The wedding felt blurry, surreal and dreamlike. She stared at her hand, noticing for the first time that Pierre was holding it, and wondered how this had happened. She danced, ignoring the pain that shot through her thigh and shoulder. The wounds from the arrows had not hurt her very much, but the wedding seemed to make the pain come spiraling back. She watched as everyone danced, laughing and smiling, and she found herself forcing back tears.
The dreamlike haze continued even as Pierre led her to what would be her new home. The shack was narrow and sparsely furnished. Theresa saw the bed in the corner, noticing that it was big enough for two people, and the dreamlike feeling suddenly snapped. She stared at the bed, suddenly and painfully aware of how real the wedding had been. She was married now. Pierre was lighting candles, saying something to her, but his voice sounded soft and far-away.
He was her husband now; he would expect her to make love to him. The thought frightened and sickened her. She didn't love him. She didn't want him. Oh, he was nice enough; she certainly liked him. He was Giovanni's best friend, and she'd always seen him as a brother. She was certain he'd be gentle with her. Perhaps she could close her eyes and pretend she was with René instead.
"Theresa?" She forced herself to smile at him as he put his arms around her. She closed her eyes as he leaned in and kissed her. He was soft and gentle, but she wished that he was René. Thinking about René, longing for him, made her heart break, and she began to cry. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head, pulling away from him. He let go of her, allowing her to back away. "I can't," she said, burying her face in her hands.
"You don't have to."
She looked at him. There was a brotherly kindness in his eyes, but it only made her cry harder. She had let him take her; she was his wife, and everyone expected her to. The morning after her wedding, she would sit outside and scrub the bloodstained sheets, proudly showing everyone that she and Pierre had consummated their marriage.
She wiped her eyes. "No," she said, "I have to." She began to remove her wedding dress, folding it carefully and placing it on a chair. Pierre looked at her, then turned and stepped wordlessly towards the bed.
He pulled the blanket back, revealing the crisp white sheet beneath it. Theresa took a deep breath and approached him. She would lie there with him and hold back her tears. Perhaps someday she would forget about René and grow to love Pierre. Pierre was good and kind, after all, he would treat her well. Pierre stood staring at the sheet; he had not moved aside and was blocking her path. He looked at her now, pulling the knife from his belt. Theresa balked, staring at him in shock as he ran the blade over his palm, letting the blood spill down onto the sheet.
"What – what are you doing?" she asked.
"I promised your father that I would love and honor you," said Pierre, looking at her. He shook his hand, causing more blood to rain down on the sheet. It looked grotesque in the candlelight. "I'm not going to dishonor you by forcing you." He took the sheet with his good hand now, tearing away a thin strip of fabric. He wound it around his hand, pulling the bandage tight. "Give yourself to me when you're ready, not before."
She sat down on the edge of the bed, still staring at the blood. Pierre sat down beside her. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much, Pierre."
~xXx~
His head was pounding and the world seemed to be spinning. He did not remember exactly what had happened after he'd seen Theresa and Pierre. The foul taste in his mouth and the throbbing in his head told him that it had involved drinking, and seeing himself in the mirror seemed to confirm this. There were dark circles beneath his eyes; his eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot. René washed his face and shaved, hoping that this would improve his appearance. He was slightly dismayed to find that now he looked like a clean-shaven drunk.
The mere thought of food sickened him, and he left his room without eating anything. The sun seemed too bright and too warm, the day seemed too beautiful. How could the sun be shining on a day like this? How could the weather be so beautiful when René felt so miserable? He headed towards the stable and fetched the mule. It looked at him; it seemed to know how upset he was, it seemed to sympathize.
"I really thought she loved me," he said, stroking its nose.
"Excuse me, are you René Thénardier?"
He had not recognized the voice, and he glanced back over his shoulder. The man had to be in his fifties, and he was missing a leg. He shuffled forward, leaning on a crutch, and René found himself thinking of Theresa and her crutches. "Listen, if someone's died, just give me the address," said René, "I'll come by with the hearse once I've hitched the mule."
"This isn't about that."
"If you don't have a coffin, just wrap the body in a blanket – "
"There is no body. No one has died."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want to ask you a few questions."
"About what?"
"Theresa Trouillefou." The man did not look like a Gypsy. He had fair skin and blonde hair. René watched him warily as he harnessed the mule and began to lead it to the hearse. He did not want to think about Theresa, let alone talk about her. "You used to be a soldier?"
"Yes," said René. He glared at the man now. "I'm also a rapist. It's required when you join the army."
