Angel of Stone

by Marius blowthebarricade

Before he was the strong, passionate, and fearless warrior of the Revolution, the loyal servant of France, and the great leader of the Friends of the ABC, Enjolras was a child. In Victor Hugo's great masterpiece "Les Miserables," we never learn anything of Enjolras's youth or of the past that made him the charming young man who was capable of being terrible.

14. Chapter 14

PART XIV

Life and Death

It hurt.

One week had passed since the accident when he had fallen down the stairs. His hip had not broken a second time, but it still hurt. The pain increased greatly that night, and, although it had subsided considerably by now, it still hurt. It hurt terribly. For the past week, Enjolras lay on his back in his bed, he stared lifelessly at the ceiling above him, he rested, he waited, the sun was shining brightly outside his bedroom window, the snow was finally melting, and the birth of spring was finally at hand, but he kept the drapes shut and the shutters closed, and he trapped out the sunlight. Sometimes, too often, more often each passing day, he lay in his bed and he tortured himself. It hurt. It hurt all the more when he touched it. When his mother was not in his room with him, he hurt himself and he did it on purpose. Pain was agony when he made it that way.

Why did he do it? He had no idea. He could not have answered this had he tried, and he did not try. He did not care. All he knew was that he was in pain. There was pain in his body and heart. Hurting his body seemed to make the pain in his heart go away. That was all. It did not make sense. It did not matter. He hurt himself even when he knew it did no good. He needed to recover, and these actions would only produce more problems and prolong the pain. Yet, he did not stop. He could not stop himself.

It was weak. He knew it was weak. It was weak, pathetic, foolish, cowardly. He disgraced and disgusted himself when he did it, and it troubled his conscience. It weighed heavily on his mind and burdensomely on his heart. Even when he was alone in his room, running his figures violently over his injured hip and cringing at the pain, he felt that someone was always watching him with disapproving and disappointed eyes. He feared it was the Lord. God would not be pleased with him for what he was doing, he knew. God would not be pleased with him for what he had become. He presumed it was a sin… to hurt himself like this. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became in his mind and heart, and he knew.

"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God?" That was 1 Corinthians 6:19. "Glorify God in your body."

"You shall not make any cuts in your body," says Leviticus 19:28. He was not cutting himself, but he was hurting himself all the same. He was damaging the body he was supposed to be glorifying for God.

In Deuteronomy it says, "You are the sons of the Lord your God. You shall not cut yourselves or make any baldness on your foreheads for the dead."

And Saint Paul says in 1 Corinthians 3:17, "If anyone destroys God's temple, God will destroy him. For God's temple is holy, and you are that temple."

These were the verses that replayed constantly in Enjolras's head as he disobeyed his conscience and disobeyed God and hurt himself, purposefully and defiantly. These words haunted him and tormented him, adding to the pain and the misery he had to endure each day, each moment. He had not been to church since he broke his hip before Christmas. He had not even gone to church on Christmas Eve. Sometimes, he read the Bible as he lay in his bed, seeking forgiveness and comfort from the Lord. One night when he was alone in his room, Enjolras read in the book of Hebrews, verse 4:13, "Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and lay bare before the eyes of Him whom we must give account."

Enjolras was ashamed of himself, and ashamed to show his face to his mother or to his Father in Heaven, from whom he could not hide. At night, he often found himself praying to God, asking for forgiveness, asking for strength, asking for help. But only a short time later, he found himself committing these same sins all over again. That is how weak he was.

He did not let his mother know that he hurt himself like this. She would have been too upset and too disappointed in him. So he hid this from her, and he hid this from the doctor. Whenever he was with them, however, he was uneasy and afraid they would discover his secret. Three days ago, Doctor Virkler came to check up on him. He looked at his hip, and a frown of deep concern came over his face. His figures gently brushed across the swollen tissue over the boy's pelvic bone, and he muttered, "Were these bruises here before? I do not believe they were. Have you hurt yourself again?"

Have you hurt yourself again? Yourself… Again…

Enjolras's heart froze in his chest, and, for a moment, he stopped breathing. He knows… How could he possibly have known? Yet, somehow, he knew. How long had he known? Had he told his mother? How, even, did he know!? Was it that obvious? Enjolras had wanted to feel the pain, but he had never meant to bruise himself. He had never meant to leave a mark, to leave behind evidence of his crimes. Yet, he had done so without even realizing it. Doctor Virkler realized it first.

"I…" Enjolras managed to speak, and he tried to keep his voice from wavering like a pitiable child trembling in fear. He shook his head. "No." He lied. Another sin to add to the ever-growing list and another weight to add to his guilt.

The doctor frowned at his hip for a moment longer, staring at the bruises, pressing on them gently, trying to remember if they had been there when he saw the boy a few days ago. He did not think so, but when he saw Enjolras last, he had only fallen that night. It was very likely that the bruises came up later, perhaps overnight. So, he nodded and continued treating the boy without mentioning these bruises again. It was several minutes later before Enjolras's heart stopped pounding in his chest, and before he realized that Doctor Virkler, in fact, did not know that he had been intentionally hurting himself.

