Chapter IV
~I Dreamed a Dream~
It was the December of 1823. The girl Christine was young, good, kind, caring, humble, virtuous, beautiful, innocent, and pure. So was Grantaire.
Grantaire was born into a wealthy family, but his father was rich, proud, arrogant, greedy, and selfish, and Grantaire was none of these things. Although the old man, in some secret chambers of his heart, did love his child, the father and son hardly got along. Grantaire lived in his parents' house, but he spent more time away from them then he did with them. He distanced himself with his father, and he lived in the town rather than his father's home. He came to know all of Saint-Mandé as if it were his own house. He knew every shop, every pub, every inn, every church, every storekeeper, every innkeeper, and almost every face he, at least, recognized even if he did not know the name to go with it.
He was good, smart, honest, and respectable, yet at the same time, playful, clever, and sometimes rebellious. As he became a young man, he lived mostly on his own, and he developed that independent spirit that is needed to create a bold, brave, strong, certain, and confident person. While his rich father continued to provided for him, Grantaire liked better to obtain his needs for himself. Since he was a child, he spent much time in the pubs, and he learned to gamble. By the time he was thirteen, he was a great gambler, am excellent card player, and a fantastic bluffer. He would have been just as fantastic of a liar, but Grantaire was an honest man, and he scarcely ever lied. He a fair bit of profit through card playing. He learned to fight, and he became a boxer, which allowed him to make more money for himself. Over the years, he learned, also, to become a knowledgeable cudgel player. So, sometimes when his father would say, "Son, take this money and buy yourself a new coat," Grantaire would reply, "I have enough to pay for it myself, but thank you, nonetheless, monsieur."
As for alcohol, Grantaire spent much time in pubs, in cafés, and in bars, and many of his friends were grown men, gamblers, fighters, and drinkers. Sometimes, Grantaire had a drink. He enjoyed a drink with his friends in the evenings, but he was never irresponsible. He had never been drunk, he had never been addicted to alcohol, and he had never been a slave to his bottle.
Now, was the December of 1823, and Grantaire was sixteen years old. Only two months earlier, in October, he had met Christine. Grantaire, even as he distanced himself from them to be on his own, loved his parents and he loved his family. He did not believe in everything that they believed in, but he believed in God, in righteousness, in goodness, and in love. He loved his family. He had never loved a woman.
From that dark, cold night in October, Grantaire had never been the same. He could not understand this feeling that came into him every time he saw Christine. After that night, they had seen each other often, sometimes chance meetings and other times on purpose. Whenever he was with her, he was overcome with a deep warmth in his heart that seemed to fill his bosom so greatly that he felt that it would burst out of his chest. For the first few weeks, he did not understand it. He did not know what is was love—to really love—anyone.
Then, one Sunday morning, when he was sitting at mass, he turned his head and saw Christine and her father in the back of the church, the same place where he had sat with her on their first meeting. He gazed upon her for a long time, thoughtfully and lovingly, he watched her pray to God, and he tried to decide what it was about his woman that was so different from all of the others. Then, the priest said, "God is love. He loved us so much that He gave up His only Son to die for our sins. He gave up His Son to die for us." Then he read the verse from John 15:13: "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friend."
Then, as if his eyes had suddenly be opened and he could see, Grantaire realized something that seemed so obvious yet so concealed, so simple yet so powerful… "I love her."
Now, it was early morning in Saint-Mandé, and the sun was just peeking over the distant hills that surrounded the town. The sky was a pale pink color in the light of the rising sun. The colors of the world were gone and made pure, as the earth was covered in a blanket of white snow. Snow covered the earth, the fields, the streets, dressed the roves of houses and the steeples of churches, it sat in the frames of windows, and clung to the edges of doors. The morning was beautiful. The air was cold, but not harsh, violent, or bitter cold. It was cold and pure, clean, fresh, and replenishing as one drew deep breaths of it into their lungs. The air smelled of winter—that scent that comes once the autumn has pasted away and, peacefully like day turning to night, winter sets over the world—of snow, and of the wood that burned in fireplaces of every home. Thin whips of smoke rose out of the chimneys, which stood tall like statues of the snow-topped houses. In this early, fresh, new, youthful, pure morning, snow was softly falling from the Heaven, drifting down to the earth as if on the wings of angels. It was the morning of Christmas Eve.
