Drama ensues!
Disclaimer: I'm getting really tired of writing these. Can we just assume that everyone here knows that these characters aren't mine?
And The Dream Of Paris Preys On My Bones
Chapter 3: Never Thought That Could Happen
Mercier and Chauvelin hit it off right away. The two boys were remarkably similar, and the tailor's son provided and excellent middle ground between the extremes of Coupeau and Chauvelin. A bitterly cynical child, Mercier grudgingly accepted his place in the town as a virtual nobody, lacking completely the drive to better his lot in the world, opting rather to stay behind closed doors and allow life to roll by. He made no motions to do anything rebellious, and sneered in contempt at rules and authority, though he followed both without question, dragging his feet and grumbling about it the entire time. However, the boy was a closet optimist, though an impassive one. He hoped things would change for the better, but waited for circumstances or others to do it instead of taking charge himself. Religiously indifferent, he accepted those who worshiped and those who didn't all the same. He held no qualm with any, for he had no real opinion, and therefore no argument against any other. He clung to Chauvelin because he saw the hope for a better future in the boy, and the dark-haired youth possessed the dynamic to get out and change what he thought should be better. He was a leader and a guidepost, and Mercier was in sore need of direction and the urging to get out and make a difference.
It had been a rather quiet day, and Mercier sat with Coupeau in the tall grass, laying on his stomach and playing with a weed while absentmindedly listening to the other boy preach and lament about the trouble he was having with the reckless other. And it had been like this that the quite afternoon was disturbed by the uncharacteristically thrilled whoreson.
"Boys! I have an idea!" Chauvelin cried as he plopped down next to Mercier.
Coupeau sighed heavily. "Does it involve breaking the law, causing havoc, making a mess, or somehow creating a riot in any way? Because last week at the guard tower was quite enough for me."
"Bah!" said Chauvelin. "You ruin every good time with your morality, you know that? No, no, this is more of a realization followed by an idea."
"What is it?" Mercier said, leaving the plant alone and focusing his pale blue eyes on the other.
Grinning devilishly, Chauvelin calmly stated, "The Viscount's son has just gotten a tutor."
"That's it?" Coupeau asked sceptically. "That's all you have to tell us?"
"Think!" Chauvelin cried, springing to his feet. "His little son now has a tutor, meaning that the boy is going to learn to read and write!" The boys stared blankly at him, and he jumped up and down in frustration. "Damn it, men! Do you know nothing? Why do you think les aristos are in such a better position than us?" Again with the blank stares, and Chauvelin flipped his lid. Viciously grabbing on to Coupeau's collar and pulling him to his feet, he violently shook the boy. "You imbeciles! They can read and write! They can read and write! Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you?"
Calming down and releasing the trembling boy, he smoothed back his ebony hair and, much calmer, stated, "How often do you think they write things up and have us sign it so they can milk us for all we're worth? We can't read it, so we can't know what we're signing. But…" Slowly pacing back and forth, he quietly said, "But if we are literate, they can't take advantage of us anymore. We'll be free."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Mercier asked calmly. "I have never known anyone who can read or write, and my family is in a better position than you two. Tutors are expensive, so we can't hire someone to teach us."
"No," Chauvelin said, smiling with the most evil look on his face, "but the Viscount can. All we need to do is listen in on the little bastard's lectures, and we can learn it, right?"
"Chauvelin, I don't think that is honest," Coupeau said quietly. "I mean, we won't be paying for the lessons."
"No, but someone else is. The man is getting paid to teach, not to whom he teaches."
"Well," the timid boy said, digging his toe into the ground, "I guess that's alright…"
"I somehow do not think that reading and writing is as easy as that, Chauvelin," Mercier said, standing up and brushing himself off.
"Perhaps not, but we shall learn."
"And how do you suppose we do that?" Coupeau asked, suddenly feeling much more confident. "Monsieur le Viscount won't just let us into his estate to learn from his son's tutor."
"No, but I know where the brat is educated, and it is easy to look into. All we need to do is sit at the side of the house, and we can see and hear the lessons."
"Alright, I'm in. When do we start?" Mercier asked, stepping toward the boy.
Grinning maliciously, Chauvelin laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, leaned in close, and smoothly drawled, "Now, my good man."
As it so happened, Chauvelin was extremely apt at languages. Once he had learned the alphabet, the rest came extremely easily, and he was fluently reading and writing in a few months. The other two, however, were not nearly as quick to learn, and while Chauvelin was bored out of his wits as he easily passed through the lessons as they were taught to the Viscount's son, Mercier and Coupeau were struggling as they fell behind. Respectively giving up in boredom and frustration, the three boys abandoned the lessons of the tutor and happily accepted back their free afternoons.
It was one day that the three were walking through the meadow that Chauvelin suddenly stopped, turned to Coupeau and said, "You still have not let me meet your family."
"Chauvelin, understand this. I do not think you are the type that I would bring home to show my mother. She may have a heart attack that I am associating myself with such a ruffian."
