Cobblestones


Girald stood at his window for a moment, a hand on the box with the now-wilted lily petals, looking out at the streets below himself. At last he sighed, and stiffened his back, and turned to the door. Catching up the hairbrush from the bedside table, he dragged it through golden curls, wrenching it where it stuck in the tangles. Another moment later, and he touched the door, allowing his fingers the slide across the doorknob, falling into place to turn it, letting himself out into the hallway, down long stairs, out another door, which he did not spend so much time on, and into the streets, ducking his head from the pale sun. He wore no overcoat, and walked happily, hands hooked together behind his head, looking around himself with eyes that seemed too innocent and lovely to belong to anyone's idea of a revolutionary.

His walk was carefree, easy, and he listened with joy to the soft sound of his boots on the cobblestones. It was early yet, and not so many folk had left their houses, and he was undisturbed in his peaceful saunter. His eyes strayed upwards to look straight into the morning sun, undisturbed by the glare, smiling amiably at it.

It was so much better to be in Paris. Here, he was free from his father. His mad, frightening, hated father. How dare the old man insist that his son become a rebel? How dare he keep pounding those three damned words into Girald's mind? Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. As if Girald cared. He loathed everything and anything to do with the Republique; he almost couldn't bear the name. But he must have his revolution anyway; show his father what he'd done. Oh, yes, he'd go on and build the barricades his father dreamed of, strip the streets and the cafes, and have every last one of his friends - and himself - murdered for Republique his father so revered. That would show the man, teach him, what wrong he'd done. Girald would shout to the world that here was M. Enjolras, the dedicated Republican, who through his dreams and his hopes and his fanaticism had killed France's young people. They would die to spite his father. Lady Patria was a facade, and his father would learn that.

Girald thought on that with satisfaction, still making his slow way along the streets of Paris, amused and pleased. People were such idiots. Almost the only human in the world worth talking to and knowing was Jehan; that was because they had grown up side-by-side, and the poet, while ignorant of the great sacrifice Girald would make on Patria's alter, understood the hurt that his golden-haired lover had gained from the never-ending commands to learn, to overthrow, to rally, to create France in a burst of glory. Yes, Jehan was a good person. A kind person. The man with the most beautiful death in the whole of the world, as Girald knew. No one would ever be able to match up to the fantasy and wonder of the crimson flag and the single bullet hole of Jean Prouvaire.

Girald let his mind wander to the Amis, to each of them, each selected by the way they were consumed by death when he looked upon them. They were the seven men most worthy to prove the evil of his father's dreams. They were seven who would live forever as the boys who died at the hands of a vile old man's Republique. He smiled; an angelic, beautiful, unbearable smile of pleasure.

He continued in his walk, warmth filling his body, feeling deep contentment as he wandered. Suddenly, he caught sight of a man walking towards him, coming down the thin street obliviously. The man was looking at the sky, much as he had when he had begun in the early morning light. It was an old man, dressed in threadbare clothes and holding a large book tightly, as though the book would fall away, and be lost forever when it fell, never again to be his.

Girald watched him as he neared, and a vision began to fill his mind, a superb, glorious vision, of the old man laid upon a bed of moss. He was draped in a long white sheet of silk, and through the silk, five pinpricks of blood soaked, forming five points as though of a star. His eyes were open and he stared ahead, skin pale and colourless and dry, if one touched it. Girald was struck by the clearness and purity of the image, and rushed to the man, closing the already tiny gap between them.

"M'sieur, m'sieur!" The younger man stared earnestly at the older, outstretching a hand to him. "You - you die so beautifully!" The words tripped out eagerly, half-without his meaning to speak them. "It's wonderful, it truly is!" Already blissful, and now elated, he embraced the man fiercely, laughing joyously, falling to his knees to retrieve the book as it slipped from its master's arms.

M'sieur Mabeuf took it quickly, and looked at Girald sadly. He tilted his head to one side, contemplating. Then, without speaking, he passed the smiling angel and continued on, holding the book with more love.

Girald looked after him for a few slow moments, then stood, and began to walk again. His smile was gone, replaced by an expression of thoughtfulness, and a trace of sorrow.

"Au revoir. Perhaps..."

Perhaps I will see you again...


Chapter Six.
Back to Chapter Four.