Grantaire stood outside of the little home, where Christine lived with her father. He stood a fair distance away from the house, out in the snow-covered street, and he remained there, still, silent, and waiting. He was waiting for Christine. She did not know that he was waiting for her. She was not expecting him. He had not expected her to find him for some time, as it was still early in the morning. But he stood out side of her house in the snow, nonetheless, and he waited for her to find him.
He was standing with his back to the house and he was gazing out into the town, when he heard a soft voice speak behind him, "Grantaire?"
He turned around, and happiness, joy, and loved flooded into his heart, as if the sun had rose over him to melt away the chill of winter. Even standing out in the snow, he was no longer cold. Christine was standing in the open entrance of her house, holding the door open with one hand, looking out at him, and smiling at him with at sweet, beautiful smile that radiated as brightly as the sun.
A warm smile came over Grantaire's lips, as he slowly walked up to the house to approach her. "Good morning, mademoiselle," he said with a respectful bow and a playful grin.
Her smile brightened all the more, as she nodded and said, "Good morning to you, as well, monsieur." Then she laughed and said, "Grantaire, what were you doing here? Why did you not knock? It is warm in here, but it is snowing outside! You will catch your death!"
Grantaire smiled and shook his head. "It's not so cold out here. It's a beautiful morning, in fact."
"You were simply going to stand outside my house without saying a word? What were you doing?"
Smiling at her gently, tenderly, and lovingly he said, "Waiting for you."
"Simply waiting? Why didn't you come to get me?"
"I didn't want to wake you."
She smiled, and a playful gleam coming into her eye again, she said, "I would not have minded you waking me, so long as you had a good explanation."
Grantaire smiled and let out a soft laugh. "Christine, I want to show you something," he told her, becoming serious after a moment. "Can you walk with me now?"
Her face brightened at the delight that she would be able to walking with Grantaire, whom she loved, whom she knew loved her in return. Never once had they said to the other, "I love you," as this did not need to be said. They both knew that they loved the other and that the other loved them. This phrase, "I love you," had been said countless times, not with their words but with their hearts. Words can lie, but the heart is always truth. Grantaire was the first man that Christine had ever loved. Likewise, Christine was the only woman the Grantaire had ever loved. They were both young, innocent, pure, and righteous. They were only children, pure and good, and deeply in love with each other.
Christine disappeared into her house, and only a few minutes later, reappeared wearing the same white dress that she had been wearing on the night that she had first met Grantaire. The sleeves of the dress covered her arms, but fabric with thin and was little protecting against the cold. As soon as she stepped foot out of the house and went to Grantaire's side, he took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. She protested, but he insisted. Then she laughed, wrapped her arms around him, and they held each other in a tight embrace.
"Merry Christmas, Christine," Grantaire said softly, gently into her ear as he held her, and she said in return, "Merry Christmas, Grantaire."
When they broke away for this embrace, the embrace of two bodies that share one soul, two hearts that beat as one, they started through the streets joined together, her clinging tightly to his arm. They went on this fresh winter morning through Saint-Mandé, which was grabbed in a beautiful gown, pure and white like the dress of an angel, of snow.
They talked to each other softly, gently, and happily. They smiled at each other with joy, adoration, and with love. Christine held tightly to Grantaire's arm, and he kept a hand pressed tenderly upon her hand that clung to him. Her hand would have been cold in the brisk air of the winter, but Grantaire's hand over hers kept it warm. Indeed, there was an unexplainable warmth that filled each of them, and whenever they touched each other, this warmth seemed to pass into the other. This was a happiness, a joy, a passion, a holy sacrament that comes for the Devine. This is one of the things that the sinful race of man will never be able to fully understand. When a man is filled with love, he is filled with the very presence of God. God is Love.