"I didn't know the army had changed that much," said the man. "But then, I quit nearly twenty years ago."
"You used to be a soldier?"
"I was Captain of the Parisian Guard."
René turned away from the mule, staring at the man. He was certain that he'd never seen him before. Though he only had one leg, he did carry himself rigidly, like someone who'd been through the strict, rigorous army training that emphasized posture above all else. "Who are you?"
"My name is Phoebus de Châteaupers. Theresa's father, Clopin, is a friend of my wife's."
"Well, what was it you wanted to ask me?"
"Someone saw you last night near the bonfire," said Phoebus. "You were looking for Clopin. I just wanted to know why."
René shrugged. It was pointless. Theresa had already married someone else. Trying to appeal to Clopin would be futile. He'd won, hadn't he? He'd succeeded in pushing René and Theresa apart. "It doesn't matter anymore."
"But it was about Theresa."
The pounding had returned to his head. René rubbed his forehead, wishing he could just go back to bed and forget everything that had happened. The mule was staring at him, waiting for him to finish hitching it up to the hearse. Phoebus was staring at him, waiting for him to answer his question. Soldiers – both former and current – were determined, and they knew how to make people talk. Phoebus would not leave until he answered his question. "I love Theresa," said René finally. "I love her and I wanted to marry her."
"Even though she's a Gypsy?"
"Yes, even though she's a Gypsy. I don't care what she is, I love her." René shook his head. The tears were threatening to come again. He'd spent so much of the previous night crying into a bottle, how could he possibly have any tears left to shed? "It doesn't matter." He spoke more to himself than to Phoebus. "She's married someone else. She doesn't love me."
Phoebus was silent for a long time, and René wished that he would just leave. He wanted to be alone. "Is that why you saved her back in Paris?"
René nodded. "I knew she was innocent," he said. "I knew that she wasn't a witch, but no one would listen to me." He remembered seeing Jean-Claude on the riverbank, the bow and arrow in his hands. He remembered leaping from the rowboat, remembered how cold the water had been, he remembered shouting at Jean-Claude, begging him not to fire. He remembered the arrow poking crudely out of Theresa's back, remembered her screaming. Above all else, he remembered the feeling of rage and desperation that had built up inside of him; he remembered praying for Theresa as he sewed her wounds shut, praying that she'd live. "I saved her because it was the right thing to do," he said, "and because I loved her too much to let her die."
Phoebus was nodding. "I know how it feels to throw everything away because you love someone."
"Did she love you back?"
"Yes."
René finished hitching the mule and began to lead it out of the stable. He did not want to continue talking to Phoebus, did not want to answer his questions. He did not want to think about Theresa or Pierre or anyone else. He wanted to be alone. He wanted another drink. "I need to go," he said. Phoebus hobbled to the side, letting him through. René passed him without looking at him. He could feel Phoebus's eyes on his back, staring at him, and he did his best to ignore his gaze.
~xXx~
He did not know Theresa very well. He had made her crutches and had helped her figure out how to use them. The wound in her leg was healing, and she would not need the crutches forever. She was lucky; the wound had not become infected, and she wouldn't have to lose her leg. She would not be a cripple. She was sitting outside of the little house she now shared with Pierre, bent over a bucket. She was scrubbing something, frowning as she did so. Phoebus approached her now, and she looked up at him.
"Hello," she said, smiling. The smile seemed thin and forced, and she looked nearly as tired as René had.
Seeing René, meeting him, had been interesting and disturbing. The boy was full of bitterness and anger, and Phoebus hoped that he wouldn't be prone to violence. He'd also been half-drunk and had stunk of cheap wine. Alcohol had an interesting effect on people, though; it made them honest. Drunks didn't lie. They told the world exactly how they felt, and they weren't ashamed of their feelings. René did love Theresa. He was heartbroken because she'd married someone else, but seeing her now, seeing the tiredness in her eyes, Phoebus wondered if she actually loved Pierre. He hated to think that Clopin would force Theresa to marry against her will, but he also knew that fathers did desperate things when they thought their daughters were in danger.
"How's the leg?" he asked, sitting down beside her.
"Getting better," she said. "The pain still comes and goes, but it isn't unbearable."
"You weren't using the crutches last night."
Theresa shook her head. "It didn't hurt so much," she said, "I didn't really think I needed them."
Phoebus had noticed her limping, leaning on Pierre for support, but he said nothing. "I know you've already talked about escaping from the cathedral," he said, "but I'd like to know more about it. I used to be a soldier, and I've been in combat. I suppose I'm curious about the boy who removed the arrows."
