Suzanne kisses him on his way out the door, and brushes at his sleeve to rid him of some infinitesimal speck. "Be careful," she says.
"I will."
She worries, does Suzanne. To her, the world is a chancy place, full of dangers and disapproving stares. She has two consuming fears: that something will happen to him, and that people will think they are not respectable. The second is understandable, the first simply pitiable, and he humors her as best he can.
Enough has already happened to him that he expects to live peacefully ever after.
He knew her first as a cool hand against his forehead, a soft soothing voice, while he lay fevered in the house of his father's friend. A stray gunshot had brought him down; only chance brought him to safety; and when he began to come to himself, despair threatened to carry him off.
But there was Suzanne, golden-haired and lovely, gentle and kind. While she was beside him, forgiveness seemed possible.
It was a week before he noticed the limp she took such care to disguise. It was longer still before he learned who she was. By then, he had made up his mind.
With rare bitterness, she said he deserved better than the bastard daughter of a middle-aged acquaintance, crippled from childhood and without prospects. With equally rare stubbornness, he said he did not care; no doubt she deserved better than a feckless, reckless fool.
He could not then admit to himself that her fair hair, her quiet dignity, reminded him of what he had lost.
But he is wiser now. Loving Enjolras nearly destroyed him, in more ways than one; it was too much, too hopeless, too desperate and deluded. No one could have been as perfect as he believed Enjolras to be; no one could have been worthy of such a one. Suzanne is human, and needs him as he needs her.
Knowing that, he can let himself mourn for Enjolras at last: for the friend he could have had, for the driven boy who died too soon. Mourning him, he can let him go.
He pauses on the corner where the Cafe Musain used to be, and then walks on.
"I will."
She worries, does Suzanne. To her, the world is a chancy place, full of dangers and disapproving stares. She has two consuming fears: that something will happen to him, and that people will think they are not respectable. The second is understandable, the first simply pitiable, and he humors her as best he can.
Enough has already happened to him that he expects to live peacefully ever after.
He knew her first as a cool hand against his forehead, a soft soothing voice, while he lay fevered in the house of his father's friend. A stray gunshot had brought him down; only chance brought him to safety; and when he began to come to himself, despair threatened to carry him off.
But there was Suzanne, golden-haired and lovely, gentle and kind. While she was beside him, forgiveness seemed possible.
It was a week before he noticed the limp she took such care to disguise. It was longer still before he learned who she was. By then, he had made up his mind.
With rare bitterness, she said he deserved better than the bastard daughter of a middle-aged acquaintance, crippled from childhood and without prospects. With equally rare stubbornness, he said he did not care; no doubt she deserved better than a feckless, reckless fool.
He could not then admit to himself that her fair hair, her quiet dignity, reminded him of what he had lost.
But he is wiser now. Loving Enjolras nearly destroyed him, in more ways than one; it was too much, too hopeless, too desperate and deluded. No one could have been as perfect as he believed Enjolras to be; no one could have been worthy of such a one. Suzanne is human, and needs him as he needs her.
Knowing that, he can let himself mourn for Enjolras at last: for the friend he could have had, for the driven boy who died too soon. Mourning him, he can let him go.
He pauses on the corner where the Cafe Musain used to be, and then walks on.