The Shadow Leaves the Light
For some reason, Samuel nearly felt taller when he left Feuilly at last. It had been almost a month altogether since he'd begun staying with them, but no one had complained or commented or said anything at all. He'd just come and stayed. Because of this, he was slightly worried about what he would say when he left. It seemed improper to treat it as a regular visit.
After supper the last night, he finally managed what he wanted to say.
"Thank you."
Feuilly clearly understood perfectly. The beginnings of a smirk touched his lips. "Of course."
Samuel looked at Feuilly. They were both washing dishes. Feuilly had one of Manon's aprons tied about his waist, and his shirtsleeves rolled up but still rather wet. Somehow, even with all that and a plate in one hand and a few soapsuds in his hair, he seemed dignified and not quite human. His black eyes were fixed on Samuel.
"Will you go to-night or to-morrow morning?"
"To-night."
"Then you ought to say good-bye to Manon. She's very fond of you."
"I shall."
For a few moments, neither of them spoke, and then Feuilly went back to washing the plate. "You should now."
"Yes. Thank you, Feuilly."
This time, Feuilly didn't answer. Samuel went into the next room.
Manon was down on her knees by a rough wooden stool, which Justin was painting awkwardly. He held the paintbrush in his fist, and stroked blue down the stool's leg. When Samuel came in, both of them looked up.
"Samuel." Manon smiled.
"I'm leaving in a few moments. I wished to say goodbye." Samuel knelt beside them. "And thank you very much for allowing me to stay." Manon had never made him uncomfortable the way Feuilly had, and he didn't mind saying good-bye rather less impersonally.
"You're leaving? You're going awfully suddenly." Manon tilted her head sadly. "But we've been quite happy to have you, haven't we, Justin?"
Justin glowered, and waved his paintbrush at Samuel.
"I've been happy to be here. Thank you, Manon." He kissed her cheeks.
"You're welcome," she said, smiling again. "Good-bye, Samuel."
After that, he got together the very few things he'd brought, and left, nearly feeling tall. As he was going, he heard Manon calling to Feuilly, "Silvain, we must buy bread--"
The whole walk back to his apartment, he thought of the name Silvain. He'd heard Manon call Feuilly that before, of course. But it was such a perfect name for Feuilly. It wasn't quite real and it fitted with the black Druid eyes and the solemnity that was so different from Dimitri's kind of solemnity. It made a lot of sense for him when he didn't make much sense at all.
When Samuel arrived, he set down the few things on his desk. He realised that the desk was covered with soft grey dust because he'd not touched anything on it in so long. That seemed to make him realise everything else. At once he sat down and began to clean the dust from his papers and his books.
He had grown. He was not a child any longer. He would take responsibilities, not because they were Dimitri's, but because they were his own, and it was time for him to take them. This revolution—-it might be in Dimitri's name, but it would be his revolution. He would succeed for Dimitri; but Samuel, but he, must be the one to succeed.
And he must find Combeferre.
Suddenly, he heard a clock striking somewhere in the city. It was ten o'clock, and he sat on the bed with a little sigh. All that to-morrow.
Now he would sleep.
For some reason, Samuel nearly felt taller when he left Feuilly at last. It had been almost a month altogether since he'd begun staying with them, but no one had complained or commented or said anything at all. He'd just come and stayed. Because of this, he was slightly worried about what he would say when he left. It seemed improper to treat it as a regular visit.
After supper the last night, he finally managed what he wanted to say.
"Thank you."
Feuilly clearly understood perfectly. The beginnings of a smirk touched his lips. "Of course."
Samuel looked at Feuilly. They were both washing dishes. Feuilly had one of Manon's aprons tied about his waist, and his shirtsleeves rolled up but still rather wet. Somehow, even with all that and a plate in one hand and a few soapsuds in his hair, he seemed dignified and not quite human. His black eyes were fixed on Samuel.
"Will you go to-night or to-morrow morning?"
"To-night."
"Then you ought to say good-bye to Manon. She's very fond of you."
"I shall."
For a few moments, neither of them spoke, and then Feuilly went back to washing the plate. "You should now."
"Yes. Thank you, Feuilly."
This time, Feuilly didn't answer. Samuel went into the next room.
Manon was down on her knees by a rough wooden stool, which Justin was painting awkwardly. He held the paintbrush in his fist, and stroked blue down the stool's leg. When Samuel came in, both of them looked up.
"Samuel." Manon smiled.
"I'm leaving in a few moments. I wished to say goodbye." Samuel knelt beside them. "And thank you very much for allowing me to stay." Manon had never made him uncomfortable the way Feuilly had, and he didn't mind saying good-bye rather less impersonally.
"You're leaving? You're going awfully suddenly." Manon tilted her head sadly. "But we've been quite happy to have you, haven't we, Justin?"
Justin glowered, and waved his paintbrush at Samuel.
"I've been happy to be here. Thank you, Manon." He kissed her cheeks.
"You're welcome," she said, smiling again. "Good-bye, Samuel."
After that, he got together the very few things he'd brought, and left, nearly feeling tall. As he was going, he heard Manon calling to Feuilly, "Silvain, we must buy bread--"
The whole walk back to his apartment, he thought of the name Silvain. He'd heard Manon call Feuilly that before, of course. But it was such a perfect name for Feuilly. It wasn't quite real and it fitted with the black Druid eyes and the solemnity that was so different from Dimitri's kind of solemnity. It made a lot of sense for him when he didn't make much sense at all.
When Samuel arrived, he set down the few things on his desk. He realised that the desk was covered with soft grey dust because he'd not touched anything on it in so long. That seemed to make him realise everything else. At once he sat down and began to clean the dust from his papers and his books.
He had grown. He was not a child any longer. He would take responsibilities, not because they were Dimitri's, but because they were his own, and it was time for him to take them. This revolution—-it might be in Dimitri's name, but it would be his revolution. He would succeed for Dimitri; but Samuel, but he, must be the one to succeed.
And he must find Combeferre.
Suddenly, he heard a clock striking somewhere in the city. It was ten o'clock, and he sat on the bed with a little sigh. All that to-morrow.
Now he would sleep.