PART XII
Nowhere to Go
Jacques released her wrist, and threw her outside. She found herself falling on her hands and knees, her bare hands stinging as they sunk into the cold snow, her knees being bruised as they slammed into the frozen pavement. She heard the door slam behind her, and she knew Jacques was gone. He was gone! He had gone to kill her son!
She clambered immediately to her feet, turning to stare at the closed door where Jacques had been a moment before. Her first instinct was to bolt to the door, throw it open, run back up the stairs, and find her son, hold him, protect him, not let her husband touch him. Before she was aware of getting there, only knowing that somehow her legs had arrived her body at the front door, she seized the knob and tried to open the door. It was locked. She opened her lips to cry her husband's name through the door and raised her red hand to pound upon it, but just as she was about to do this she stopped. She could not do it. She could not do this and argue with her husband. She could not disobey him. She could not defy him. She could not step out of line. If she did, he would kill her son. There was nothing she could do.
She found herself standing stiffly, helplessly, lost and scared, on her own doorstep, locked outside of her own house, her own son trapped inside with her own husband, who had threaten to take his life. What was she to do? Where was she to go? If she tried to get inside, her husband might kill her son… or her husband might kill her. Then Enjolras would be left alone with that monster, and sooner or later, Jacques would kill him. She could not let that happen. Yet, she could not just leave her son after her husband had promised to kill him. What, then, could she do? There was nothing for her to do. No where for her to go.
My son needs a doctor… she thought, numbly as if in shock. He is hurt… He needs a doctor… Then, moving as if in a trance, as if in a dream, as if she were dead and she was watching some other force control her soulless body, she turned away from the house and began walking away from it. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, trying to keep herself warm. It was cold, and it was windy. The sky was grey and menacing, and it terrified Uzès with the threat of another snow storm. She prayed God would hold back the clouds, at least, until she was home with her son, again. The clouds, however, did not look willing to oblige. She increased her pace, and soon found herself walking through the town, houses and shops lining either side of the road which he trod. Now, warm yellow house light fell upon the street to light her path, and the warm smell of burning firewood filled the bleak air, but the street was still empty. Everyone was keeping safely inside the warmth of their houses, holding close to their loved ones, cradling their children in their arms, holding them to their breasts, rocking their babies to sleep. No one was on the street. The poor woman was still alone.
She went quickly down the empty street, which was silent of all save for the wind, which whispered, jeered, and mocked her as it rushed past, billowing through her long blonde hair and snapping it in her face like a whip, biting at her cheeks and nose, burning her face,—strange that sometimes the cold can burn just as can fire—causing her eyes to water, and save for her own footsteps, which crunched softly in the snow, leaving prints and betraying her anywhere she dared to go, making it impossible for her to go anywhere that would displease her husband. That did not matter. She was going to the hospital, like she told him she was. Like she told her son she was, too. He needed a doctor. That was all.
No, she thought darkly and forlornly as she continued to walk, watching her feet hit the snow again and again. Her son needed far more than a doctor. He needed a Savior. He needed a God. He needed Jesus to reach down His precious hand and heal her son, as He healed so many when He walked the earth two thousand years ago. He needed Jesus…
She stopped, raised her eyes, and found herself standing, by chance or fate…or something beyond either…before the front entrance of the church. She had not been to church since before Christmas, because she had to stay with her son, who could not get out of bed. At this moment, as she stood alone outside in the cold street, she wanted nothing more than to go inside the church, fall down on her knees, and weep, and a pray, and ask Jesus for help, for mercy, for salvation. She had no where else to go. No one else to turn to.
But she knew she could not. She had to find a doctor and get back to her son. She bowed her head to shield it from the wind and began forward again. She was passing the church, leaving it behind her. She kept going. She passed the church. Then, suddenly, without warning or reason, she realized that she could not do this. Her mind was screaming and her heart was shattering, exploding into a thousand tiny pieces like a glass bottle that her husband threw against the wall. She could not do this anymore. She could not be brave anymore, she could not be strong, she could not go on. There was no where to go. Nothing to do. She could not do this. God save her or damn her! She could not do this anymore!
