"Mama?"
Cassandra looked up from the pot that she was stirring. Jacques-Clopin was standing a few paces away from her. There was a tall man standing behind him, though she didn't notice him right away. Jacques-Clopin had been sitting with Theresa while Cassandra and Martine cooked; he was only supposed to come and get her if something was wrong. He was eerily calm, though, not in a panic. This alarmed her, and she stepped away from the pot, handing the wooden spoon to Martine.
"What's the matter?"
Jacques-Clopin turned and pointed to the man behind him. "He says he wants to meet you," he said. "He says he's friends with Theresa."
The man was tall and muscular; he had the body of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had the stiff, rigid posture of a soldier. Hadn't Giovanni said that a soldier had sewed Theresa's wounds shut? Could this be the man? He had light brown hair and blue eyes, and he nodded respectfully to her. "Hello," he said, "my name is René Thénardier. I…well, I'm a friend of Theresa's…"
René's nervousness put her at ease, though she couldn't say why. She glanced over at Jacques-Clopin. "Go back to your sister," she said, watching as he turned and left obediently. "My name is Cassandra Trouillefou. I'm Theresa's mother."
"Ah, of course. I helped Theresa escape from the cathedral."
"Giovanni mentioned you," she said, and René nodded. "You were able to remove the arrows from her and sew the wounds shut."
"I used to be a soldier in the king's army," said René. "I know a few things about medicine, I suppose."
"Thank you, René, for saving my daughter's life. If there's anything I can do – "
He was shaking his head. "No," he said, cutting her off. "Please, I don't need any sort of reward."
She glanced back over at Martine. Martine was looking at René, her eyes wide and curious. The stew was practically done, and Clopin would be home soon. He would want to meet René, to shake his hand. "Stay for dinner," she said. There was enough stew, and they could always stretch it with water.
"Oh, I couldn't – "
"Please." She could tell that he was hungry. His blue eyes darted to the stewpot, his nostrils undoubtedly taking the smell it gave off.
"Thank you," he said.
~xXx~
The stew was watery, but Clopin barely noticed. He was more focused on the pale young man sitting beside him. The man – René, his name was René Thénardier – had been the one who'd saved Theresa's life. Clopin, while grateful, was not sure whether or not he actually liked him. He moved stiffly, like a soldier, and he kept glancing over at Theresa as he talked. Clopin did not like the way Theresa was looking at him. She looked at him with a deep and ardent affection in her eyes; she was young and naïve and clearly infatuated with the man who'd saved her life.
René had to see the way Theresa looked at him. He would undoubtedly take advantage of it. He would woo her, tell her he loved her, and he would leave her after she'd given herself to him. Clopin had seen it happen to other women he'd known; he'd seen the bastard children they'd been left with and the way that their former lovers had denied even knowing them.
Theresa did not deserve that fate. Whatever René's intentions, Theresa was vulnerable, and Clopin would not let him take advantage of that. He would thank René for everything he'd done, for the selfless act that had saved Theresa's life, but he would not let him near her. René was a soldier. Soldiers were cruel; they loved pain and bloodshed. They took what they wanted, and they did so quickly and ruthlessly.
René smiled at Theresa, looked at her with something resembling tenderness in his eyes, and it made Clopin angry. He would not let this man touch his daughter, would not let him anywhere near her.
~xXx~
The week passed slowly. René supposed that the hearse he'd borrowed back in Paris (with no intent to return) was bringing him some good luck. Several of the townspeople had seen him with it and he'd practically been hired as a gravedigger on the spot. He hated the job, though only because of its morbid nature; he was used to physical labor, was used to being outside. He was not used to being around the dead, however, and he quickly grew to hate it. Still, the job was paying him, and he could afford to rent a cheap room in Lyon. He visited Theresa as often as he could, which was not nearly often enough for his liking.
Her father, Clopin, did not like him. René could see it in the way Clopin looked at him, his dark eyes scrutinizing him. He was hurt by this, and he felt bitter about it. Like Giovanni, Clopin refused to believe that his intentions were pure and that he genuinely loved Theresa. Oh, he hadn't confessed this love to anyone but Theresa; he wasn't stupid. Clopin seemed just as protective of Theresa as Giovanni, if not more so. Telling him that he loved Theresa would be like signing his own death warrant.
René approached Theresa, watching her now. She smiled at him and walked towards him, moving slowly. She was using a crutch for support, not putting her full weight down on her bad leg. "Hello, René."
"Hello. How have you been feeling?"
Theresa groaned, gritting her teeth. "It still hurts," she said, "but it's getting better." She glared down at the crutch. "I just can't wait for the day when I don't need to use this stupid thing."
"It'll be soon, I'm sure. The wound hasn't been bothering you, has it?"
She shook her head. "It was itching a little," she said, "but I put some herbs on it and it felt better." She smiled at him, and he found himself wanting to kiss her again. It would be improper, though; there were people about, most of them watching him and Theresa, as if they expected him to molest her then and there. He had saved Theresa's life, yet her friends and family were still distrusting of him. It truly wasn't fair. "How have you been?" she asked.
"Well, I don't really like my job," he said.
"Why don't you join the guards?"