Yet, Doctor Virkler and his mother, both of them knew that there was something wrong with Enjolras beyond the physical injury to his body. He hated having to remain locked up in his room all day, unable to get out of his bed, but at the same time he had no desire to do anything, at all. If he were allowed to leave his room, he might have remained in it anyway. He only ate when his mother forced him to do so. He slept through much of the day, and he always kept the drapes shut tightly over his widow. He did not care about things he once loved. He no longer cared about the Revolution that he was willing to die for only a few months ago. The doctor and his mother supposed it was all due to melancholia, but Enjolras feared it was something more serious and more terrible. Something was wrong with his head. With his mind. He hurt himself, he wanted to feel pain, and when he felt this pain he wanted to hurt his father for hurting him. He wanted to inflict pain on either himself of on his father, he did not care which. He wanted to inflict pain. That was not normal. He could not think clearly anymore. He had strange, rash, and sometimes frightening thoughts. In the past week, when he was sitting in bed forcing himself to swallow the dinner his mother brought to him, he watched the blade of his knife cut the meat on his plate, and for a brief moment, unable to control or suppress the thought, it crossed his mind, and Enjolras wondered what it would feel like if this knife was not cutting the meat on his plate but instead cutting his own flesh. He wondered how it would hurt. He wondered how it would bleed.

He did not know why he thought this or what made him think it. It scared him. Now, his own thoughts were scaring him. What was the matter with him!? Was he losing his mind!? Was he going crazy!? At last, it seemed, Jacques had finally driven him mad. He could not live like this anymore. He could not endure it anymore! One day, when he was not thinking clearly, when he was out of his mind, when he was consumed in a fit of madness, when his mother was not with him, he would pick up a knife and use it to mutilate his own flesh, use it to uproot his own veins, or use it to take his own life. Enjolras feared it would be so. Worse yet, he feared that he would use it to murder his father. Too many times he had thought about it. He decided that he would do it. He wanted to do it. If it came to it, he would do it. Enjolras would murder his own father, commit patricide, commit homicide. He knew that he would do it. He had no doubt of it. Jacques deserved it. So, Enjolras would kill his own father. It scared him.

Now, he was afraid of his father, he was afraid for his mother, he was afraid of his sin, and he was afraid of himself.

February was over now. It was the fourth of March, Sunday. Enjolras wanted to get out. He had to get out of his room and this house. He thought he would go mad if he did not. He sat up in his bed, he pulled up his shirt, and looking down at his hip he saw an assortment of new bruises coming up around it. This scared him, because if these bruises did not fade before Doctor Virkler made another visit, the man would certainly uncover the truth, and because Enjolras did not even realize that he was doing this to himself until after it was too late. If he did not get out of this place soon, he would continue to hurt himself, to torture himself, to be driven or to drive himself insane. He had to get out. But where would he go? Since his father injured his hip the second time, Enjolras's mother had not allowed him to set foot outside of his bedroom for anything expect to use the restroom, and even then she helped him get out of bed, walked by his side, and held onto him as he limped down the hall. She waited for him outside the bathroom and helped him walk back to bed. She stayed with him most of the time, but sometimes she had to leave to make meals, to do the laundry, to clean the house, and to do whatever else Jacques forced her to do. Whenever she left his room, she ordered him not to get out of bed. Enjolras had nearly given up hope of getting out, when, by chance or by God's pitying and merciful command, his mother came into his room and told him she wanted him to go to the evening mass at church.

"Thank you, God," Enjolras thought as he readily and eagerly agreed, still bewildered and surprised that his mother would allow, much less that she would suggest, such a thing. Perhaps, she saw it, too. Perhaps, she knew that her son needed to escape from the prison, the hell, of his own home and his own mind before he could bare it no longer. This was what he wanted. This was what he needed.

It was already getting late so Enjolras carefully got out of bed and began to get ready. After reassuring her that he would be alright, his mother left him alone and shut the door behind her. Enjolras still limped badly, but he could get around considerably easier now and with less difficulty and pain. He discovered this went across the room to retrieve new clothes from the wardrobe. He chose the first suitable garments he saw without thought or care and then very gingerly, gently chose the red coat given to him my his mother. He returned to his bed and sat on its edge as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Most of the bruises on his sides and ribs were gone now, but some could still be seen vaguely, and scars were clearly visible in places where the metal rod had cut his skin. The ugly scar, thick, knotted, twisted, that ran down his hip had not faded, and the surrounding area was still bruised and swollen. New bruises had appeared, as well. These were marks which Enjolras had inflicted himself. Upon seeing this now, he gritted his teeth, angry and disgusted with himself. What was the matter with him? Normal people did not hurt themselves. Normal people did not want to put themselves in pain. He was a disgrace. He was not in his right mind. There was something repulsively wrong with him.

He quickly put on a clean shirt to hide his injuries from his own eyes. Very delicately he removed his trousers and slid a new pair over his legs and gently over his hips. It was almost funny how he tried to spare himself of pain now while other times he purposely made the pain worse. That was not normal either. That did not make any sense. His body clothed again, he put on a dark waistcoat, wrapped a black cravat around his neck, and put on his shoes. He vaguely noted that he was careful again when he put the shoe on his left foot, because he did not want his hip to hurt anymore than it already did. At last, he put on his coat and got to his feet. He thought about going downstairs, but then he thought he best wait for his mother to come get him. She would be angry if he did not.

Only a few minutes had gone by when a soft knock came to his door and his mother's voice calling his name. He told her to come in, and she appeared in the entrance of his room. A soft smile spread across her lips when she saw her son, handsome in his red coat, sitting upon the edge of his bed. In this moment, he looked nearly himself again. No matter how faint, there was a light in his eyes and a warmth in his face that she had not seen in a very long time. He rose slowly to his feet as she entered the room. "Are you ready?" he ask, anxious and eager to get out of the house.

His mother sighed, and a faint look of sadness passed over her face. She came across the room to stand before her son and, looking at him admiringly—the fondness in her eyes only made Enjolras's heart ache with guilt. If only she knew the truth, she would not have been so proud of him—she gently brushed a blonde curl out of his face. "I am going to ride with you to the church," she said softly, "but I cannot stay through the mass."

