Chapter Six

The Real Jean Prouvaire

Clementine dreamed of Jean Prouvaire on a night when she'd had too much to drink.

She generally didn't get drunk; she'd been more inclined to when she was at home in England, but she'd only been out a couple of times since moving to France.

It had been Sophie's idea, encouraged by Pauline, who thought Clementine's social life was boring. Élodie had been all for the idea, and had insisted on helping Clementine dress up, lending her jewellery and curling her hair. Noémi had been invited but declined on the grounds she had an essay to finish. Clementine was fairly certain seeing as they shared all the same lectures that Noémi didn't, but she wasn't going to push it.

She'd had too much vodka, had stumbled back with Élodie and Sophie (Pauline stayed behind with some friends from her philosophy classes), and then fell into bed. She was asleep with in seconds and that was when the dream happened.

She was in a room of men. They were all around her age or a little bit older, sat in a dimly lit room filled with chairs and tables. She knew as soon as she focused in on what was happening that they were not men from her time just by their clothes. There were too many waistcoats and proper shirts and high-waisted trousers. It was like watching a period drama, she thought to herself, before realising she was able to weave in and out of these men. The room was hot, very hot, and she could smell tobacco and alcohol quite strongly.

In the centre of the room was the largest table, and various different papers were laid out across it. A lot of men were crowded around this table, although most of the attention seemed to be on a tall blond man who was talking whilst gesturing in an animated fashion with his hands.

Her attention, however, was completely centred on a man sat on a smaller table next to this one by himself. The man was scribbling on a piece of paper with a pencil, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

He was handsome enough in a cute way; his face was clean shaven, although he had quite bushy sideburns; his hair was brown, in quite tight curls. His clothes amused her; his waistcoat was a bright blue, his trousers cream, and the cravat around his neck was stitched with flowers. The coat hung over the chair he was sat on was a dark green, and there was a red cap sat on the table next to a book.

With a jolt in her chest, Clementine recognised the book. It was hers – well, Jean Prouvaire's – but it didn't look as battered. Still, she'd know it anywhere. She got as close as she could to the table, looking closer at the man.

He suddenly leaned back in his seat and tapped his pencil against his lips, looking very thoughtful indeed. Then he began to write again, a pleased expression settling across his face; she assumed he'd found the words he was trying to write.

The discussion at the larger table ended, and a couple of the men ambled over to the table the man was sat at. One was tall and dark-haired, grinning broadly; another was smiling just as hugely but his nose looked like it had been broken more than a couple of times; the third was bald and looked older than the other two. They dropped into chairs around the table, and ignored Clementine. She wondered if anyone had noticed she was there at all.

The one with the wonky nose reached out and tugged the piece of paper from underneath the man's pencil. "Clementine again, Jehan?" he said with a small roll of his eyes.

"Leave him alone, Bahorel," the bald one said, sighing.

The other man – Jehan – glared at the wonky nosed one – Bahorel, she assumed – and snatched the paper back. "Yes, leave me alone, Bahorel," he said.

Bahorel snorted. "I just do not understand it, that's all," he said. "So you dream about this girl and talk about her nearly all the time and we're just supposed to act like this is normal? You've never even met her."

Jehan tapped his pencil against the tabletop. "I don't expect you to understand," he said. She could detect the frustration in his voice.

The dark-haired one put his hand over Jehan's to still his tapping pencil. "Jehan, none of us actually mind," he said. "Bahorel's just teasing. Although I think Enjolras' head may combust if he hears you mention Clementine again."

The tall blond man that she had noticed when she'd arrived in this room heard this, judging by the way he suddenly straightened up and shot them a reproachful look. Jehan caught the look and sighed heavily. "It's not me," he said, in a tired voice. "It's them."

"You're turning into Pontmercy," the dark-haired one teased. "Or is he turning into you? Will it be long before he's regaling us with poetry written for his fair Colette?"

"It's Cosette," the bald one interrupted. "I think."

"Cosette," Bahorel said, nodding. "He's said it often enough. Where is he, anyway?"

The bald one and Bahorel turned the conversation away, but the dark-haired one kept his attention firmly on Jehan.

In a low voice, the dark-haired one said, "How are the dreams now? Are they any…worse?"

"He proposed last night," Jehan said in a dull voice. "Clementine accepted."

"Who is the 'he'?" The dark-haired one cocked his head to one side. "You mention him…"

"I do not know." Jehan raked a hand through his hair. "He looks like me, but…different. His hair is different, for a start…"

Clementine listened to all of this, her mind reeling. They were saying her name. And Jehan – that sounded a lot like Jean to her – had her book – or was it his book? Was Jehan Jean Prouvaire? It made sense, she supposed…Then came the excitement. She was stood in the same room as Jean Prouvaire, the man she had been obsessing over for weeks.

And he knew her name.

Could it be he had been obsessing over her too? Not just obsessing – the dark-haired man had mentioned dreams. Had he been dreaming of her?

She then realised what Jehan had just said. He proposed…Clementine accepted.

What was he talking about?

She tuned back into the conversation.

"…So you're saying you're jealous?" The dark-haired man's eyebrows had disappeared nearly into his hairline.

"Jealousy." Jehan shook his head. "Unless that man is actually me, no, I don't particularly want him to marry her."

"Until you find out where she is, though, there's not much you can do about it," the dark-haired man pointed out.

"Courfeyrac, don't you think I know that?" Jehan pressed a hand to his forehead. "And that woman said I needed her…"

There was sympathy in Courfeyrac's eyes, and then Clementine was awake.

She was back in her room in her flat; watery morning sunlight poured in through a gap in the curtains. She was lying on her front, and she sat up slowly. Her head was pounding and her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage. She realised she was still wearing her dress and high heels and jewellery. The hair grip that had been keeping her hair in a knot on the back of her head was loose but tangled in her now-loose hair.

With a groan she pulled the grip out of her hair and set it on her bedside table. She swung her legs out of the bed and eased her feet out of her heels, before fiddling with the zip on the side of her dress. Once it was unzipped, she just sat there, staring into space.

She was confident that she'd seen Jean Prouvaire in her dream. That man, with his curly hair, sideburns and frustrated expression, had to have been him. He knew her name, he'd dreamed about her, he had their book…

Slowly, she removed her dress and got into some pyjamas, deciding it was best to go back to sleep. She crawled back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head. She tried to think of other things, but Jean's face kept on swimming into her mind, along with his quietly spoken words.

She just hoped it would make more sense once she'd had more sleep and all of the alcohol had completely left her system, because if it didn't, she was sure she was losing her mind.