René shrugged. He'd contemplated it, had thought about it. Patrolling the streets of Lyon would be easy, and the job would certainly pay more than digging graves. He did not want to don a soldier's uniform again, though. He did not want Theresa's parents to see him as a heartless soldier, nor did he want to surround himself with people who would undoubtedly remind him of Jean-Claude. Looking back on his experience with the Parisian guards, René now realized that Jean-Claude's obsessive hatred of Gypsies had tainted everyone around him. He was ashamed to admit that he had once thought Gypsies were nothing but lying thieves and harlots. He supposed that he had Theresa to thank for whatever transformation had occurred inside of his mind.
"No," he said. "I don't want to be a soldier again."
Theresa looked at him, shifting on her crutch. "Why not?"
"Well, I have a heart…"
She laughed, the smile spreading across her face. "You do, René. You do."
~xXx~
A week had gone by and René Thénardier was still in Lyon. He'd been banished from Paris, he couldn't return there and expect to live very long, but there was no reason for him to remain in Lyon. No reason except, perhaps, Theresa. Clopin had seen René hanging around, talking to his daughter while she tried to recuperate. Theresa was impatient; her wounds wouldn't heal fast enough. She spent most of her time outside, hobbling back and forth on crutches. More often than not, Clopin would return home to find René standing there, watching Theresa as she paced, talking to her.
Theresa would laugh and smile, and René always kept a respectful distance. He'd never touched her; but then again, he wasn't stupid. There were people about, most of them Gypsies who would be more than willing to protect Theresa. Katarina had begun sitting outside with her children, keeping an eye on them and René at the same time. Rosalie must have mentioned René's presence to Pierre, because he had begun spending more time around Theresa as well. He would walk with her, helping her with the crutches, fetching water for her when she needed it.
Clopin had known Pierre his entire life, and he liked the boy well enough. He and Giovanni had grown up together, the two of them practically inseparable. Clopin was somewhat surprised that Pierre wasn't married. He was still young, only twenty-three, and Clopin had never really seen him around any girls. He was genuinely surprised to find Pierre hanging around Theresa, but his surprise came with relief. Perhaps Pierre's presence would deter René. Perhaps Pierre had feelings for Theresa; perhaps he was there in an attempt to court her. Clopin didn't dislike Pierre, though he certainly would prefer a better man for Theresa. Pierre was, after all, a thief. He'd been caught once and had the scars to prove it, but he was unrepentant about it. He continued to steal as though he had some death wish.
Still, if pairing Theresa with Pierre kept René away from her, then it seemed worth it. If she married Pierre, René would lose interest in her in a heartbeat, and he would leave Lyon immediately.
~xXx~
"Here, let me help you."
Pierre was at her side nearly instantly, and she let him lift the crutch she'd dropped. She took it from him, smiling. "Thank you."
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine." Her bad leg throbbed dully. The pain would only grow worse, would turn into a painful burning sensation, if she kept walking. She glanced over at her caravan. She'd been walking for at least an hour. Perhaps it was time to rest. She turned and made her way back to the caravan. Pierre walked beside her, watching her, ready to help her. It was sweet of him; she did enjoy his company.
She'd hoped to see René. She preferred his company to Pierre's. Pierre looked at her the same way Giovanni did, as though she was still a child. He talked too much, and about things that didn't matter, like the weather or how much he didn't like Marie's new husband. He became downright irritating when René was there with them. He glared at René, made snide comments about his new job as a gravedigger. It seemed as though René did his best to ignore Pierre, but Theresa could see anger building within him, and she often wished that Pierre would stop being so mean.
She reached the caravan and sat down on the steps. Pierre sat down beside her, leaving a gap between them. Out of the corner of her eye, Theresa could see René approaching. Her heart leapt, and for a minute, she couldn't hear what Pierre was saying.
"Hello Theresa, Pierre."
"Hello, René."
Pierre did not reply, but René did not seem to notice. He sat down on the grass, stretching his legs. He pulled an orange from his pack and began peeling it. He handed a slice to her and offered one to Pierre. Pierre shook his head. "No thank you."
René shrugged and ate the slice. "How have you been?"
"I'm all right," said Theresa. The throbbing sensation in her leg had died down somewhat. Another few minutes of rest and the pain would melt away completely. "How are you?"
"I really can't complain, though I'd like to," said René.
"I'm sure the dead would listen to you," said Pierre, his voice bitter.
"Pierre, stop it."
"At least I wouldn't rob them." René ate another orange slice, staring at Pierre, challenging him.
Pierre glared at René, rubbing the space where the little finger on his left hand used to be. Theresa had no desire to sit and listen while they bickered. She suddenly felt tired, and though the dull pain in her leg was beginning to fade, she wanted to lie down. She stood up slowly, gripping her crutches. "It was nice to see you," she said, looking more at René than Pierre, "the both of you, I mean. I – I'm tired, though."
Pierre rose quickly. "Do you need any help?" he asked.
"No." Theresa shook her head. She smiled at them, but found her eyes lingering on René. She wished that she could invite him inside, that he could sit beside her and talk to her. She remembered sitting with him in the back of the hearse as they traveled to Lyon, the way he'd held her hand. She remembered kissing him, and she wanted to do it again more than anything.
She said her goodbyes and went into the caravan. She lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her father had painted the caravan's ceiling deep blue and had drawn little silver stars on it. She lay there, staring up at the painted stars and thinking about René, imagining his lips against hers.