Chapter Four
The Poet
Paris, 1832
Jean Prouvaire had always enjoyed dreams.
There was something magical about them. He loved the way that the mind would explore things its awake side can't process; he loved the insanity and bizarre notions that could crop up when one was in the dream world.
When he was younger, he used to keep a record of his dreams and occasionally would elaborate on them, creating them into short, fantastical stories. As the years had gone by, his passion for story writing gave way to a love for poetry, and he stopped recording his dreams so religiously.
Then one night, he had a dream that was unlike any other he'd ever had in his life.
The first one was the longest and most elaborate. In the dream, he was watching a couple walking hand in hand down what he supposed was a street.
The first thing that struck him was how the man could have been his double. His face was identical to Jean's, his eyes and hair the same colour. He was the same height, the same build, and probably the same age if Jean had to hazard a guess. But there were startling differences. His hair was a lot shorter, shaved around the edges and back and in longer curls on top. There was a scruff of a beard on his chin. And his clothes were peculiar – clinging trousers made from a stiff-looking, faded blue fabric, and a shirt with a gaudy dark blue and bright red checked pattern beneath a vibrant pale blue jacket with a hood. Jean had never seen clothes like them. The jacket and shirt's sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow, and Jean noticed there were many bracelets around the man's wrists. And he was wearing boots the colour of lemons, incredibly shiny boots.
Then there was the woman beside him. She was a little bit shorter, the top of her head reaching the bottom of his ears; he would have described her build as slim, but Jean could see the evidence of a slightly podgy tummy and slight wobble to her hips emphasised by the incredibly tight dress she was wearing. When Jean was awake, he would be shocked at the girl's lack of modesty; the dress clung to every curve that she had (and he could not help but notice she had many of them) and ended mid thigh. Her legs were completely bare, and her feet were in leather sandals. She wore spectacles, and had a pale blue bow in her dark blonde hair. There was a ring through her nose, and navy feathers dangled from her ears.
Jean could not help but focus on this couple, although there were many people walking around them in all directions. One of the only familiar aspects of this dream world he was inhabiting was the hustle and bustle of people going about their daily business. Their clothes, however, confused him; there was a lot of different variety, although he found it very bizarre – some of the women were wearing trousers, and the dresses that some of them were wearing were in his mind indecently short.
He could tell they were on a street; he could see shops and buildings lining the street as well as small trees. But the middle of it was occupied by a road, which was in turn occupied not by horse-drawn carriages or carts but by – well, he didn't know how to describe them. They were boxes with wheels, almost resembling a carriage in the sense they had doors and windows, but they seemed to be able to move of their own volition.
He congratulated his mind on outdoing itself with inventiveness, before he became occupied with the couple who had initially grasped his attention.
"No, Clementine, I will not tell you," the man was saying in a fondly exasperated tone. "It's for your birthday. It's supposed to be a surprise."
The woman at his side pouted. "I don't like surprises," she said. She spoke French with an accent he couldn't quite place.
"You're only saying this because Noémi gave you a clue," the man replied, shaking his head. Jean watched as he pulled Clementine closer to his body, letting go of her hand to wrap an arm around her waist. The man ducked his head down to drop a kiss onto Clementine's neck, and Jean was torn between giving the young couple some privacy and watching the display of affection with greedy eyes.
"Her clue was Catullus. I don't like Catullus," Clementine complained.
The man's eyes flashed with amusement.
"I hate and I love; and if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two," he recited, holding a hand dramatically over his chest. The woman's response was to elbow him in the stomach, but she then paused and reached up with both hands to cup his face in her palm.
This time, Jean's dream-self did turn away rather than watch the following kiss; there was an odd sort of yearning feeling in his chest that was almost painful, and he knew it would have hurt him to watch the young couple any longer.
III
After the first dream came many more. Some were similar to the first, the couple walking down streets; one was the man presenting Clementine with a new copy of the plays of Sophocles for her birthday (an excited squeal from the girl revealed Sophocles to be her favourite playwright). Then there was the dream of them eating food together in some gardens, cuddling on a bed, having a meal with some friends…
The dreams carried on, and Jean felt like he was losing his mind.
He had always been good at remembering dreams, but the details of these dreams clung to his brain as if they were happening right then and there. He could relive every second if he chose to, and all of the feelings that went along with it. He found himself growing obsessed with this rather odd couple in their unusual little world.
He coped with this in the only way he knew how, and that was in writing poetry.
Poetry was Jean's main passion; it was one of the only things he thought he was truly good at. The ability to weave words into a pattern that sounded beautiful and meant something beautiful was an ability that Jean admired in any person; and he strived to be able to write as beautifully as some of his favourite poets.