"What?" Enjolras's face immediately dropped in confusion and disappointment, and he frowned at his mother. "Why not?"

She sighed again. "I have things I need to do here. Things I need to take care of. But I think you should get out for a few hours. You have been cooped up in your room for long enough, and you have not been to church in months."

Enjolras sighed and dropped his eyes away from hers. He was disappointed that she would not be staying with him, and he did not like the idea of her being home alone with Jacques in the same house. Yet, he knew she was right. He needed to get out of this place, if only for a few hours. He would lose his mind if he did not. He needed to go to church. He needed to pray. He needed time with God. So he nodded, and he agreed. "You will ride in the carriage with me to the church, though?" he wanted to confirm. He looked up to meet his mother's eyes, and he saw her nodding, a soft smile upon her lips.

"Yes," she promised gently. "And I will come to pick you up after the mass if over. If I am not yet there at the time, wait in the church until I come to get you."

Enjolras shook his head. "You do not have to get me. I can ride back alone. I do not mind."

"No," she said a little too urgently. Her voice changed suddenly and began calm and mild again, and she went on, "I want to come get you." He heard a slight change in her words again, and she added, "I do not want you to leave that church until I am with you, do you understand?"

For the first time, Enjolras sensed something was wrong. Something did not seem right. Perhaps, it was only in his paranoid mind. Perhaps, he was mistaken. He frowned at her silently for several seconds, his eyes studying deeply her face and her eyes, trying to detect something, anything. He saw nothing. At last, he asked her, "Why?"

"I do not want you to hurt yourself or slip on the ice."

"Most of the ice is melted now. Besides, I will only have to walk a short distance to get into a coach."

"No," she said again, and again there seemed to be something—was it anxiety, fear, panic—hidden in her voice. She looked straight into his eyes, and he could see something different in her eyes now, as well. Something was not right. She was hiding something. "You must not leave until I am with you. Son, you just have to trust me. This is important."

Now, Enjolras was sure. Something was happening. Something was wrong. He was silent for a long moment, staring at her, looking for any hint, anything at all… "Why?" he finally asked again. His voice was soft, calm, even, but careful, cautious, and grave. "What is it? Mother, what is it? What is wrong?"

She hesitated only a moment before she dropped her eyes away from his gaze and, shaking her head, said quietly, "I want to be with you when you return home, is all. I do not want you to be alone when you enter the house… incase your father is awake then."

Oh. That made sense. Ever since last Monday, his mother had not even let him lay eyes upon his father. She did not trust either of them to be together. She was afraid that if they be in the same room even, Enjolras would say something or do something that would anger Jacques and he would attack him again, hurt him again. Maybe Jacques would break his hip a second time, and a second time would most likely lead to her son's death. Enjolras sighed, and nodded. "Alright, I will wait for you."

He could easily see his mother sighing in relief. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Do not leave until I am there with you, no matter what happens or how late I am. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

She took him by the shoulders, leaned forward slightly to get closer to him, and looked straight into his eyes. Her gaze was penetrating and unyielding, as if she could see into his very heart and as if she would know if he chose to lie to her. "Promise me."

"I promise."

She sighed again. "Alright then." She released his shoulders and straightened up. A gentle smile returned to her lips, and that quickly she seemed at ease again. "Let's go then."

Now, it was Enjolras who hesitated. He frowned at her, his eyes still studying her and his mind still thinking, concentrating, trying to decide if he was wrong or if there was more happening tonight than his mother wanted him to know.

Her smile faded, and a look of concern began to form on his face. "Are you ready? Son, is something wrong?"

At length, he asked quietly, "Where is Jacques?"

"He is asleep downstairs," she answered honestly.

"Has he been drinking?"

"You know he has. He always drinks."

"He is drunk." It was not a question.

"He is unconscious," she corrected.

"He should not be waking up any time soon then."

"No, I would not suspect so."

"Alright then," he agreed with a sigh. "I am ready to go."

His mother held him in a tight and close grasp as they went slowly and carefully down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, wordlessly went through the house, and crossed through the living room as they made their way to the door, they passed Jacques who was, like his mother told him, unconscious on the coach. He lay on his side, his face half-hidden in a sloppily laid pillow. His hair was a mess in his flushed face. Several empty bottles littered the floor around him. A half-drunk bottle he clutched loosely in his arms and held against his chest. The front of his shirt was drenched in the faint-green liquid that spilled out of his bottle and all over him. Green. The color of poison. Poison is ideal, necessary, loved by the snake. The stench of absinthe was so strong when they entered the room Enjolras nearly gagged on it and nearly stumbled step backward. At the pitiful and horrid sight of his drunken and unconscious father lying limp and useless on the coach no better than a corpse, his son was repulsed, sickened, but glad. It did not appear Jacques would be awaking any time soon. Enjolras did not expect the man to stir until tomorrow morning. Mass would have long been over by then, and Enjolras would be home again to protect his mother.

When they stepped through the front door and closed it behind them, Enjolras turned to face the world. The sun was setting, and the sky was ablaze, bursting with the colors of roses and azaleas. Although night was now falling, he could sense, feel, and smell spring's approach. The air was getting warmer, and the cold of winter was finally melting away. The sent of the earth was fresh, clean, pure, like water. He drew in a deep breath, for the first time in months blissfully filling his lungs with the fragrance and his nose and throat with the taste of freedom. It was like water pouring down his parched throat, water spilling into the lips of a dying child, rejuvenating him, restoring strength and life to his body and soul. Enjolras had longed for this moment for what had been three months but what had seemed years of agony. He had begun to fear to would never come.

