Barricade Day: the distant drums

Jeanne-Catherine Pontmercy’s Papa always became morose in June.

He was never a lighthearted and ebullient fellow, mind you.  Maman and Georges were always jollying and teasing him out of gloomy moods. But they had to triple their efforts every June. Jeanne-Catherine sometimes tried to help, ineffectually. She took after her father in both looks and temperament. Cheering others wasn’t her forte, except inadvertently, by giving Maman and Georges something to chuckle at with affection.

Maman had explained Papa’s June melancholy more than once. “He fought for the Republic in June of 1832, my darling. He was gravely wounded. I almost lost him then! My own papa, Heaven grant him rest, saved his life. But your papa’s intimate friends were killed. Do not ask him of this; it will only make him sad.”

Jeanne-Catherine dutifully did not ask. She allowed Maman and Georges to work on Papa’s spirits, and turned to her own pursuits, so as not to impede Maman and Georges or burden Papa.

Her own pursuits were demanding enough. Being a serious-minded young lady of nearly fifteen in early June of 1848, Jeanne-Catherine found herself very busy, for in the preceding months she had joined a political society.

It was the naughtiest thing she had ever done. Maman and Papa knew nothing of it. They believed she met twice a week with nine or ten other young ladies of good family, for the purposes of educating themselves and doing good works. This was true, in a sense. For the young ladies Jeanne-Catherine had befriended–or who had befriended her, when she stumbled like an awkward gazelle into a meeting—believed that women of goodwill could do more than bring clothing and food to the poor. They believed women could study, learn, fight, and build a world in which there were no poor. They educated themselves, but not with etiquette or religion. They made a study of the serious subjects their brothers were taught. They did good works, but not simply charitable ones. They wrote pamphlets on the rights of the worker and the rights of woman, raised funds for women workers, and assisted refugees.

Maman and Papa shouldapprove. It was all for the Republic, after all! But Jeanne-Catherine kept it from them anyway. It was exciting to have a secret. She herself had written a pamphlet. Her friend Alexandrienne had helped. Jeanne-Catherine was half in love with Alexandrienne, for she was warm, charming and bold, all the things Jeanne-Catherine was not, and yet she welcomed Jeanne-Catherine into her circle like a long-lost sister. With Alexandrienne, Jeanne-Catherine could breathe freely.

She had never realized how constrained her breath had been before.

It was after one such political meeting that Jeanne-Catherine conceived the idea of bringing home Alexandrienne for coffee and cakes. It would make Maman happy. She was worried Jeanne-Catherine wasn’t sociable enough.  And if Papa wandered in, Alexandrienne would likely charm him too. Alexandrienne could charm anybody.

And so it was that on the fifth of June, Alexandrienne came home with Jeanne-Catherine. Maman was delighted, even if she became confused when the girls let slip some details of their society. “I don’t understand,” Maman said, her eyes wide. “You wantto learn mathematics? Jeanne-Catherine, you know Georges hates his lessons! Why, Mademoiselle de Nicot, I will tell you—Jeanne-Catherine’s brother ran away across the Seine, once, rather than face a mathematics lesson with his tutor! M. Pontmercy was so angry, but I defended my poor little son, for what could be drearier than such a lesson? And here you silly girls are, seeking it out! Why not leave the men to their tedious business?”

“We are good republicans, Mme Pontmercy,” Alexandrienne said, with a catlike grin and dancing eyes. “We claim an equal share with our brothers in all things, including tedium. If young Georges likes, he may have my sewing, and I will take his mathematics—a fair exchange for tedium, I should think.”

“I hated sewing too, I must confess,” Maman said. “Were you educated in a convent? I was, but Jeanne-Catherine’s father is so affectionate, he couldn’t bear to let his little girl go away from him…”

Jeanne-Catherine smiled as Maman and Alexandrienne giggled over convent reminiscences. This was going well. Maman would see that she had good friends and Alexandrienne would, perhaps, wish to come visit again…

She slipped into a reverie, which was only interrupted when Alexandrienne spoke her name: “But dear Jeanne-Catherine is serious enough already. Unlike me, Madame—and I think perhaps you as well—we both needed some gravity, which we learned at the convent. Jeanne-Catherine isn’t like us. She could teach sobriety to the nuns!”