However, a love of penning poetry and a typically dreamy, romantic nature could occasionally combine and result in teasing from his friends. He didn't usually mind. He loved his friends, loved them all like brothers, and he understood that teasing was as natural as breathing for some of his friends.
This understanding of his friends, however, was not present on the day they learned of his dreams.
It had been during one of their many meetings at the Café Musain, and Jean had just finished penning a paragraph about the lady from his dreams. Enjolras was giving one of his speeches. Jean normally loved to listen to Enjolras' speeches because he thought that Enjolras was an exceptional wordsmith, but today, all he wanted to do was write.
Then the speech was over, and his friends were no longer distracted, and he didn't realise that Courfeyrac was peering over his shoulder before it was too late.
"I dream of you, every single night; and the image of you will not fade away. I see women every single day, but none of them compare to you; their beauty fades to grey, until you are the only thing in colour. Why would I want to look upon them in the sunshine, when I could gaze upon you in the moonlight…" Courfeyrac read out loud. Jean nearly jumped out of his skin, but managed to resist the urge to elbow his friend in the chest.
"What was that? Jehan's dreaming of a girl?" their other friend Bahorel boomed, dropping into the chair opposite him. Jean felt his heart sinking; Courfeyrac and Bahorel were both loud, the latter more boisterous than the former, although Courfeyrac could be more persistent. Between them, they could be relentless in their teasing.
"Apparently so," Courfeyrac chimed, pulling out the chair that was beside Jean. "According to Jehan none of the other women can compare to her…"
"Christ, he is lost," Bahorel said. "Who is she?"
"No one," Jean said, feeling embarrassed. He tucked the poem away in his book of Aeschylus plays and shut the book.
"That's not true," Courfeyrac responded. "You cannot stop thinking about her, if your writing is to be believed, although I think that blush on your cheeks tells us more about the matter. Come, Jehan, who is this girl?"
"I don't know," Jean said.
"You've dreamed her up?" Bahorel's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.
"It has happened before," Courfeyrac pointed out.
At this point, Grantaire decided to join them. Jean nearly dropped his head into his hands at the sight of the drunk.
"Dreamed who up?" the man demanded.
"No one!" Jean knew his tone was exasperated, and he desperately wanted to escape the room. "It was just…It was just me musing on something, that's all."
Bahorel leaned across the table. "You can tell us," he said. "We're your friends. Who is the girl?"
Purely out of some belief he would not leave the room unless he confessed, Jean said, "She is from my dreams."
"Your ideal girl?" Courfeyrac surmised. "You've written plenty of poems about that."
"No," Jean said, "Not this girl. Well, I have written poems about her, but – it's different. I've…I've been dreaming, about myself – at least, I think it is myself, the man looks exactly like me – and a woman named Clementine. I keep on having these dreams. They are very detailed but they are…curious. They do not take place in our – world, I suppose, for lack of a better word."
"So she is someone you've dreamed up," Bahorel said.
"No," Jean said again hotly. "I have not dreamed her up!"
He realised his tone was a lot sharper than he intended and immediately regretted it. Courfeyrac patted him on the arm.
"There's no need to lose your temper," he said.
"I'm not –" Jean's nostrils flared. "I just – I have not invented her. She is not a figment of my imagination."
"Have you met this girl?" Grantaire placed his elbow on the table and then rested his chin in his palm. "Seen her in person?"
Jean had to shake his head, although he really didn't want to admit to this fact.
"Then how do you know you haven't invented her?" Grantaire concluded.
"Because – I just – I just know." Jean felt incredibly frustrated. How could he explain it? "I feel like she is real. Like she is not a part of my dreams. I am dreaming these scenes of this couple, but the scenes are not dreams. They are happening. That is what I feel."
"Oh Lord." Bahorel rolled his eyes. "He is lost. To a fantasy."
Jean stood up. "It is not a fantasy," he said. "Clementine is –" He didn't know how to finish that sentence properly. His heart had all the answers: Clementine was a real person. She was flesh and blood, just like him, with dreams and hopes and wants; she breathed as he did, walked as he did, loved as he did. That was what his heart told him, even if his mind knew that he had know way of knowing if this was true. His heart was telling him that Clementine was real – it just could not tell him where she was. But he knew she was out there, somewhere.
He cleared his throat and looked around at his friends. "I don't care what you believe," he said. "I don't know why I am having these dreams, but I know they are more than that – they are more than dreams."
With that, he stormed out of the café, remembering to pick up his book before he did so. As he stomped, he internally kicked himself for his overreaction, and couldn't help but wonder why Bahorel's description of Clementine as a fantasy had angered him so.
A/N: The poem featured is Catullus 85. Also, thank you for the reviews/alerts/favourites, I really appreciate it; the reviews have also been lovely to read and I'm glad that people are enjoying this story so far :)