A carriage was already waiting in the street before the house, and Enjolras's mother held onto him as they approached and got in. "I arranged for it to come," she explained, "so you will not have to walk too far." He nodded and turned his eyes to look at the sunset.

They said very little on the way to the church. Enjolras sat by the window, gazed silently through the glass, and watched Uzès as they passed through it. It had been so long since he last saw this town, his home. He felt now, reentering the city, escaping from the wrath of his father and the prison of his house, that heavy chains, the chains worn by a convict, were lifted off of his shoulders. He was no longer bound. He could move freely again. He could breathe again. He could live again. Even if only for a little while, Enjolras was grateful. He was glad. Tonight, he would thank God and he would ask for forgiveness. He would ask for strength. He would ask for courage. He would ask for his mother's protection. He needed God to protect his mother, because now Enjolras was too weak to protect her by himself.

The mother and her son, both of them, were consumed in their own deep thought, so hardly a word had been spoken when the carriage arrive and came to a stop before the church. Madame Enjolras went quickly from the carriage and hurried to the other side to help her son get out. She held his arm tightly as they approached the tall, arched doors of the church, which stood agape and beckoned to all passersby like the open arms of Christ, waiting for His children to come to Him, waiting to embrace them. The priest, the same who visited the boy when he was is the hospital, was standing not far away when they entered the church, and he saw them before they saw him. The reverend man was astonished and joyed to see them. They had hardly begun walking into the church when he appeared before them, greeting them with glowing smiles, kind and joyous words, and handshakes as passionately as his old bones would allow. Before they parted, the priest whished Enjolras a quick recovery, promised them both his prayers, and assured them that whatever was to come was in the hands of God. This brought comfort and reassurance to Enjolras and his mother. They knew God was in control. They knew He had their futures and their fates planned and decided already. They could not have guessed what that was. They could not have imagined the truth.

Enjolras's mother helped him walk to the back pew, where he sat down. He was happily surprised when she sat beside him. For a brief moment, a hopeful longing passed through his mind, and he thought she was going to stay with him through the service. But she could not stay. She had to leave. She should have left already. She knew that it was unwise even to sit with him for these few minutes and that rather she should already be making her way home. Yet, she could not bring herself to go. Not yet. She could not bear it. She could not bear to leave without first saying goodbye to her son.

She was silent for a long moment, and she gazed loving but also sadly at the young man she saw sitting before her. Indeed, he was not a child anymore. As much as she would have liked to, she knew she could not hide from this fact any longer. Her child was now a man. It seemed such a short time ago he was only a baby, she was holding him in her arms, she was rocking him to sleep, she was singing to him as she sat beside his bed and he began to dream, she taught him to read and to write, she told him stories and read him the Bible before he went to bed, she held his hand as they walked through Uzès, she watched him run through the park, she watched him play with his toys, she listened to his laughter, he looked at her and smiled at her, and she smiled at him, too. Such joy, such love she felt in her heart. Nothing had ever made her happier than this sweet, innocent, ignorant, little child. Yet all too soon, it was as if one day he simply woke up and stopped playing. He stopped laughing, and he stopped smiling. He became serious, reserved, cold, and angry. His soft, young, and joyful face became dark and stern and more often than less marked by cuts and bruises. A hatred like fire began to burn in his icy blue eyes, the one feature that set him apart from his mother and linked him to his father. His childhood was short. Not because anything he or his mother did, but because his father's cruelty forced him to face reality long before a child is meant to do so. Yet, even once he began to behave brave and strong as he did, he was still a child. He was still this mother's baby. But just as suddenly this had to come to an end. How strange it was. How miraculous. How wonderful and terrible. How beautiful and heart-wrenching. Before her very eyes, this woman watched her child grow into a man.

As she looked upon him now, a sea of memories came flooding into her mind and heart. With it came joy and sorrow. A smile appeared on her lip and, at the same time, she forced backed tears in her eyes. She attempted to hide her emotions on her face, and she did not think her son could see her tears, but he certainly saw something. Enjolras's face changed into a frown of concern. "What is it?" he asked quietly as he looked nervously at his mother.

She only smiled and shook her head. "Nothing," she answered softer than he had spoken. Avoiding his eyes, she gently brushed a long curl out of his face with her fingers, as she often did it seemed. His hair had gotten very much longer over the last three months and was almost constantly falling into his eyes. He needed a haircut, she regarded. No matter, he was just as handsome in this moment. In fact, in this moment, even with a bruise over his eye and a scar on his cheek, his mother believed her son was more handsome than he had ever been. It was no wonder so many young ladies were watching him as he entered the church. Enjolras had not seemed to notice this.

"It is nothing, my son," she said again before she met his gaze and forced a smile. He did not smile. He did not believe her. He did not know what it was but something, something, was wrong. "My son…" She gently took his cheek in her hand as she gazed at him in love and in happiness, but there was also terrible grief in her eyes. "My boy…" She ran her hand down his neck until it came to rest upon his collar bone. She laid her other hand upon him and grasped him firmly by each of his shoulders. She looked straight into his eyes. She was no longer smiling. Her face was serious, grave, and white, her eyes wide, perhaps afraid, loving yet sad, and red… Was she about to cry? Why? What was happening? What was wrong? Why wouldn't she tell him? "Son, listen to me," she said quietly but urgently. At once, Enjolras knew she was going to tell him something very important. He did not know what was going on, but he knew he had to obey her. He knew she needed him now. He knew she loved him. He needed her and loved her just as much. So he looked unyieldingly into her eyes and listened.