In neither of these two children's lives had either of them been so happy. Grantaire had never known true happiness except when he was Christine. Never had he known love except when he loved this woman. He loved her, and he loved nothing else. She was the first woman that he had ever loved. She was the only woman that he had ever loved. His parents he respected and perhaps, he loved, but he never shared with them the divine love from the Holy One. Not until he loved Christine did he know what love was. In this time, he was happy, he was honest, he was loyal, he was kind, he was virtuous, he was pure, he was innocent, and he was good. He did not need to have a bottle in his hand. All he needed was her hand in his own.
Grantaire brought Christine to the church, and then he stopped and smiled at her. She smiled back at him, and raised her eyebrows. "So… why did you bring me here?"
He smiled at her playfully and happily. "This is where I first met you," he said, and she let out a soft laugh, beaming at him with overwhelming joy and boundless love. "Come on, I want to show you something," Grantaire said, after a moment, motioning with his head for her to follow him, and then he led her, who was still holding tightly to his arm, around the side of the church and behind it. Here in the back courtyard of the church, there was a grand garden. In the spring, in summer, and even in the late months of the autumn, this garden flourished with magnificent splendor and glory, trees of green; large, blooming, blossoming plants; flowers of all colors, of red, of blue, and of pure white. It was a glorious and beautiful garden. Now, in the late days of December, the snow covering the earth, the winter fallen over the world, no flowers of blossoms were blooming. But the trees continued to stand, like stiff monuments, in the garden of white. The leaves were gone, but the branches were not bare, as the leaves that had clothed the trees had been replaced by pure coats of snow.
In the center of the garden, now lightly brushed in snow, tall, reverent, solemn, holy, standing still, strong, unwavering, and unchanged by the snow, the rain, or the sun, there was a marble depiction of two angels kneeling down before a man whose arms were outstretched, whose palms were open, and whose cold, stone eyes were gazing up into the Heavens. This was an image of the Christ. His arms were outstretched, for He opened His arms to the world by stretching them out and laying them upon a wooden cross. His palms were open, for He reached out to save the sinners by opening His hands for the Roman soldiers to drive iron nails through them and nail Him to the cross on which He was to die. His eyes gazed up into Heaven, for even as He suffered pain, torture, torment, humiliation, disgrace, forsakenness, and death, He continued to praise the Father, whom because of Christ, all of God's children will endure with forever.
This Christmas Eve morning, in the white blanket that covered the earth, in the soft snow that fell gently to the ground, in the pink light of the rising sun, the garden was more beautiful now that it could have been on any other day of the year. The world was beautiful, the snow was beautiful, the sky was beautiful, the morning was beautiful, Saint-Mandé was beautiful, the church was beautiful, the garden was beautiful, the two young lovers were beautiful. Everything in this moment was so beautiful that it seemed to possess a holy, divine, spiritual glory, as if on this Christmas Eve morning, God had blessed the world with a gleam of Heaven's splendor.
"Here…" Grantaire said, leading her into the garden. He stopped to stand in the midst of it, and they both looked out in awe at the monument in the center of the garden, the statue of the Lord, which stood like an angel in the cold snow before the warm light of the rising sun. "Isn't it nice?" he asked quietly.
"It is beautiful…" she whispered. "I do not think that I have ever seen the garden look so beautiful before."
Grantaire turned his head to look away from all of the glory of this Christmas Eve morning, and he fixed his eyes upon something that to him was far more beautiful. The young woman beside him. Christine was still looking out into the garden, and she did not notice Grantaire was looking her. A soft smile spread across his lips and he gazed upon her, tenderly, kindly, lovingly. He loved her so much. Not even to himself could he explain it. He did not understand this feeling, this inner joy, this passion that, until he had met this girl, he had never known. Grantaire remembered back to that day in this very church when the priest had quoted, "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friend." Grantaire would have laid down his life for this woman. He would not have hesitated. Any pain, any torture, any punishment, any death, he would have gladly accepted if it took these sufferings away from Christine. Yes, he loved her. Greater love has no one than he who would give his life for another.