Before she was aware of it, she was running out of the street, back toward the church, stumbling through the snow, tripping over anything that stood in her way, but persisting in moving forward. Without knowing why, she diverted her path from the front of the church, ran off of the pavement and into the snowy yard, staggered through the even deeper snow and ice, ran around the side and then to the back of the church, out of view of anyone who might be watching her from the widows and protection of their homes. Then she collapsed.
Her legs gave way, and she fell down onto her knees in the snow. She felt the pain as her bruised knees hit the frozen ground, but she did not care. She shifted her body so her back was against the stone wall of the church, and she was sitting on the ground. She pulled her knees against her chest, she wrapped her arms around her knees, she curled up against the church, and she buried her face in her red, numb, frozen hands. When her hands touched her cheeks, it hurt her face where Jacques struck her. He had hit her hard, but he had hit her son harder. Tears like rain breaking through the clouds and pouring out on the earth burst from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks like the streams of blood that ran down her son's limp body on that night two months ago. She wept, she sobbed, she trembled. Her face was hidden in her hands, but her body convulsed and sobs, gasps, and suppressed cries of anguish could be heard, muffled within her arms and hands.
She cried. She was lost. She was helpless. There was nothing she could do. Her husband was going to kill her son, and she was too weak to stop him. She could not protect Enjolras anymore. He was too old, too grown up, too stubborn, too brave, too willing to give himself up for his mother. He was too strong, and she was not strong enough. Yet, he was too weak to protect himself from her husband. Her husband was too merciless to spare either of them.
"My God…" she cried out in a whisper as she wept, as sobs broke her body, as she gasped for breath, as sharp pains like daggers stabbed her stomach, her sides, her chest, and her heart again and again. "My Lord, help me… Help me! I can't do this! I can't do this! Jesus, I can't do this…" Words failed her, and she was weeping again, uncontrollably, hysterically, violently, painfully. Through all of this, she managed to whisper into her knees, "Do what you will with my life, God, but do not take my son… Do not let him kill my son… Spare my son… Not my son…"
She stayed there, lying against the cold stone of the church, alone. She wept. She wept long, and hard, and painfully. She did not know how much time had passed. Was it minutes? Hours? She could not have guessed. All she could do was cry, and pray, and then cry some more. She could not live like this any longer. For years, she tried to be strong, she tried to be brave, she tried to be a good Christian, she tried to be a good wife, she tried to be a good mother, she tried to do what was best for her son. Now, she did not know what was best for her son. She did not know what to do. She could not do anything. Now, at last, she could not do this any longer. Finally, she was broken.
"Madame?"
The voice was soft, hardly threatening, perhaps even gentle, but to this woman it was a gun going off in her ear. Her heart leaped with her body as she jumped to her feet, and she turned abruptly around to face the intruder, expecting, knowing, it was Jacques. Jacques was here to punish her for not coming home, for running off, for not going where she said she was going, for lying to him. Then, he would punish her son.
There was a man standing before her. The man was probably half a foot taller than she was, easily larger, effortlessly stronger. His tanned skin was pale in the cold of this weather and the ruthless bite of the wind; his cheeks and nose red; his dark brows furrowed as if in anger or confusion; what could be seen of his dark hair, as much was hiss beneath his hat, was flying in the wind around his neck and face. His stern, serious, and handsome face was fixed in an expression of shock and concern, his deep brown eyes filled with a look of fear and compassion. He wore a uniform, several badges and metals of honor were fastened to the front of his coat, and he carried on his persons a club, a knife, and a gun. He was part of the police force.
"Herriot!" the woman all but screamed. She could hardly believe her eyes. Was this real!? Was she mistaken!? Was she dreaming!? What on earth was he doing here!? How did he find her!? A thousand emotions burst within her heart at once. The first of which was overwhelming joy. But also surprise and confusion, belief and denial, relief and fear, happiness and sadness, comfort and embarrassment.