"Oh." Theresa shrugged. She was fiddling with the contents of the bucket, which Phoebus now saw was a bed sheet. "I don't remember much," she said. "It happened so fast, really."
"Would you tell me what you do remember?"
"I remember the pain," she said, "and Giovanni was holding me. I…I'm sorry. I don't remember much else."
"What about the trip back to Lyon?"
"I was frightened, I remember that…and René held my hand…" She shook her head. "It's just sort of blurry. I'm sorry. I can't remember."
"That's all right," he said, smiling at her, trying to seem reassuring. She would not look at him, instead focusing on the bucket. "You'll remember it in time."
"I'm sure I will."
He watched her for a few more moments, then bid her goodbye and got up. She'd been lying about not remembering. She remembered everything, but her memories – or rather, the emotions that she attached to them – were private. She didn't want anyone to know how she really felt about that night or about René. Phoebus thought of René now, remembered how red and bloodshot his eyes had been. He'd had the eyes of someone who'd spent a great deal of time crying, and men only cried over women they loved.
~xXx~
It comforted him to know that Theresa was married. René would lose interest in her, and Pierre would make her happy some day. Clopin wondered if she was happy now, though, and not knowing made him uneasy. She had seemed nervous and distracted during the wedding itself. Surely all brides were nervous on their wedding nights, but Theresa had not been herself. He had noticed her limping as she danced, as though the wound in her leg was bothering her, but she had refused to sit down. She had danced through the pain.
He saw her now, sitting outside of the home she now shared with Pierre. She was bent over a bucket, scrubbing something. It was probably the bloodstained bed sheet. The thought of his daughter being intimate with a man disgusted him, but Clopin reminded himself that she was a woman now, not a girl. He was certain that Cassandra's father had felt the same way; no doubt Phoebus had as well, watching his daughter's belly grow to accommodate the baby within it.
Clopin approached Theresa, sitting down beside her. She looked up at him and smiled, but he could tell that the smile was forced. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she'd been crying. She was not a happy bride, and knowing this hurt Clopin.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing," she said. Her voice was thin, as though she would begin to cry at any moment.
Clopin sighed. He knew in his heart that Theresa hadn't wanted to marry Pierre. She had wanted to marry René. She was young and naïve; she couldn't know that he would only break her heart. She didn't realize that marrying Pierre was for the best, that Pierre would care for her, that René never would.
"Theresa," he said, "please tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing," she said, her voice bitter. She refused to look at him and glared down at the bloody sheet instead. She scrubbed at it. "I'd like to be alone."
"All right." Arguing with her, demanding that she tell him what was wrong when he already knew, would only upset her further. She was married to a man she didn't love. Clopin had hoped that she would grow to love Pierre, that she would realize that he was a better man than René. She was in love, though, and too naïve to think clearly. She would continue to stubbornly love René, and this would only bring her more pain. Clopin found himself walking towards the field where Pierre was working.
Pierre was crouching, his back to Clopin. He was struggling with something, cursing under his breath. He turned when he heard Clopin approach, and Clopin saw a rabbit squirming in Pierre's hands. Pierre gripped the rabbit's head, twisting it, and the rabbit's frantic legs stopped kicking. Pierre rose now, shoving the dead rabbit into his knapsack and picking up the scythe that lay on the ground at his feet.
"Hello," he said. He shifted, and Clopin noticed the white bandage wrapped around his hand. It had not been there the night before.
"Hello. Tell me, Pierre, how is Theresa doing?"
Pierre shrugged, looking away. He busied himself with the scythe. "She's all right," he said, "she was sleeping when I left this morning…"
"She didn't make you breakfast?"
"I didn't want to wake her. She was up most of the night – she couldn't sleep, I mean. I just didn't want to trouble her."
"Hm." Clopin watched, aware that Pierre was becoming uncomfortable. He'd had plenty of experience in causing pain and discomfort to others, and could always tell when he was succeeding at it. "What happened to your hand?"
"I cut myself earlier today," said Pierre.
"It doesn't hurt does it? Here, let me see it."
"I'm fine – "
Clopin grabbed his wrist, and Pierre did not pull away. He undid the bandage, peeling it back and examining the wound. The cut was thin, the skin around it red with dry blood. It was beginning to heal. It was a shallow cut, and a clean one too; Clopin found himself thinking of Theresa, scrubbing the sheets from her wedding night. "Pierre, whose blood is on your bed sheets?"