"Don't be stupid. I can read and write. That makes me respectable!"
"Chauvelin, I don't think that's what makes a man respectable," Coupeau said meekly. "You pride yourself in the rules you break, and you blaspheme as much as you can. Last week you set that monk's robe on fire, and I am pretty sure that gets you a ticket straight to Hell."
A pause. "But I can read and write."
Sighing heavily, Coupeau hung his head; it was pointless to argue. "Yes, Chauvelin. Yes you can."
"Doesn't that make me respectable?" Chauvelin asked, turning to his blonde friend.
"I should say so," Mercier responded.
"See? I should like to meet your family."
"But why?" Coupeau whined. "I am certain it breaks a commandment…Honor thy mother and father…letting you meet them is a direct violation of that rule. You're a menace!"
"You know, I am thinking that these rules of yours need to be rewritten," Chauvelin said quietly, kicking a stone across the ground. "'Thou shall not steal', what kind of crap is that? The rule rather be 'Thou shall not starve'."
"I can't believe this…" the auburn-haired child groaned, shaking his head.
"Fear not, my friend, for I shall break you of this nasty habit yet!" Chauvelin proudly stated, slinging his arm over the meek boy's shoulder.
"What habit?"
"Religion."
"What? Chauvelin, no!"
"Come along, boys. Coupeau may be afraid to introduce us to his family, but I shall have you meet mine! Come, we're off to see my mother."
Coupeau blanched. He knew full well that Chauvelin's mother was a whore and lived in a brothel – a house of sin – and he would have to go inside, for he could not fight the overtly dominating will of his falcon-eyed friend. "Lord have mercy on me," he whispered under his breath.
The trio arrived at the establishment and found a huge amount of commotion and panic. Stepping back in slight confusion, Chauvelin carefully stepped to the door and slowly pushed it open and found himself immediately flung into the arms of one of the girls of the house, gripping him tightly and sobbing. Quickly looking over her shoulder, confused as ever, he saw the entire room filled with flighty and frightened women and soldiers, on of which the owner was currently yelling at all the while doing the his best to ignore the screaming accusations of one of the girls.
He had finally managed to pull himself out of the girl's arms and his pale eyes quickly looked around the room. He heard Mercier quietly whisper in his ear, "Is it always like this in here?", and he quickly shook his head, quietly hissing, "Never." Eyes flying open in concern, the small boy took of in the direction of the stairs and his mother's room; the woman was nowhere in sight.
Pushing past some of the soldiers as he ran down the hall, he forced his way into his mother's room, and…
He couldn't breathe. There was no doubt that it was his mother lying there, but the woman was pale with deep purple markings on her neck, completely still, with not even the movement of her chest when she breathed, and she was staring at the ceiling with glazed, unblinking eyes. He was rooted to the spot, could do nothing at all, not speak, not cry, not anything, and one of the women soon took him from there.
He was carried back downstairs, and no sooner had he been put on the ground had the owner of the house affixed a firm grip on the boy's arm and led him out the front door, the other two boys following silently. "Out," he growled firmly as he cast the thin, trembling boy into the street.
"Jacques, please!" one of the girls called, rushing outside to the boy that lay teary-eyed on the ground. "Have some compassion! He has nowhere to go, and his mother-"
"It is because of his mother that he was here in the first place, and now that Gabrielle is gone, I want him out! He is of no use to me. Now, get back inside, woman, lest I cast you out as well."
Gasping and holding her breath, the woman gave the boy a tight squeeze, kissed his cheek, and smoothed back his hair before standing and retreating back into the house, Jacques slamming the door behind him as he followed.
Chauvelin was stunned, to say the very least. One moment, all was well, and the very next…Oh, he didn't know what to do at all. Sniffling slightly, he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, put his head down and began to cry.
Mercier slowly approached the boy and knelt in front of him, gently pulling the sobbing mess into his lap and absentmindedly stroking his hair. He didn't need to see what had happened to know that the boy's mother was dead; he had suffered through a similar episode a few years back. "Everything is going to be alright…"
"What happened?" Coupeau asked quietly, carefully approaching the two boys.
"I think his mother has gone to the hereafter."
Gasping slightly, standing still for a moment, he placed his hand on Chauvelin's head and quietly said, "It's alright. She's with God now."
"There is no God!" Chauvelin hissed viciously, glaring at the boy with cold, hard eyes. He had said that phrase a thousand times, yet there was something different about the way he said it this one time, something that hurt inside him to actually say it. Before, he said it mechanically, based solely on what his nature had told him to be true. But this time, he had meant it with every fiber in his body, and it was painful to say it like that. Without another word, the child dissolved into a fit of sobs.
Draping the boy's arm over his shoulder, Mercier gently lifted him up, supporting the full of the child's meager body weight. "Let's go, Coupeau."
"Where are we going?" he asked softly, crying quietly on his poor friend's behalf.
"Your house. He needs a place to stay, right?"
Nodding slightly, Coupeau grabbed the boy's other arm and helped to support him, leading the way back to his home.