"Madame Enjolras?" Herriot asked softly and anxiously. He saw a red welt forming on her face, as if she had been hit by something or by someone. "Are you alright?" he cried quickly and fearfully. "Are you hurt?"
"I…" She frantically began wiping the tears off of her face, trying to get herself to stop crying, trying to get her lungs to stop heaving rapidly, trying to get her body to stop trembling, trying to get control over herself. All in vain. "I'm alright," she finally managed to whisper.
Herriot knew she was lying. "Madame, what happened? What is wrong?" A note of even greater fear entered his voice and he asked suddenly, "Where is your son?"
"He's… he's at home," she said softly, wiping her face again and taking a deep breath. "He's in his bed."
"Is he alright? Is he hurt?"
"He's…" She swallowed the knot in her throat. She did not know what to say. Should she tell him the truth? Certainly not. She could not tell anyone. That would only make things worse. Least of all could she tell a man of the police, a controller-general. She could not bear even to think of what Jacque would do to Enjolras when he found out. No, she could not tell Herriot anything. He could not know. Still, she wanted to tell him. After all, she knew this man loved her son. Maybe, he could help him… But, no! She could not tell him the truth! If she told him, if her husband found out, Jacques would kill her son.
"He has gotten sick," she finally said softly. It was not a lie. "Doctor Virkler says it might be pneumonia."
At this news, Herriot's face fell with sadness and with fear. "Oh no…" she breathed, speaking more to himself it seemed then the woman. "Is he being treated?"
She nodded, wiping tears from her eyes again, and drying her face on the sleeve of her coat. "He is on medicine. He seems to be getting better, but…" She trailed off and fell silent.
"But?" She could hear fear and sincere concern in his voice. Yes, this man loved her son. He loved Enjolras very much, and more than Jacques ever had. In fact, this man loved her more than Jacques ever had. Jacques never loved either of them, not his wife and not his son. He did not know how to love.
"He also has melancholia," she said bluntly.
"Melancholia?" Herriot said with concern and surprise. "When he was in the hospital, he seemed to be getting better, happier I mean."
"He…" she began, and she voice began softer. "He misses you."
Herriot nodded. A pained expression passed over his face. "If you do not mind me saying so, madame, I miss him, as well."
When she heard him say this, she could not help but look at him with tender eyes and a touched heart. She nodded. "The doctor says it will go away, though," she went on quickly, tearing her eyes away from Herriot's. "I am just…" Now was her chance to hide the truth. "I am just worried about him."
Herriot nodded slowly, but he was watching her very careful, very thoughtful eyes. He knew she was worried about her son. He had spent much time with her when the boy was in the hospital, and he knew the agony it was for her to see her son in pain. Even still, he did not think that was all. Something else was happening. At last, he opened his lips and said softly, "Where is your husband?"
"He's…" She tried to speak, but the words were logged in her throat, and she could not get them out. She bit her lip, unable to go on. Without warning, her eyes filled with fresh tears, and she broke down again. Tears ran freely from her swollen red eyes and down her cheeks. She was nearly blinded by her tears, but through them she could still see this man's warm brown eyes, and her heart gave way. She trusted him. Perhaps, it was foolish, perhaps she was wrong, perhaps she was stupid, but she thought, at this moment, that if anyone could help her, Controller-General Herriot could. He would. The next moment, she shook her head violently and cried out through sobs, "He's going to kill him!"
"What?!" Herriot cried, stunned and confused, not understanding what she meant. "Who? What do you mean?"
"My son…" she barely managed choke out. "He is going to kill my son…"
"Jacques!?" Herriot cried out, shock and terror steeling his heart as he suddenly realized what she was saying. "Your husband is going to kill your son!? Where is he? Madame, look at me." Through her tears and weeping, she obeyed, and she found herself staring into fiery and piercing eyes that burned like Enjolras's did when he saw Jacques abusing his mother, when he feared for some one he loved. "Where is your son? Did Jacques hurt your son?"