Before he could stop himself, Grantaire said quietly, "It's beautiful… but not as beautiful as you."
Christine turned her head to look at him, a look of surprise and of heartfelt love on her face. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they said nothing but only looked into the eyes of the first and the only person that they had ever loved. Christine opened her lips to say something, but before she could speak, Grantaire dropped his gaze to stare at the snow beneath his feet, released her hand, pulled away from her, and turned his back to her.
He drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Christine could see that he was nervous. In fact, she could not tell, but he was terrified. His heart was suddenly racing in his chest, his lungs were fighting to breathe faster and he was fighting to make them breathe slower, his innards seemed to be twisting around in his gut, knotting, ensnaring, and strangling one another, in the cold morning and in his fear, he struggled to keep his body from trembling. He stuffed his hands into his pockets so she could not see them shake, he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, he swayed slightly where he stood, unable to remain still, and with his eyes, he looked at the snow, the trees, the garden, the sky, the statue in the courtyard… everything except for Christine. He had already decided what he was going to say, but now that the time had come, he was afraid to stay it. He was silent for a long time, and the girl behind him was silent, only waiting for him, waiting to listen to him, waiting to follow him. At last, he drew in a deep breath, shakily let it out, and looking out at the beauty of the garden, out past the grand statue, out into the sky that cast a warm glow upon his face, he forced himself to begin:
"I know that I'm supposed to ask your father before I ask you this… I know that I'm also supposed to ask my parents, and I er…" He drew in a deep breath before stumbling over his words for a moment, "But I haven't asked them. I haven't asked your father. I haven't asked my parents. I haven't even told my parents. I er… I haven't told anyone." He drew in a deep breath again and slowly let it out, before he quickly dropped his eyes to the snow under his feet, and said, "I know this is not how I am supposed to do this, but… but I wanted to ask you first. I have to tell you…"
"Grantaire…" he heard Christine's voice say gently, and a moment later, he felt the soft, gentle, warm touch of her precious hand against his cheek. He raised his eyes, and for the first time, though only for a moment, their gazes met again. She smiled gently, compassionately at him, smiled, and said, "You know that you can tell me anything. You can trust me. I will understand."
Grantaire could only bear to look into her eyes for a moment longer before he looked away again. She did not know what was coming… He pulled a deep breath into his tumbling lungs. "I er..."—he swallowed the knot in his throat—"I wanted to… I have to… I need to ask you something… I know that I'm not supposed to do this like this, but I… I have to." Finally, he turned back to her and looked straight into her eyes. He would look at her as he said these next words. Just as he had to tell her this, he had to look at her as he said it. "Christine…"
She looked back at him, waiting to hear, waiting to know, waiting to understand… A shadow of a forced smile appeared on her lips, as she waited in apprehension. "Grantaire?"
He gently took both of her hands into his own, and he felt the warmth from her flesh pass into his own. He looked down at her fair, sweet hands in his own for a moment before he raised his eyes to gaze into her eyes, again. He swallowed one more time, let out one more breath, and then forced himself to say, "Christine, I love you."
She stared at him, looking into his eyes, her face not changing, but her heart swelling and bursting with joy and with love. Of course, he loved her. She had already known that for a long time. And she loved him. He had known that for a long time, as well. But neither of them had ever said it. He had never said it. She had never said it. Now, at last, to finally hear Grantaire pronounce these words to her, to finally hear him confirm the truth, to finally hear him say, "Christine, I love you," this brought her more joy than she could have imagined, more joy than she had felt in all of her life. In all of her wondrous moments with Grantaire, this was one moment that, if it was possible, was even happier and more beautiful than all of the others! This was happiest moment of her life! But Grantaire had not finished yet.
His heart beating so loudly that it pounded in his ears and that he was sure that Christine could hear it as well, he drew in one last breath, let it out, gazed into the eyes of the woman that he loved, and said in a voice so soft, so delicate, so sincere, so precious, "Christine… I want you to marry me."