"No matter what happens," she began in a voice that was sorrowful but brave and strong, "you must always remember just how much I love you. You mean more to me than anything else in this world. You are my entire world. You have given me so much joy… so much love. I am so lucky that you are my son." Now, Enjolras was sure he saw tears flowing into her red eyes. Yet at this same time she smiled. "How did I get so lucky? Why has God given me such a handsome, brave, strong, good son? You are such a gift… such a blessing. And I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you, Mother," Enjolras answered, at once. He did not know what was wrong. He did not know what was going on. He did not know anything. He only knew that she needed him and that she loved him. Just as he loved her. Enjolras went to her first. He opened his arms, moved quickly toward her, and wrapped her in a tight, close embrace. At once, her arms were around him just as tightly—tighter. She felt his warmth against her, held safely in her arms, and she sighed in relief. Such relief it was to be able to hold her child once more. She clutched his head in her hand and held it against her shoulder, as if he were a baby with not even the strength in his neck to support his own skull. Enjolras let her hold him, rested his head upon her shoulder, and embraced his mother for as long as she would continue to embrace him.

"I love you, my son," she whispered softly into his ear as she hugged him.

"I love you," he said again.

She continued to hold him. She would not… she could not let him go. Even as she commanded herself to release him, to let go, to leave this church, she could not bring herself to do it. Instead, she held him tightly, desperately, despairingly. She could not bring herself to let him go. Her arms trembled and her heart wept as she held him in her arms. This young boy—this young man—was her entire world. He was everything to her. She lived for her son. He was her very life. This woman loved nothing as she loved her child. Only a mother can know love so deep. For she had carried him in her own womb, she knew him and she loved him before he was even born, she named him, she nursed him, she raised him, she watched him grow, she played with him and laughed with him, she comforted him when he was scared or hurt, she dried his tears with her gentle touch, she held him in her arms, she rocked him to sleep, she kissed his precious head, she watched him grow up and become a man, and she loved him through it all. To lose him would be to lose everything. No, she could not lose him. She could not let him go. But she had to.

Still holding her son tightly in her arms, the woman opened her eyes, and for the first time, tears spilt out of them and ran freely down her cheeks in clear, pure rivers. The tears of an angel. Enjolras did not see them, because his face was hidden over his mother's shoulder. She looked up past the walls of the church, past the image of the crucified Christ, past the painted angels beyond it, past the ceiling, past the windows, and into Heaven, itself. She prayed. Silently she spoke to God. She asked Him to protect her son.

Her prayer was short, as she was running out of time; mass would begin soon, night would fall. Before she allowed herself to cry any more, she released her son with one hand and used it to wipe the tears off her face. Before she let go of him, however, she pressed her lips against the side of his head and kissed him, long, lovingly, desperately, and grievingly. "This is not the end," she reminded herself. "This is not goodbye. We will be together again very soon, and then things will be better for us both."

At last, she found the strength to let go of him, and she drew back to look into his eyes. Enjolras met her gaze with confusion and concern etched upon his face. "Mother…" he began softly, and he looked intently into her eyes. His face was serious, grave, and worried. "Mother, what is it? What is wrong?" When she did not answer right away, he added, "You know you can tell me. You know you can trust me."

"Of course, I know I can trust you, son," she said gently, and a soft smile appeared on her lips. "But nothing is wrong." The priest had made his way to the front of the church, and the choir began to sing, indicating the beginning of mass. "I must go now, my love," she said gently and quietly to her son. She grasped his hand tightly in hers and looked into his eyes. "I love you, my son."

"I love you, mother," Enjolras answered, still reluctant and uncertain, as this feeling of uneasiness and apprehension did not leave him. Something, he feared, was wrong. He did not know if he should let her go. No, he should go with her. He could go to church next week.

She nodded. She released his hand, and she stood. She met his eyes and smiled at him. "I will see you after church."

Enjolras let out a soft sigh. He believed her. Yes, he would see her after church. The service would be little over an hour, and then she would come back for him. He supposed it would be alright. He believed her. She would return after church, and he would see her again, and they would return home together. Everything would be alright. So he nodded.

She returned the nod, she smiled at him, and then she turned to leave. Enjolras watched her go, but her back was turned so he could not see her face. He watched her blonde hair disappear behind closed doors. Not until she passed through the doors of the church and stepped outside did she allow tears to fall from her eyes again. She watched her feet as she went from the church and approached the street. She got into the carriage and told the driver to take her home. As they set off, she turned her head to stare out the dusty window and she watched the church grow smaller as the horses pulled her farther away from it… father away from her son. Her heart throbbed, and tears fought to burst from her eyes again, but she would not allow it. She would see Enjolras again very soon. But now she needed to be strong and brave. She needed to be fast. She drew a deep breath into her lungs and let it out heavily. She turned away from the window and looked ahead of her. Indeed, now it was time to look forward. Not backward.

Her face was hard and cold, emotionless like stone, or like the face of her son, when the carriage arrived before her home, and she got out. She thanked and paid the driver without a smile. Then, as the sound of hoofs and creaking wooden wheels against the stone pavement faded down the road, she turned to face the large house that loomed before her, lonely, ominous, and dark, like single tombstone towering over the earth. The black gates of hell are silent from the outside, but once one passed through them there is whaling, agony, and torture. There was not a moment to waste. The woman immediately went forward, approached the front door, opened it, and went inside. Jacques was still unconscious on the couch where she left him, snoring noisily. She passed by him without a glance and went quickly and quietly through the house, up the stairs and into her bedroom. Upon entering, she found two suitcases already packed and tucked away in a corner behind her bed. She had prepared them before she brought her son to the church. Inside then were her clothes, her important possessions, and hidden within an envelope a hundred thousand francs that had been given to her by her father when she married Jacques sixteen years ago. Everything she needed to take with her was ready. All that was left now was to pack up her son's things and to leave Uzès.

