Les Misérables Extended Ending: The Path
There had once been no path leading up to the grave, for there had once been no grave.
But in the winter, a path kicked through the snow, furrowing the sides, always leaving space enough for two people. In the summer, when the grasses grew tall, a path, water puddling into it, always trampled through the plants and stopped at the stone. Flowers grew high around it, and even a little fruit-bearing tree shaded it from aging for some years.
The path, in its constant seasonal evolution, grew as its users did. The rut of a pram gouged into it upon countless occasions, for another always came to replace the sleeping infant inside. It widened, first to accommodate three footsteps, but later even four, five.
One day, there were only four, and soon the path branched off to the side, not in the wild meandering of exuberant children crashing into it, but with military purpose. A black glove fell and seeped into the mud of it, unnoticed and unwanted.
Despite the visit every Sunday after church, the path faded. Was the skipping of children to blame? Was the weaker treading a result of less firm dedication? The grass fencing it in, made tall by contrast to the trodden avenue, was ripped up by the roots. Sullen youth without direction to their crossing held malice against its inanimate form, unresponsive without a story to make them believe in it.
Perhaps the small flood that swept through Père-Lachaise, escaping from its captor the dam, destroyed the path in the end. More likely, the transient comprehension of history, distilled through the generations, ruined their chance of ever wanting to keep the path alive.
There had once been no path leading up to the grave, for there had once been no grave.
But in the winter, a path kicked through the snow, furrowing the sides, always leaving space enough for two people. In the summer, when the grasses grew tall, a path, water puddling into it, always trampled through the plants and stopped at the stone. Flowers grew high around it, and even a little fruit-bearing tree shaded it from aging for some years.
The path, in its constant seasonal evolution, grew as its users did. The rut of a pram gouged into it upon countless occasions, for another always came to replace the sleeping infant inside. It widened, first to accommodate three footsteps, but later even four, five.
One day, there were only four, and soon the path branched off to the side, not in the wild meandering of exuberant children crashing into it, but with military purpose. A black glove fell and seeped into the mud of it, unnoticed and unwanted.
Despite the visit every Sunday after church, the path faded. Was the skipping of children to blame? Was the weaker treading a result of less firm dedication? The grass fencing it in, made tall by contrast to the trodden avenue, was ripped up by the roots. Sullen youth without direction to their crossing held malice against its inanimate form, unresponsive without a story to make them believe in it.
Perhaps the small flood that swept through Père-Lachaise, escaping from its captor the dam, destroyed the path in the end. More likely, the transient comprehension of history, distilled through the generations, ruined their chance of ever wanting to keep the path alive.