"He…" she whimpered. She could not go on. Words failed her. She could not speak even though she tried. All she could do was stand there as new tears burst forth from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. All she could do was cry, weep, break, and crumple.
Whether she went to him or he went to her, she was not sure, but the next moment, she was leaning against Monsieur Herriot, weeping against his chest. He did not speak. He stood there silently in the snow-covered courtyard behind the church, holding this poor woman in his arms as she cried bitterly, violently, and hopelessly. She did not speak either. She could not. All she could do was trust him to hold her and let the tears flow from her eyes, the sobs flow from her lips, the gasps shake her lungs, and the pain in her heart convulsive her entire body in dreadful spasms. She wept long and hard in this man's arms. This man who she loved but who she would never be able to have.
Her fists, with all of their strength, were gripping the fabric of Herriot's coat, and she was clinging to him as if afraid to let go, knowing that the moment she let go she would lose him. His warm, strong arms were wrapped tightly around her, and he was holding her close to him in a firm embrace, keeping her safe, protecting her, comforting her. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, melting away the bitter cold and sheltering her from the horrid wind. Her head rested against his chest, and she could hear his heart beating, steadily and calmly, almost like music. It was the lullaby that babies listen to each night as their parents hold them and rock them to sleep. For the first time since she could recall in what seemed to be her entire life but was only her life since she became Jacque's wife, she felt safe. In the arms of this man, she was safe. She was happy. She did not have to worry that this man might raise a hand to strike her or a finger to hurt her son. She knew that he would never do such a thing. He would have given himself up first. When she was with this man called Herriot, she felt that she was safe, that she was happy, that she was free.
There was only one other time in her life that she had ever felt anything like this. It seemed ages ago. If she had lived several lives, this memory remained only a distant shadow that happened like a dream in a life long ago. Yet, she remembered it well.
She was young, not yet even twenty. She was innocent, she was pure, she was virtuous, and she was in love. That was all. It began so innocently. She was only an ignorant young girl in love with a very handsome and very charming young man. Oh, yes, he was so handsome. She still remembered that as if it were yesterday. She remembered the first time she laid eyes upon him, the way he looked at her, the way he smiled at her, the way he put his lips to her ear and whispered, "I love you." It did not take him long to steal her heart and locked it away behind bars. When she was with him, she felt that she was flying, her heart was soaring with the birds in the heavens, and her soul with singing with the angels. For the first time, she felt so free, so happy, so wanted, so needed, so loved. She was frenzied, intoxicated, blinded by her love for the boy who said, "I love you."
For perhaps a summer, he was her life, her world, her sun, her moon, her star, her sunrise, her light, and her love. She met him when she was visiting Uzès with her parents, and at once she fell in love. She gave her heart away to this boy whom promised her everything she had ever dreamed of. He was her everything. In her eyes, he was perfect. He had his flaws, of course: he was an alcoholic, he gambled too much, sometimes he drank too much, sometimes he got into fights at the bar, sometimes he got angry. But in her love for him, she overlooked all of these things, and she called him perfect. Although he was flawed, to her he was flawless.
She loved him. She loved him as she had loved nothing else. She would have done anything for him. She would have given up her very life to be with him. She followed him everywhere. Whenever he led, she went without question. He led her to his home, to his room, to his bed, and she followed him. She knew it was wrong. She knew it was a sin. But she was blinded in her love for this boy who said, "I love you," who wrapped his arms around her, who placed his lips upon her, who pressed his body against her.
She spelt with him. She gave up her body for him. She gave up her virginity, her innocence, her purity, her righteousness, her honor, her dignity for him. She gave up everything for him. She gave up her heart for him. She gave it to him. She trusted him that he would keep it safe. She trusted him. She loved him. She needed him. She thought he loved her. No, she knew he loved her. She thought he needed her. She knew he needed her. Then, he left her.