Of course, she could not tell her son what she had planned. Of course, she could not tell him the truth. There was no question she could not tell him that, on this very night, they were going to leave Uzès. He would not have agreed to go to church had she told him, and she did not want him to be in the house when she left it. She was afraid of what would happen if Jacques awoke and caught them trying to leave. If Jacques caught her and she was alone, she could lie to her husband. She would tell him their son was in the hospital again and she was going to stay with him until he was well. Perhaps he would believe her and perhaps he would not. But, at least, her son would be safe. However, if Enjolras was with her, there would be little room for lies or excuses. What explanation was there that they were both leaving the house with all of their belongings packed away and without even mentioning it to Jacques first? There was no doubt in her mind Jacques would discover the truth in such a case. Then, the woman had no doubt, he would punish them both. She had no doubt Enjolras, even in his condition, would try to protect her, sacrificing himself to do so, and allowing Jacques to beat him and break him. She had no doubt Jacques would kill her son… just as he promised.

It was safer for her son to know nothing of this, at all.

So she had made plans for him to attend mass tonight, so he would be away from the house and away from his father. She had brought several bottles of absinth to Jacques, herself, to ensure he would sleep soundly and deeply. Thus far, everything was going just accordingly with her plan. All she had to do now was get her and her son's things and leave the house. Nothing, at this moment, was stopping her. So she had to do it now.

Without a moment of hesitation, she retrieved her suitcases from behind the bed. She went out of her bedroom and did not look back. Moving on cautious feet, each step slow and furtive as not to allow the floorboard to moan too loudly beneath her weight, she went carefully and noiselessly down the stairs, both of her suitcases grasped tightly in hand. She peeked into the living-room to make sure Jacques was still asleep—he was—before she entered the room, quietly passed her sleeping husband, went out, and went to the front door. After putting down her suitcases, side by side, at the door, she departed like an angel taking flight back into the house, moving up the stairs, down the hall, and into her son's bed room.

Without pausing to rest for even a second, she went into the wardrobe and found the suitcase she hid there beneath a pile of clothes a few nights ago when Enjolras was sleeping. She opened the suitcase as she carried it across the room and laid it down upon his tangled bed sheets, and, at once, she began transferring the contents of her son's wardrobe into the suitcase. Her heart was now pounding in her chest and banging in her skull to remind her. She had only left the church perhaps twenty minutes ago, yet she could feel already time working against her, looming over her like an ominous specter and whispering into her ear again and again, "You must hurry. Time is running out. Time is running out. You must hurry. Your son's life depends on you. Hurry. Hurry!"

She hurried. Rapidly and ceaselessly, she gathered his things and, not bothering to worry about how neat it was, stuffed them into the suitcase. All the while, time continued to press her, trying to reassure herself. "He will wait for me outside the church," she reminded herself over the hammering of her heart. "He promised... It will alright. We will be already. God, please let my son be alright."

"That will be enough," she thought at last, after what seemed a long time but was in reality little over ten minutes. She immediately closed the suitcase, slamming the top shut a little too loud and making herself wince at the sound. At once, her hands began to fumble with the latches and she locked the suitcase. She took it into her arms, and turned on her heals, heading for the door.

She saw Jacques.

Standing in the doorway for her son's bedroom, groggy and misty-eyed, his senses dulled, alcohol still surging through his veins, but awake, was her husband. He was looking into the room, his red eyes like knives cutting into hers.

She froze. Her heart which was racing like a wild stallion seconds before stood still in her chest. She stopped breathing. Her face was as white as death. Her warm brown eyes were wide and filled with horror. Her voice was thin, trembling, terrified. She finally managed to whisper, "J—Jacques…"

Fate is cruel. Treacherous. Brutal. Merciless. It is proclaimed in the Bible that the fate of every life is in the hands of God. Yet, it seems that sometimes fate is, rather, in the hands of the Devil. Could it be fate is stolen and snatched up by the callous clutches of Satan? Can it be the angel armies of Heaven are not so strong as the demon bands of the abyss? That seemed the only explanation. For what good can become of such darkness? If, indeed, God is in control of the worlds, what on earth, in heaven, or in hell was the good Lord thinking?

Jacques's pale blue eyes glared darkly at his petrified wife for a moment before they flicked down to notice the suitcase in her arms. He stared at it confused and unsure why she had it or what she was doing with it, yet his confusion, alone, angered him. "What are you doing?" he snapped impatiently at her, his words somewhat slurred from his drunkenness.

"I was—I was just—I…" she stuttered for a moment, her lips, mind, and heart racing to fast to allow her to speak the words she wished to summon to her lips. "My son got sick, again," she finally managed to tell him. She quickly went on to explain, "He got a high fever, so I brought him to the hospital. I am just going to stay with him until he is well again."

Jacques frowned at her. His dark and distrustful eyes moved slowly up and down his wife's figure, penetrating her as if attempting to see straight through her. Despite how terrified she was, she tried to compose herself and hoped her husband could not hear her heart, which was now hammering against her ribcage more fiercely than before. She tried to swallow the knot constricting her throat and preventing her from breathing, but it was nearly impossible. She hoped Jacques did not realize.

The man studied his wife, his cold eyes piercing her like a knife. Jacques was reckless, he was ignorant, and he was drunk, but he was not stupid. Even now, his mind impaired by the heavy amount of alcohol that drowned his brain, Jacques could see that something was not as it should have been. He narrowed his eyes at her, and they glared at her venomously like the eyes of a snake. "Is that so?" His voice was low and soft, but somehow that made it only more frightening, and a shutter like an icy wind blew through the woman's body. The snake hisses softly before he sinks his fangs into his prey.

