Peace


This time, when Nicolas goes to the cafe, he brings the fan tucked into his coat pocket. It will be safe there. He worries over it; the lovely, smooth thing, so easily broken, is his to protect. Now that it belongs to him, he must look over it. He sits at his usual table and takes out his things and puts them each in their proper place, but the fan remains in its safe cloth confinement.

Combeferre sits beside him, watching him gently. Just as Nicolas is taking care of the fan, Combeferre is taking care of Nicolas. Nicolas is his charge. The poor boy. All these beautiful dreams and ideals all for the sake of a few street children. The peculiar thing is, Nicolas is blind and helpless and naive. He needs the taking care of. And yet, he memorises the speeches and tells them to men in his clear, sweet voice, and men listen. Even Combeferre himself listens, although he's heard the speeches all before; he was the one who wrote them down so they wouldn't be lost. He knows them by heart just as well as Nicolas, and he is captured and lost in the words as though it was the first time he'd ever heard the blind boy speak. Is it blindness, then, that makes a martyr? Is it disability that causes Nicolas to be more aware of those who are disabled, in their own ways? Combeferre tells himself Nicolas needs looking after, because Nicolas does. He gets lost, he gets tangled in himself. He can't do many things by himself. But perhaps that's because he's never been allowed to do them.

Nicolas disturbs Combeferre by tugging on his sleeve with one bent hand, and asking him politely, "Combeferre, will you read more of Keats? Of Endymion?"

Combeferre sorts through the books on Nicolas' table complacently. Nicolas isn't often happy like this, and he rather wishes it weren't so. He is quite devoted, even if it's often misinterpreted as unnecessary fussing, and he wants Nicolas to be happy.

"Shall I take up from where I left off? I doubt you could even remember a word of it. Can you think of anything but your speeches?" he jokes, off-hand.

Nicolas feels decidedly confused. Combeferre's never teased him before, and certainly not in a place like the cafe. "'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing'." He recites the passage softly, liking the feel. His own speeches are poems in blank verse, plain; not ugly, but plain. Keats is beautiful.

"You're right. Well - let me see - we stopped the last time at the end of Book II. Where we are now -- 'There are those who lord it o're their fellow-men with most prevailing tinsel: Who unpen their baaing vanities, to browse away the comfortable green and juicy hay from human pastures...'"

Nicolas listens happily. Although he sometimes hates being blind, he doesn't hate it always, and there are times when it is nicer to be read to than to read. Peculiarly enough, what Combeferre is reading seems appropriate to what he thinks. And someday, his children will be able to read these poems. Someday, they will be educated and they, too, will love to hear beautiful Keats, and others.

He slips his hand into his overcoat pocket, stroking the silk of the fan. Someday... Someday, as Feuilly promised him, they will love him. They won't be afraid of him. They'll know how much he loves all of them, and they'll love him back. Someday, they won't run away.

He catches the sound of footsteps, very soft footsteps. It must be Prouvaire, for Prouvaire is the only Ami who walks that softly. "Prouvaire?" he asks.

"Enjolras. I heard Combeferre and realised he was reading Keats. Do you mind if I listen, too?"

"Of course not."

So Prouvaire pulls out a chair and sits on Nicolas' other side, placing him in the middle. Prouvaire smells of lilac, and vanilla, and inquires in his soft voice as to whether he may borrow a piece of Nicolas' parchment.

"I like to draw when I'm listening," he explains. "To keep myself occupied. Do you find that it's easier to do two things at once than one? If I just listen, I find my mind wandering anywhere, and I can't concentrate on my task. Drawing keeps me too busy to think of anything but what I'm hearing. And when I'm writing, I like to listen to music." Prouvaire smiles at Combeferre. "I'm afraid I hound Courfeyrac into playing his violin."

"Courfeyrac can play the violin?" This surprises Nicolas more than Combeferre's teasing ever could. His experience with Courfeyrac was never good, and he's of the opinion that the man is dreadful, annoying, and certainly unmusical.

"He's quite good," Prouvaire says softly.

"Oh." Nicolas blushes. "Oh! I meant to ask you. Where did you find my fan last week?"

"Nowhere," says Prouvaire. "I mean to say-- I just found it. Someone must have knocked it on the floor," he finishes weakly.

"Why are you lying to me?" He didn't intend it to sound so much like a demand.

"Nicolas--" Combeferre tries to intervene.

"I can't tell you. He didn't mean to take it, and there's no good in exposing him like a common thief. I'll reason with him. It won't happen again," Prouvaire says in a rush.

"Yes." Nicolas feels relief sweep over him. He isn't losing things; they're being taken. "Yes, please do that." It's not his fault. Oh, he never thought he was going mad, but all the same - losing things and never finding them -- he had thought that he couldn't take care of his things, let alone men on a barricade -- but that's all right. It's all right.

"I will," Prouvaire says, with equal relief in his voice.

"It's all right," he assures Prouvaire. "You needn't worry. It's all right."

"Thank you."

"Combeferre," Nicolas asks, trying to bring them back to normal, "will you keep reading, please?"

"Oh." Combeferre laughs. "Of course. 'Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode of green or silvery bower doth enshrine such utmost beauty?'" He watches Nicolas over the tops of his spectacles as he reads.

Nicolas sighs contentedly and pulls the fan out of his pocket to finger it. Happy, yes, he is happy today. And for once, he intends to stay happy. How beautiful Keats is!


Chapter Nine.
Back to Chapter Seven.