Ivoire et Rouge


Girald stood by the bridge over the Seine, at the same spot Feuilly had sat to sing a week earlier. The sinking sun shadowed him, settling itself along the curls in his golden hair. He stood still; perfectly, elegantly unmoved, as though he were a part of the place, as though - for the orange light had turned his skin to bronze - he were a statue decorating the bridge. His eyes were open, watching the sun as it slowly fell, transfixed.

He wasn't aware of the girl until she was at his elbow, hands on the bridge wall and shoulders drawn up, leaning over, looking eagerly at the blaze of colour, and shattering his solitude. He didn't move, but let his gaze drift over her. She gave him a heavy impression of innocent, childish delight, which sprung from her smile and her small, slim fingers, curled on the stone. Women never died in his mind when he looked upon them, for women were weaker creatures than men, unworthy of valiant death. They simply existed.

But after a moment, that blankness rippled, and he could see, vividly, the girl, still dressed in the pale, long-sleeved shift she wore now, with those same small fingers curled over her white-silk shoulder, and through them, crimson flowers blooming. He felt a longing, sharply, to look away, but couldn't, watching the blossoms grow and spread around her hands, coiling vines down her arms, dark red petals growing between the dark brown coils of her hair. At last he could no longer bear to see her, stained with blood-coloured flowers, and tore his eyes away, jerking his entire body with the movement.

She startled, and turned to him.

"M'sieur! I'm sorry, I didn't see you! I -"

He could hear the choking of his voice as he asked, "Who are you?"'

"Oh..." She smiled at him, trusting of this angelic stranger. "Cosette."

"Cosette?" He swallowed hard, and managed, "Do you have... red flowers?"

She looked at him in confusion. "Oui, roses, and red lilies..."

"You should wear them in your hair."

"But they'd die."

"That's all right." He closed his eyes. "Why are you here?"

She blushed a little, giving him another smile, guiltily. "I wanted to see the sunset, and from my garden... it's hard. So I climbed over the gate and came out."

"You should have worn a different dress."

"What?"

"It's white. It will show in the moonlight." Suddenly he felt a twinge of protectiveness. "Anyone could see you. You might... Something might happen. I'll walk you home. The sunset is gone." He shot her a glance from beneath his lashes.

She sighed. "You're right. Thank you, M'sieur."

"Girald."

"O- oh..."

They made the walk in silence, she looking often at her tall, beautiful companion, and he appearing to stare straight ahead, though he quite as often eyed her, secretly, and thought of the red flowers, blooming, growing, living, consuming... He could hear her bare, pale feet patter the cobblestones, and she could hear his soft, even breathing.

At the house, he turned away as she squeezed between the bars of the gate, allowing the moonlight to accent his cheekbones and shoulders, seeming not to notice how lovely he was. His lips moved slightly in a prayer or speech that would never be heard, and his fingertips settled on his heart. He turned back, dropping the hand, at her whisper.

"Here. Take this."

She held a red lily to him, her slender arm outstretched through the bars. He took it, cupping it in both hands, lips now parted in a strange sort of awe.

"Merci..."

She smiled once more and was gone. He stood at her gate for a time unmeasured, then began a slow and wandering walk to his apartment. From time to time, he looked up at the moon.

Epilogue

He tore the petals and stamens from the lily, and placed them in a small box, the size of Cosette's hands. He left it open for a few moments, regarding the crimson petals on the white lining, then gently set down the lid, and placed the box on the windowsill.

He slept without dreams.


Chapter Five.
Back to Chapter Three.