At once, she nodded confidently and vigorously. Perhaps a little too vigorously. A little too desperately.

Jacques grunted as if in disbelief, and he dropped his eyes to the floor. Slowly and slightly unsteadily on his feet, his path swaying somewhat was he walked, he came into the room, gradually shrinking the space between him and the woman. "Why…" he began pensively and coldly, "are there two suitcases downstairs by the door?"

"Because—" she started to say, but her voice broke and fell dead. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, frozen in fear, and her face seemed to be draining of whatever color was left in her cheeks. She tried again, but her voice was quiet, weak, and terrified. "Because I am going to stay with him until he is better…"

Jacques knew his wife was afraid. He knew she was hiding something. He knew she was lying to him.

Like the bullet flying out from a gun's barrel and striking its victim before she has time even to perceive that the gun has been fired, Jacques burst forward and came upon his wife. With one swipe of his arm, he knocked the suitcase out of her grasp and it fell noisily to the ground. She let out a stifled gasp jump backward, trying to get away from him. Only too late. Jacques's iron fist had already closed around her arm.

"What the hell are you doing, woman!?" his voice like thunder seemed to shake the house and this woman's body and petrified soul.

"I… I already told you!" she cried out in alarm and panic. She pulled against her husband's grasp trying in vain to free herself from him.

"Where are you going!?"

"I already told you! My son is sick; he—"

Jacques slapped her across the face. For a moment, the sting of the impact, a mild imitation of the collision of a whip into raw flesh, blinded her, and the force of the blow knocked her off balance. In this same moment, Jacques came at her, pushed her forward, and she felt her back hit into the solid barrier behind her. When she opened her eyes and looked fearfully up at the figure that loomed before her, she was pressed against the wall and he was towering over her, looking down at her like a beast hungry to devour his pray and feast on its meat.

"Do not lie to me!" he screamed in her face.

"I am not lying to you!" she shouted back, but her face was overcome with horror and desperation.

"Where the hell do you think you are going?" he demanded. He grabbed her by her shoulders so tightly it bruised her soft skin beneath her clothing. He shook her violently and snarled, "Don't lie to me! I am your husband; you must answer me! Answer me!"

"I…" She shook her head, and fought to hold back tears in her eyes. When she opened her lips, all she could manage was a whisper, "I did answer you. I'm not lying to you."

His hand slammed into her face again. "You think I'm a fool!?" he screamed straight into her ear, his teeth practically biting it as he yelled at her. "Where are you going!? You slut! Sneaking out to be with some other man!?"

He knew. He knew about Herriot. Oh God, he knew! But how!? How did he know? How could he have known!? Did he see her with him!? He could not have! She was only ever with Herriot when she was at the hospital with her son, and Jacques certainly did not return there to visit after he dropped off his unconscious and blood-covered son, whom he almost killed. Yet, she had seen Herriot one other time… They met alone that night at the church… Or, at least, she thought they were alone. Could Jacques have seen them? Could he have known? It was impossible, yet he seemed to know! All she could do, however, was deny it. She stared at him in horror, and shook her head. "N… No!"

"Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not lying to you!" she cried as she stared horrified into her husband's wrathful eyes. "I have never— I would never— You know I wouldn't—" For a brief moment, she thought rationally about this situation, and, instead of fear, she felt only anger. Anger at this injustice. Her husband was accusing her of being unfaithful with no reason or proof and was punishing her for it. All the while, he had never been loyal to her. He said, "I am your husband," but it meant nothing to him. He never treated her as his wife. He never loved her. To him, she was his servant, his slave, his whore. Or one of his many. Whenever she turned her back, he was committing adultery against her, and she could not protest or else he would hit her and her son. Even now, although she wanted to so, she could not stand against him. If she did, he would hurt her son. Yet… her son was not here.

"I have never been unfaithful to you, Jacques," she said calmly, boldly. "Not once." She could stop herself. "Even when you constantly betray me. Even when you seduce women whenever you get the chance, even when you sleep with them, and you treat me like dirt—"

He hit her a third time.

As pain cut through her, causing her to stumble, her vision to blur, and her ears to ring, she heard Jacques cursing her and threatening her. When she leaned against the wall behind her, pressed the palms of her hands against it, used it to steady herself, raised her face, and opened her eyes, she knew she would see him raising his hand to strike her again. Or perhaps retrieving a fire poker, a belt, a knife, any kind of weapon he could use to beat her, the same way he beat her son. Yet, when she opened her eyes, she saw instead Jacques storming across the room away from her and heading for the door. She stared at him, bewildered and afraid, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. Her husband disappeared out of the room.

She did not move. She waited. She waited for Jacques to return with a weapon to punish her. She waited. Her heart beat in her chest, her temples, her veins. It pulsed with the seconds. He did not return. The woman drew in a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh. She had no way of knowing what to expect. No way of knowing where Jacques was going, or what he was doing, or what he had planned for her. Yet, if he had disappeared somewhere deep into the house—and since he had not returned yet, it seemed likely—she might still be able to get away. She had to get away. Her son was waiting for her. He would not leave the church until she came to meet him. Lord, she had to meet him! She had no other choice.

Thinking of her son, not caring about herself or what it might cost her, she glanced once at the empty doorway and made up her mind. Very slowly, reluctantly, on soft and careful feet, she risked stepping away from the wall and started across the bedroom. She went to the suitcase that now lay overturned on the floor against, bent beside it, and took it into her arms. As she stood again, the suitcase now in her arms, she raised her head high upon her extended neck, a doe that senses danger and looks alertly for the hunter, and she looked for Jacques. He was still nowhere. So she crept across the room, warily approached the door, and went out, beginning down the hallway, trying not to make a sound, not to let the floor cheek beneath her feet, passing closed and open doors, constantly watching for Jacques, heading for the staircase.

