor and the door opens inwards to reveal the other boy who, although blear-eyed with sleep, is not quite as wan a figure as he had been upon first arriving, Jehan would like to think.
"Good morning, Feuilly," he proffers the book, and Feuilly, taking it from him, gives him a small smile. "What did you think of Blake's poems?" There are times, still, when he finds himself not a little unsure of what to say to the quiet, solemn-eyed servant boy, and at such times as these, Jehan returns always to the one common thing they share: books.
Feuilly appears to consider this for a moment. Then: "I think... they look simple, they do – I mean, they're not difficult ter read, are they? - but they're not simple, really. They're -" he makes a vague, expansive gesture with one arm, casting about for the right words to say. "They're meant ter make people see the truth," is what he finally settles for, and Jehan considers this. He has thought of the stark, clear beauty of Blake's poetry before, but never has he thought much about its truth.
Observing his pensive expression, Feuilly turns and hastens to retrieve the book from where it lies – an old habit – secreted away beneath his mattress. Turning pages with fervent urgency, he finds the place he wants and all but thrusts the book into Jehan's hands. The other boy, in some surprise, looks down at the familiar words, and reads:
"Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!..."
And on, for two more stanzas, it goes.
"Trembling cry a song..." Jehan murmurs to himself, still reading, more slowly than is usual for him. Those words; always, always they make him think of a small bird; querulous and futile thing.
"Sometimes they – sometimes people -" Feuilly falters, trying to find an adequate explanation. It is not, you see, that he does not know what to say; rather that in his mind, there still exists a line that he is very much afraid of crossing. Is it worth giving voice to these thoughts, when he will surely get into trouble for them? "Never mind," he says finally, and Jehan, who has always been rather a sensitive sort of boy in regard to nuances of feeling, detects in his voice a sort of hollowness. Not bitterness or resignation, but a reluctant submission of sorts. "It doesn't much matter."
And Jehan shakes his head. "Oh, it does," he says, and with a furtive glance over his shoulder, steps properly into the room, feeling, as he does so, a protracted sense of guilt that he is worried what his mother might think, if she knew him to be mixing with servants. "Tell me. Only if you want to, I mean, but I should like to hear it."
"Well," rejoins Feuilly cautiously, "Mister Blake's poem – it makes me think of one o' the schoolmasters at Wellwood, you see. Everyone said Mister Bragg – that was his name – was a God-fearing man, and you could believe it, too, except... except you couldn't help but wonder (I mean, well, I couldn't, anyway) how any God could want the kind of world Mister Bragg likes ter live in, where order is more important than kindness and control is more important than equality. And Mister Blake's poem, it makes me think that maybe I weren't – maybe I wasn't wrong after all. Maybe it really is wrong, and I'm – we're – not being punished by God for anything."
There is a careful hope in him, now; somehow, it makes Jehan feel terribly sad.
"Of course you aren't being punished," is all he can think of to say, in the end. "You haven't done anything wrong." And he doesn't know this, not really, but suddenly he is quite certain of it.
Feuilly is thinking about this when Mrs Maberly's voice, filled with the characteristic impatience, sounds from just outside the door. "Hurry up, boy!" she calls out, rapping her knuckles upon the wood, "What's keeping you? The house won't wait forever, you know!"
They hear her muttering to herself as her footsteps retreat.
"You'd better wait until everyone's gone off upstairs," Feuilly tells Jehan, "You don't want them seeing you." He says it so matter-of-factly, and it is such a direct echo of Jehan's earlier thought, that a pang goes through him. Is he truly ashamed of his friendship with Feuilly? Oughtn't he not to care, what people think? The fact that he cannot do that makes a curious, hot feeling stir inside him and he realises that for the first time in his short life, he is truly angry with himself. You are a coward, Jehan Prouvaire, he chastises himself silently as Feuilly leaves, shutting the door behind him, you're a coward. You're like Combeferre's father, you are.
It is with a heavy heart and a ringing mind that Jehan, a few minutes later, climbs the stairs, telling himself fruitlessly that he does not care a straw about being seen. What sort of person is he, that it is so difficult to convince himself that there is no shame in being friends with a servant boy? After all, he thinks, where is the harm in it? He is just the same as me. In fact, he is probably a good deal wiser than I am.
-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-
The small, blue book of Blake's verse sits in Jehan's satchel until lunchtime, whereupon he takes it out and begins again to peruse it. He intends to re-read the poems; to look at them in a new light, but he finds he cannot focus his mind upon them for long.
"Do you think a person can help being a coward?" he asks Enjolras, now, studiously avoiding his gaze, "I mean, do you think a cowardly man can change his ways?"
Enjolras considers, briefly. "I believe we are born cowards," he says, "We make ourselves brave."
This makes Jehan stare. It seems to him that Enjolras is the wisest; the most immovable boy of his age that he has ever met, and there is no one else like him. His face, even now, is inscrutable; Jehan, who is usually quite good at guessing what people are feeling, has no notion of it, with Enjolras.