The snake was clever when he deceived Eve in the garden. He came to her promising wisdom, strength, power, and glory. He came to her with a smooth tongue and a charming air that made her believe he was the way to deliverance and to happiness. He was clever. He was deceptive. He was cruel. He tricked her, and she sinned. Then the entire world fell into darkness.
This snake deceived this woman. He came to her whispering false promises and proclaiming false love. In fact, he never loved her, at all. He loved her because she was beautiful and because he lusted for her. That was what he called loved. As a woman, as a living person with a soul and a heart, he did not love her, at all. He used her. He left her with nothing but a broken heart and a lost soul.
And a baby.
She regretted it all dreadfully. Although, how could she wish things to be any different? Had this not happened, she would not have had a son. Her boy would never have been born. He was her life now. She loved him so much, more than she had ever loved anything, multitudes more even than she had ever imagined to love Jacques one long ago. The mother loved her baby as is not possible to love more.
"Greater love has no one than this; to lay down ones life for ones friend." She would have laid down her life for him in a heart beat. So even through the darkness of her life, she could see God's grace descending and His plan prevailing. At least, she could until now. Now, she was not sure about anything. It killed her even to think it, but she forced herself to do so: Perhaps, it would have been better if her son had never been born, at all. At least then Jacques would not hurt him, torture him, or murder him.
She made a terrible mistake when she let that man deceiver her, a terrible mistake went she went against her own heart, her own conscience, and her own God and gave him want he wanted. Yet, that was not the end of it. She was only trying to do what was best for her and for her unborn son, but she made another terrible mistake when she married Jacques. The first time he hit her, she made a terrible mistake when she remained silent and did not fight back. The first time he hit her son, she made a terrible mistake when she did not take her child up in her arms and leave. She could have left. She should have. She stayed only because she was trying to be a good wife, a good mother, a good Christian… but her actions, as always, it seemed, did far more harm than good. She should have listened to her son when she still had a chance. She should have left a long time ago. Now it was too late. Now she was trapped, chained, imprisoned. There was nothing left to do. If she tried to do anything, her husband would murder her son.
Beyond sixteen years ago, when she caused all of this, she was young, ignorant, stupid, and blinded by her love. She did not see the monster that stood just before her, that held her in his arms, that pretended to love her. Now she hated herself for being so foolish. How had she not seen the lies in that man's wicked but beautiful eyes? How had she been so stupid!? Now she was older, and wiser, and stronger, and she would not allow another man to deceive her like Jacques did. Now she knew the difference between clever lies and real love. She knew that Controller-General Herriot, whose arms held her now, was not like Jacques. He was not trying to deceive her. He really loved her son. He really loved her. But she would never be able to be with him. She might not even be able to see him again after today.
The woman opened her wet, red eyes, her body stiffened, and her heart turned cold in shame and it plummeted to her gut in horror. She suddenly realized what she was doing. She, a married woman, was wrapped in the arms of another man. But she was not being unfaithful to Jacques, was she? Yes, she was, she thought darkly and grimly. Because she loved this man and she did not love her husband. If Jacques found out… what would he do to her? Beat her? Kill her? That did not matter. Only her son matter. It terrified her to think what Jacques would do to her son.
Slowly but firmly, she began to pull away from Monsieur Herriot. The man could feel her moving away from him, and he gently let his arms fall away, releasing her from his embrace. She took a small step back, and began wiping the tears off of her face. She was in a calmer state now. Somehow, even as she knew it could not be, Herriot's warm arms around her made her believe that everything would be aright. She let out a heavy breath, and slowly raised her eyes to meet Herriot's.
He was already looking into hers. His face was sad, compassionate, afraid, pained. He waited only a moment before he asked softly, "Did Jacques hurt your son?"
She could only stare into his eyes and nod.
Herriot felt dread beginning to fill him, but he concealed the fear in his voice, and he asked, "How badly?"
Somehow, she managed to answer, "Jacques hurt him, but I… I think he is alright."