"Where is he!?"

Jacques furious voice made her body jump off of the floor, and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Immediately, she froze in her tracks, her head snapped around, and her eyes darted to look over her shoulder. She still did not see Jacques, but only seconds later, he shouted again, "Where the hell is he!"

She remained silent.

"Do you hear me, woman!? Where is he?"

She hesitated. Should she answer him? If she did not, he might come looking for her. So she tried to keep her voice calm and steady as she asked fearfully, "Who?"

"Who do you think, woman!? Your bastard son!"

"I already told you he is not here," she called down the hallway. Even as she spoke, she began slowly making her way toward the stairs, step by step, step by step. "He is at the hospital. He is sick."

"You think I am stupid enough to believe your lies!? Do not lie to me, woman! Where is he!?"

Jacques burst out of a room and into the hall, his eyes on fire, his face red, his lungs heaving like a storm, and his voice sounding like thunder. He saw his wife standing at the opposite end of the hall, heading toward the stairs, the suitcase again in her arms. She froze and turned her terror-stricken face toward him. For a moment, he stared back at her, stunned and bemused, unable to figure out what she was trying to do. A moment later, he understood…

He stared at her in shock, in disbelief. He could hardly believe what he saw before him, yet there she was. His eyes looked straight into hers. He did not speak for a long time, and they only stood there at opposite ends of this hallway, gazing into each others eyes, simply waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Like warriors on a gladiator arena, waiting for the opponent to make the first strike and waiting to strike back. At last, Jacques opened his lips and said astonishingly quietly and calmly… simply…

"You are leaving me."

The woman did not answer. She stared at him, her head held high but her face white, her eyes unwavering but filled in fear. Her breath came quickly and steadily. Her chest rose and fell gently like the peaceful sail of a beautiful ship waving like a banner in the calm wind. Her heart was the low beating of a distant drum. The world was gone, miles away, and she saw nothing save this man, this monster, before her. This man whom she once so deeply loved. He knew. Yes, Jacques, this is it. Now, you know. Now, it is over.

"Yes." Her voice was calm. Brave. Strong. Yes, Jacques had caught her. She found herself now face to face with fate. Yet, she was not afraid. She was not afraid to face it. She was not afraid to face him. She was ready now. Whatever was to come, she would face it, and she would face it without regret. There was nothing this man, fate, Heaven, or hell could take from her that she was not will to give for her son.

"Yes, I am leaving you," she told him. "Me and my son. We are leaving this house, and we will not return. Not ever. You will never have to suffer another moment of seeing your wife or son for the rest of your life. I suppose that will please you."

Jacques said nothing. He only listened. He only watched. He only waited. Fire was smoldering in his lethal gaze.

The woman took a deep breath and looked one last time at the man she married, the man she feared, the man she hated, and the man she once loved. "Goodbye, Jacques Enjolras," she said coldly. "I loved you. Once, I did love you." Her voice began to rise in anger and tears began to fill her eyes, and she said, "More than anything in the world, I loved you. And I have tried to be a good wife, I have tried to please you, I have done everything in my power to make you happy." Now, she was nearly shouting. "Everything was I gave up for you! I gave myself to you." She fell silent, and she shut her lips. She gazed at Jacques Enjolras, and there was cold fire in her wet eyes. A single tear fell from her eyes and rolled slowly down her face, which was not cold, dark, strong, and emotionless. Like stone. "But I was not enough for you." The tear dripped off her cheek and fell to the floor like a drop of rain. Now only a stain of the past remained upon her cheek. "So I am leaving you," she finished. "Goodbye."

She turned her away from him. She went to the stairs. She began to descend them. She was leaving her home and her husband. She was leaving this life behind her. She did not look back. She did not see coldness in her husband's eyes turn into a raging and blazing fire of wrath. The fires of judgment and of hell. She did not see him pursuing her, chasing murderously after her like a man possessed by the Devil. Like the Devil, himself. When she heard him behind her, she was at the bottom of the stairs. She turned to face him but too late.

As soon as she turned, his fist struck her across the face. Pain blinded her, and she saw a flash of light. She fell. The suitcase fell from her arms, and she fell down the last few steps. She hit the ground, her knees and palms slamming against the wooden planks. She was still on the floor, stunned and in pain, when he seized a fistful of her blonde hair and yanked her to her feet. "You cannot leave me, you bitch!" he screamed. "You have no right! What makes you think you have the right? You are my wife! My wife! My property!" Now, he was dragging her by her hair and her arm back up the stairs.

"Let go of me!" she cried as he pulled her back up the stairs, back toward the fate she almost escaped. Almost. For no one can escape fate. She tried to get away from him, but any attempt to free herself would send her falling to the bottom of the stairs. Besides, he was too strong. He dragged her into their bedroom and flung her to the floor. She fell forward, and was unable to catch herself in time. Her face slammed into the ground, and she could taste blood in her mouth. Jacques's hands seized her and violently turned her over. She found herself lying on her back, pressed against the floor, this man on top of her, his weight pinning her down.

For a few seconds longer, she looked into his murderous eyes, his repulsive face, and she perceived, for the first time, she saw this man as he truly was. His mask was gone now, and she could see him for what he truly was. He was hideous. Beneath the charm, the false promises, the lies, and the deceit he used to ensnare his victims, he was ugly and disgusting. The face she saw was the face of a demon. There is only one face more terrible than what she saw now. That is the unveiled face of Satan, himself. These seconds ended. Then, his hands, strong and cold, closed around her throat.