Maman smiled. “Ah, you know my daughter well! Perhaps we two together can do something about how she dresses.”

“Maman!” This was getting embarrassing.

“I think she looks lovely,” Alexandrienne said, loyally. Jeanne-Catherine felt her face grow hot.

“She’s a beautiful girl! But she dresses like a widow of seventy! Now you are wearing cornflower blue and white, which is suitable for a young girl. But what color do you call this, that my daughter is wearing?”

“A lovely gray mouse color.” Alexandrienne’s lips twitched. “But in fairness, madame—”

A thudding noise came from the inner entrance to Maman’s elegant green sitting room. Papa stood there, his face white and his walking stick on the floor. The three women, startled, turned to stare at him. “I—no—” Papa’s voice was hoarse. “It can’t be, he—”

“Marius, why do you sound so grave? Come in and have coffee with us, meet Jeanne-Catherine’s charming friend—” Maman’s tone was light and cheerful. But Jeanne-Catherine realized for the first time that there was a desperate, combative quality to Maman’s good cheer. It was a gallant flame against the dark, a frail flower blooming in a ground still hard from winter’s cold.

Papa’s head swiveled to Alexandrienne. He stared at her as he picked up his walking stick and tottered, like an old man, to the seat beside Maman. “You—” He shook his head. “Your name, mademoiselle?”

Jeanne-Catherine was crimson and writhing with discomfort. Alexandrienne, however, was too poised to be bothered and too well-bred to betray any sign that anyone was behaving unusually. “Alexandrienne de Nicot, monsieur. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Papa said gravely, accepting a cup of coffee from Maman. “It is a great happiness for us, that Jeanne-Catherine has such cultured and accomplished friends. You’re one of the young ladies from her club, yes? It’s very good that you are so devoted to education.”

Alexandrienne responded with her usual courtesy and warmth. The conversational tenor became normal again and Jeanne-Catherine began to relax. Still, she couldn’t help notice how often—and how unsubtly, despite his best efforts—Papa turned the subject to Alexandrienne’s parents and family. Jeanne-Catherine tried to thwart him and divert the conversation, but she was no better at subtlety than he.  Alexandrienne remained unruffled, even mirthful, but surely she must have observed the strangeness.

“Tell me something, mademoiselle,” Papa said, after Alexandrienne and Maman had exchanged fresh tales of convent pranks. “I recognize your family’s name—” Jeanne-Catherine looked at her Papa in surprise, for she could tell he was lying, though Alexandrienne most likely could not. “—and I wonder, do you happen to know a family named de Courfeyrac?”

“Why, yes,” Alexandrienne said, slowly. “Or at least, my parents do. The de Courfeyracs are old friends of my mother’s family. My mother was good friends from childhood with one of the sons, who died young. They were very close.”

“Ah, yes?” Maman threw Papa a sharp glance. “Very sad for your mother, to lose a friend at a young age.”

“Yes—but he died for the Republic, my mother told me. In 1834 or 1831 or thereabouts. M. Pontmercy, Jeanne-Catherine has told us you fought for the Republic, in your youth,” Alexandrienne added, boldly. “We are all very inspired by your example.”

“I hope not.” Papa’s voice was stern, but softened, as he added, “It was 1832. I believe I knew the same man your mother did. He was my friend, too.”

“She still speaks of him, sometimes.” Alexandrienne turned her lively, piercing eyes on Papa. “It’s a shame, that so many must die to bring about a necessary change.”

“I hope the days of such happenings are coming to an end,” Papa said, heavily. “I take comfort, though, that men like my friend Courfeyrac always live on.” His gaze rested on Alexandrienne’s face. “Sometimes in unexpected ways.”  

Fifth and final (for now) sequel ficlet to All Shall Return to Light, my AU fic in which Enjolras is a girl and a vampire slayer and Combeferre is her Watcher. Links to the first four below:

i.Farouche (in which they encounter Werewolf!Fantine)

ii.Turning (in which Fantine learns they know Cosette)

iii.Reunion (in which Fantine and Cosette reunite)

iv.Planning the Storm (in which they plan their attack on the person who was holding Fantine prisoner)

v.               Purity

The unicorn was the difficulty.

Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel had smoothly liberated Gilbert’s prisoners as soon as he was alone in his house. They had subdued him and freed the werewolf, the fairy, and the talking raven. They’d staked the vampire, who had tried to eat Courfeyrac upon his release from the cage. Combeferre had appropriated all the curious magical plants with unconcealed glee, putting them into a large leather bag.

But the unicorn was flaring his nostrils, and lowering his head to point his horn directly at the chests of the four friends. They couldn’t let him out without getting gored.

“How do we soothe a unicorn?” Courfeyrac hissed, at Combeferre. “Aren’t you the expert on these things?”

“What things? Unicorns and how to soothe them? Why would you think that?”

“You talk like you’re the expert on everything. Why not unicorns?”

“They’re supposed to be tamable by virgins,” Bahorel said, with a glance at Enjolras. “Medieval stories are full of virgins betraying the poor trusting beasts to packs of hunters.”

“I could try,” Enjolras said, with a total lack of self-consciousness. She approached the unicorn and stretched a tentative hand into the cage. The unicorn snarled and snapped his teeth. Enjolras hastily withdrew her hand.

“Either someone has been up to mischief, in which case she needs to tell us all about it—” Here Bahorel punched Enjolras lightly on the shoulder. “—or else the virgin theory is a bust. What now?”

“The myth about the virgin is, at its core, about purity,” said Combeferre, musing aloud. “Perhaps the reality isn’t about sexual innocence but about some inner purity, a purity of the soul. Perhaps it’s an absence of moral compromise.”

Bahorel shrugged. “I don’t feel compromised. Perhaps I will be the medieval virgin.” He sauntered up to the unicorn and attempted to pet him; the unicorn’s flashing teeth made him desist immediately. “Well, so much for that.” Courfeyrac and Combeferre tried in turn and were promptly rejected as well.

“Cosette!” Suddenly, Combeferre knew how they would manage this. “What could be more innocent than a child? Courfeyrac, can you run back to their apartment and have Fantine bring her here?”

It took Courfeyrac nearly an hour to go to Valjean’s apartment and come back. It was a tense wait for Combeferre, who eyed the unicorn vigilantly the entire time. Enjolras, for her part, seemed entirely serene. Bahorel stretched out on Gilbert’s comfortable velvet sofa and helped himself to their reluctant (and restrained) host’s supply of bonbons.

When Courfeyrac rushed in, trailing Cosette, it was Valjean and not Fantine who accompanied her. “Fantine was at the market,” Courfeyrac explained.

 Cosette hung back from the unicorn, fearful, despite Enjolras’s and Combeferre’s best reasoning and Courfeyrac’s best cajoling. Bahorel elected to try making funny faces at her. This appeared successful. Cosette began to giggle. “Good girl,” Bahorel said, grinning. “Now, you see, there’s no reason to be scared of a nice horsie just because it has a silly horn on its head—” He broke off at the sensation of Enjolras’s hand on his shoulder.

Valjean was staring at the unicorn, transfixed. The unicorn, for its part, had gone utterly still and was staring back. Slowly, as if under a spell, Valjean approached the unicorn and stretched out a hand. The unicorn didn’t snarl, or back away, but instead nuzzled Valjean’s hand. He opened the cage. The unicorn followed him out like a duckling following its mother, and he led it onto the street. “I will bring it to the countryside,” he said. “I think it will be happy in the forest. Take Cosette home, if you please?” And then he was gone.

“Innocence,” Combeferre murmured. “Purity of soul.” What could be purer than a souled vampire, who had sworn never to do anyone any harm? Not the purity of one who had never been tainted, but the stronger, more solid purity of one who had been tainted and cleansed.

“Come,” said Bahorel. “Combeferre, why don’t you bring Cosette back to her mother? And then, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, we can decide what to do about Gilbert.” A decision that could not be pure, whatever else it was. Gilbert’s eyes widened in fear, and despite his gag he began to make protesting sounds. Combeferre nodded and, taking Cosette by the hand and hefting his bag full of plants, left his friends to their necessary task.