"I disagree," says Combeferre, not particularly disagreeably, "I think life makes a man brave or cowardly. He is neither at birth. And I do not think it is necessarily a person's fault, if they are cowardly or fearful. Some have different inclinations than others; that is all. People can't all be the same."
Grantaire snorts. "Pshaw," he says, "All men are cowards, whether they think they are or not."
Jehan is pondering this in some confusion – now he does not know quite what to think – when Courfeyrac approaches them, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. Upon reaching them the brief hesitation he makes before speaking is equally unlike him.
"Combeferre," he says, "Mister Elme wants to see you in his office, directly."
And Combeferre looks at first startled, then bewildered, and finally uncertain. He is not the sort of boy to attract trouble; he is moderate and kind and calm; enquiring, yes, but not fiercely inquisitive. What could he have done wrong?
The others watch quietly as he puts away his things and gets to his feet. Only Grantaire seems unperturbed.
"Fifty lines, Combeferre," he says with a smirk, "'I must write shorter and less meandering essays'."
Nobody laughs.
-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-
Charles Combeferre has only visited the Headmaster's office upon two occasions. Once, upon his induction to the school; a second time, with Enjolras and six other boys, to receive the shiny blue Prefect's badge which is now pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Both of these times, of course, he had been well aware of what he was doing there.
This is an altogether different experience. Although the enormous mahogany desk and the intricate, if lurid tapestry of the battle of Hastings on the wall behind it are the same, the room's atmosphere is now less impressive and more simply forbidding. Combeferre tries to tell himself that he is being absurd, but he isn't altogether successful in the attempt (that is, he does indeed manage to tell himself this; what he does not quite manage is to believe it).
The grave expression on Mr Elme's face hardly helps. Mr Elme is a rather large and portentous man with a sleek, greying beard and a pair of dark, dark eyes that might once have been keen but now most often bear a look that can only be described as torpid. Today, however, he seems unusually present.
"You are one of our most promising students, you know," Elme says weightily, "We expect quite great things from you; you be assured of that, young man. We are all on your side."
"Thank you, sir," replies Combeferre, not at all reassured. Mr Elme, he realises with a sort of painful presentiment, is only trying to soften the blow that is to come. He knows, too, what the nature of this blow will be. But he does not ask. He waits. This, he thinks; this is his cowardice. He is afraid to know the truth, and all that it will entail. And it is a childish, futile fear, for not knowing the truth does not make it any less true.
"It pains me to tell you -" and here it is; the inescapable, "-that your sister, Amelia, is very ill again. She has taken quite a turn for the worst. Your father asked that you return home immediately."
That is that, then. Mother will cry and curse and fret and rock herself gently, rhythmically to and fro; Father will shake his head and do nothing. Thomas and Isabel will not understand, and he will not have the heart to tell them. And if – if, this time, Amelia is to die – what then? How will his mother bear it, and how will his father bear his mother?
And would it really be so wrong for Mother – gentle, abiding Mother – to fall to pieces? To mourn the loss of her second child and first daughter? Amelia, who has looked upon the world with wondering eyes; who reminds him a little of Prouvaire in her unexpected reserves of resilience; her unabashed love of the world. The world is full of injustices, and they are not all Man's doing.
"Thank you, sir," he says again, and his voice is tight. Slowly, as though afraid of what might happen were he to move too quickly, he rises from the high-backed chair. His hands are trembling a little, and he has to clasp them tightly behind his back. "I'll go and pack my things."
It is not, he knows, the proper, respectful way to take his leave of the Headmaster, but it will have to do. It is all he can do not to simply bolt from the room.
Out in the cool corridor, with its high, vaulted ceilings, he struggles to collect himself. You must not get yourself into a state. Mother will be beside herself and Father will not know what to do. They'll need you. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you are like Grantaire! This is absurd.
On and on, in this way, he continues, until he reaches the dormitory. It is only there, kneeling by his bed and stuffing books into an impressive oak trunk that had before been his father's, that his shoulders begin to shake and he drops his head into his hands. It is ridiculous to cry when he does not even yet know what will become of Amelia, but now will be his only chance to do so. Here, in the silence of the empty dormitory, his grief is not selfish. It stirs nothing and moves no one. At home, surrounded by a different sort of silence, it will only make things worse.
Distantly, the bell tolls for the end of lunch. The others will be up here, soon, he realises, to collect their books for the afternoon.
Scrubbing the tears from his eyes with one hand, he packs away the books with an unusual ferocity with the other. Sixteen, people will tell you, is a delicate age, on the verge of life. They are right: the boy Charles Combeferre sees before him the awful prospect of becoming bitter, and sees how he himself might slide towards it inexorably, and trembles. He does not want to become that person. Not ever. But it grows harder and harder to believe that there is a reason for everything that happens; harder and harder to believe that the world is not cruel. And though he can promise himself that he will try, what scares him is the notion that one day, trying will not be enough.