Pensée


Pater noster, qui es in cælis:

Prouvaire sits quietly at Nicolas' usual table, waiting for him. He has a small volume of poetry in his hands, leather-bound and inscripted with gold lettering cut into the cover. So that Enjolras can feel it, he tells himself. He'll like that, being able to feel it. Even if he can't understand what it means. Prouvaire smiles to himself and polishes a little imaginary dust off the cover with his sleeve.

sanctificétur nomen tuum;

Combeferre enters the cafe, also quietly, and tilts his head inquiringly at Prouvaire as he sits. "Jehan?"

"Combeferre! Hello," Prouvaire smiles shyly. "Do you know where Enjolras is? I have a gift for him."

"Feuilly took him to church. He wanted to pray over something." Combeferre pauses. "Over one of the street children, I believe. An accident. I regret," he adds softly, "that I am not enough in his confidence to know exactly why."

Prouvaire reaches out and touches his hand. "I--"

"'Fiat volúntas tua', non?* I just stand about and help when I can. When I am allowed, that is to say."

advéniat regnum tuum;

Prouvaire sits straight up, indignant, and clasps Combeferre's hand in his. "You can't say that. You're as important as Feuilly. You're as important as anyone. I'm certain he needs you."

"He doesn't want to need me, Jehan. Feuilly treats him better than I do. Feuilly makes everything seem like a friendly gesture, so that it doesn't seem like help. I can't do that. I stumble. I don't know how to be his friend; I can only be his caretaker, and he hates me for it." Combeferre shrugs helplessly. "When we were younger - we grew up together, you know - I took him everywhere and was with him all the time. He called me 'frere', and -- pardon, je suis desole. I shouldn't be troubling you. Do you know why? Because that's my occupation. It's for everyone else to come to me, because old Combeferre is un philosophe. He can comfort and understand anyone's troubles. He always has something wise to say. --And they do call me 'old' Combeferre. Sometimes 'good old' Combeferre, but mostly just old. Do I look old to you? I seem old to everyone else."

fiat volúntas tua sicut in cælo, et in terra.

Prouvaire stares for a moment, and Combeferre watches, smelling the delicate scent of vanilla and lilac that belongs to him.

"'Old'?" Prouvaire seems almost as though he may cry. "God, no. No. You're just my age. Oh, you look more like a man than I do; I'm only a boy; but you're never old. If men are so blind as to mistake wisdom for age, then--"

"Dolorum nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie."**

"Panem nostrum, panem. Health. Life. Please don't say such things. Enjolras--"

"--Wishes I weren't here."

Panem nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie;

Prouvaire trembles, and suddenly drops his book to the floor, lunging forward to embrace Combeferre. It is an impulsive action, a more quick and violent action than shy, sweet Jehan should be provoked to, but he cannot think of anything else to do. He wants to stop Combeferre from speaking, because, he tells himself fiercely, none of it's true.

"No, no. He wants you. He needs you. But he isn't a child any longer," he insists quickly, to stave off argument. "It's proper now, isn't it, for men to hide what they feel? Children can cry and cling to their mothers, but men can't. Children can love their playmates, can't they, but then they grow up and they must keep affection to themselves."

Combeferre has embraced him back, and they are making a spectacle of themselves, Prouvaire shaking and talking so fast his words become mixed up, and Combeferre rocking him unconsciously and nodding his head.

"Please - he loves you still, then. I know it. A man becomes impatient with even his closest friend from time to time, but it doesn't mean he hates him. You can't think so."

"No..."

et dimítte nobis débita nostra,

"Combeferre, please, please, believe me." Prouvaire finally remembers that they're in the middle of the cafe, and detaches himself slowly. "He doesn't hate you. He doesn't know how to hate. He wishes you could treat him more as a friend, certainly; anyone would want that. But he doesn't hate you."

sicut et nos dimíttimus debitóribus nostris;

Combeferre doesn't answer, kneeling and retrieving the little book of poetry from the floor. "'Isabelle, or The Pot of Basil'. 'Ode on the Death of the Duc de Berri'. 'Pater Noster'. Quite an assortment you've got in here. --Oh."

The last four pages were left blank, and Prouvaire wrote his own poem on them. Combeferre stays kneeling, reading it, his spectacles falling off the end of his nose from the tilt of his head and the impact of the Prouvaire's embrace.

"Oh, don't read that. It's not very good."

et ne nos indúcas in tentatiónem;

"'Da Nobis Hódiem: Une Pensée par Jehan Michel Prouvaire.'"

Nicolas slips into the cafe just as Combeferre reads out the title. He stops, and his lips part in surprise. "Combeferre?"

"But that's not correct. It's 'da nobis hódie'," Combeferre tells Prouvaire, then looks up. "Nicolas?"

"Combeferre? Why are you on the floor?" Nicolas kneels beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm just fetching something Jehan dropped back to him. It's a book of poetry."

"Your poetry, Prouvaire?"

"No... It's for you. It's a gift. I don't know. I thought--" Suddenly, Prouvaire's shy again. "I thought you might like it. There's Keats, and Hugo, and other poets... I don't know."

"Merci." Nicolas' face doesn't change its expressionless expression, but somehow he seems to be smiling. "Combeferre, I was searching for you. I wondered if you'd write for me. I have a speech I've just thought up."

"Won't Feuilly do it?"

"Don't you want to? I thought you'd like to." Nicolas lifts his hand from Combeferre's shoulder.

"I'd like to. Please. Yes. Just a moment, and I'll find my pen."

"I already have one."

"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten." Combeferre smiles.

sed líbera nos a malo.

Prouvaire stands, and moves away, his errand complete when Nicolas accepted the poetry. He turns back, however, before he reaches the door. "Combeferre? It's meant to be 'da nobis hódiem'. The answer isn't 'give us, today'. It's 'give us today'. It will always be that way."

Combeferre isn't listening. Prouvaire leaves the cafe.

Amen

~~~

Translation: Our Father,
Who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven
Give us today our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us,
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
Amen

*'Fiat volúntas tua'; 'Thy will be done'.

**'Dolorum nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie'; 'Give us today our daily sorrow'.


Chapter Ten.
Back to Chapter Eight.