"Is he conscious?"
She nodded, "Yes. He said it is not broken again."
"His hip?" Herriot demanded. He stepped closer to the woman and gently but firmly took hold of her by the shoulders, so she had no choice but to face him. She chose to look into his eyes. She nodded. "You said he is in bed now?"
"Yes."
"He is away from your husband?"
She nodded.
Herriot let out a soft sigh of relief. That, at least, was something good. He looked over his shoulder for a moment and gazed into the empty, snow-covered streets. It was not long after four o'clock, but, with the ominous clouds haunting the sky and overshadowing the earth, it was already getting dark. It was getting colder. He turned back to Madame Enjolras. Her face was white, but her cheeks, nose, and eyes were red; her hands red and swollen; shards of ice caught in her long blonde locks. She was trembling under her coat. "Madame," he said gently, motioning toward the church, "let's go inside for a minute."
She followed his gaze to the back door of the church and shook her head. "I should get home…"
"We do not have to be long," Herriot assured her. "I only want to talk to you for a moment." At last, she nodded. He softly laid a hand on her back as he led her into the church. They stepped through the entrance into to the church, and the doors closed behind them, blocking out the cold and wind. It was Monday, February 29, 1825. There was no service tonight, and the church was empty of all people save for this man and this woman. They stood alone behind closed doors and before rows of vacant pews. The altar was silent at the front of the church and above it, on the wall, a crucifix. The church was dark but not utterly, as candles were lit on metal posts at the back of the church and around the altar at the front, each candle carrying a small white flame, emitting a soft yellow light, and sending forth a scent like burning incense, making the church smell like the throne room of a mighty king.
Herriot gestured to a pew in the back of the church, slowly led her to it, and they both sat down beside each other. She shifted on the pew for a moment before she turned her body to face Herriot and raised her eyes to look into his. He looked straight into hers eyes, and she felt that he could see through her, straight into her mind ands soul. He waited a moment before speaking. Then he took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice calm as he went on, "Did you look at his hip?"
"Yes," she answered with a small nod.
"How does it look? Is there any bleeding? Any bulges or knots where the bone could have been displaced?"
She shook her head. "No, no blood… I do not think it is broken. He does not either. It is bruised and swollen, though. …I think he will be alright. I was going to get the doctor now. He needs a doctor." She was suddenly very distressed as she thought of how long she had been away from the house, and she had not yet even arrived at the hospital. She turned her eyes and looked over her shoulder toward the back doors of the church. "I need to get back home," she said softly, "I should already be there."
"Alright," Herriot said gently, nodding slowly, trying to calm her down. "Madame, please, listen to me…" She obeyed. She turned back to him, and when she looked into his face, she could feel tears rising in her eyes again. "Your son is going to be alright. I promise. But you cannot let Jacques hurt him again. Next time, it could be worse. You remember what the doctor said: if his hip breaks again—"
"Yes, I know, I know," she whimpered, struggling to fight against tears. "I am going to send him to school in the spring."
"Madame, anything can happen between now and then."
She bit her lip, knowing that she would not be able to hold back these tears for much longer. She knew he was right. By spring, anything could happen. Jacques might have punished Enjolras to the point that he would never be able to walk again… of worse… Jacques's last words to her haunted her mind. The next time your son steps out of line, I will kill him. Her heart trembled in fear. She looked suddenly up into Herriot's eyes, looking for an answer, for comfort, for safely. She did not know what to do. She was lost. She had no one to help her, except perhaps this man.
Herriot let out a slow breath. He did not know how she would respond to this, but he had to say it. It was the only way. "Madame, you cannot stay there. Your son is not safe in that house... and neither are you."
"I know, but…" she whispered through tears, shaking her head, "…but we cannot leave. We do not have anywhere to go."
Herriot did not speak for a moment. He looked deeply into her eyes, and she felt as if the frost that covered her heart was melting away. When he spoke, his voice was barely over a whisper, "Yes, you do."