"Theresa's," he said quickly. "She – well, you know she was a virgin, and – "
"Please don't lie to me."
Pierre sighed. "It's my blood," he said.
"My daughter's still a virgin, isn't she?"
Pierre nodded. He would not meet Clopin's eye. Clopin let go of Pierre's wrist, letting him bind the wound again. "She didn't want it," said Pierre finally, "I'd never force her…"
"Do you love her?"
"No." Pierre's honesty was blunt, and it stung Clopin. For a moment he wanted to strike him.
"Why did you marry her?"
"You and my mother asked me to."
"You could have said no."
"I can't be with the one I really love," said Pierre, staring down at his hand, running his fingers over the bandage. "And besides, I wanted to protect Theresa."
Clopin sighed. He could not force Pierre and Theresa to love each other. They would continue to love other people, and this would make their marriage an unhappy one. He couldn't be the one to cause such sorrow. He couldn't inflict it upon his oldest daughter. "Pierre, if you and Theresa never consummated the marriage, then you aren't really married," he said.
~xXx~
"Please, you have to leave! If anyone sees you – "
"I don't care," he said, and he found that he truly didn't. Clopin and Pierre could come at this very moment, and René wouldn't care. In fact, he hoped that they would come. He'd tell them exactly how he felt about Theresa; he'd tell them that he loved her. Theresa turned away from him, reaching into the bucket she'd been bent over. She pulled out a white bed sheet. She'd been scrubbing out a bloodstain.
"I'm married, René," she said, holding up the bed sheet, pointing to the rust-colored smear where her virgin blood had spilled. "Please leave me."
"I love you," he said.
"Please don't say that…"
"Do you love him?" he asked. "Do you love your husband?"
Theresa was shaking, tears streaming down her face. She let the bed sheet fall back into the bucket. "Please don't ask me that, René – "
"Do you love him?" He stepped closer to her, grabbing her arms, pulling her to him. She did not resist him, but looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. She reached up, gripping his shoulders, digging her fingers into him as if afraid to lose him.
"No," she said, "I don't. But he's my husband, and I have to honor him – "
"Come away with me," he said.
"I – I've already been with him," she said, shaking her head.
"I don't care," he said, "I wouldn't care if you'd been with a hundred men. I love you – "
"Then please leave me," she said, "my father will kill you if he catches you!"
"Theresa!"
She gasped, and out of the corner of his eye, René could see Clopin approaching, followed by Pierre. He stepped away from Theresa, turning to face them. Pierre was carrying a scythe, and for a brief instant, René could imagine it swinging through the air, colliding with his neck. He saw himself falling to the ground, saw blood spurting from him. He didn't care if Pierre killed him or not. If he had to die to prove his love for Theresa, he'd do it, and he'd do it gladly.
"I thought I told you to stay away from my daughter," said Clopin.
"Go ahead and kill me," said René.
"No!" Theresa bolted, knocking over the bucket and placing herself between them. "Please, this isn't what it looks like, he – he was leaving – "
Clopin held up his hands. He had not reached for the knife in his belt, and Pierre set down the scythe. "Theresa," he said, "I need to speak with René alone." His tone was a calm one, and it startled René. Just a few days ago, Clopin had shouted at him, had threatened him. Now he spoke with an even calmness that sounded sincere. "Pierre, please take Theresa inside for a bit."
Theresa was shaking her head, sobbing as Pierre put his arm around her and gently led her into the house. René watched them go, hurt that Theresa would follow Pierre even though she didn't love him. They entered the little shack, and René felt somewhat relieved. If Clopin was going to kill him, at least Theresa wouldn't see it. He suddenly wished that he had his sword. He wanted to plunge it through Clopin's throat; he wanted to tear the man who was causing him so much pain limb from limb. He wanted to kill Clopin and Pierre, and run away with Theresa.
"I can't tell if you really love her or if you're just stubborn," said Clopin.
"They go hand in hand," said René. "I love her too much to leave her."
"Even though she's married?" asked Clopin, "even though she's been with him?"
René shook his head. "I'd be lying if I said I was a virgin," he said. "And I don't care if she isn't one either."
Clopin nodded. "I need to talk with my wife," he said finally, "and with Theresa and Pierre, of course. Come back tomorrow."
"All right." René left, glancing back at the little house that Pierre had brought Theresa into. He wished that he could see through its walls. He wished that he could kick the door in, that he could just enter and hold Theresa in his arms. He had to force himself to turn his head, to stop looking at the house. He stared straight ahead, making his way back into Lyon.