Sugar Crystals
Written by interest of Manon.
When Valjean thought about it, he realised that he really didn't know quite how Courfeyrac had wormed his way into... everything. Valjean himself was quiet, was laid-back, and disliked meeting people. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, was bright and cheerful and went out of his way to get to know everyone.
In fact, he had shown up on the doorstep of 55 Rue Plumet, with a valise in one hand, and a cap in the other, and smiled an enormous smile. "Bonjour, Mere," he had said.
Toussaint stared at him. This was only the proper reaction. Courfeyrac was undeniably handsome, with wavy-ish golden-brown hair tied carelessly back, and beautiful green eyes. He had a little moustache, but apart from that, his face was shaved. He dressed in perfect fashion, and swung his valise carelessly. Actually, it was clear that Courfeyrac did most everything carelessly.
"W-what? Monsieur?"
"Bonjour." Courfeyrac grinned charmingly. "I'm selling things." When Toussaint told him they wouldn't be interested, he protested loudly. "Oh, no. You'd have to be interested in what I'm selling!" He continued protesting, in a silky, beguiling voice, until Toussaint gave up, and took him back through the house to Valjean, who was in the garden.
"Toussaint?" Valjean had said, with a little plaintive protest in his voice. He didn't like people. He didn't care for anyone but Cosette. He wondered why on earth Toussaint had brought this strange, lovely young man into the untended garden. He liked it, because it was his quiet place. It was his quiet place, and this young man looked as far from quiet as could possibly be imagined.
"The y-young monsieur is s-selling things."
Courfeyrac smiled, again. "Indeed, I am."
"What?" Valjean had asked.
"Any number of things," said Courfeyrac airily. "Whatever suits my fancy."
"I'm not interested."
"Yes, you are." He flopped down on the little bench beside Valjean. This made Valjean tuck into himself rather, to get away. He didn't like people. He repeated that softly in his mind. He was shy of them and of what they could mean. "I have all sorts of things."
"Such as?" Valjean asked Courfeyrac, feeling a tiny bit of interest. He didn't want that tiny bit of interest, but he felt it anyway.
Courfeyrac dug into his valise, and produced, with a little flourish, a rather bruised peach. "Ah, first try." He dusted it off. "I must be one of those storytellers, with their bags full. Every object is a cue to some long, enchanting tale. Would you like to hear the story that goes with this poor, shamed peach?"
Valjean discovered, with a little shock, that he did. The tiny bit of interest was growing. He felt like a small child. He had been embittered; he had been redeemed; he had done countless things that required him to take charge. All at once, someone was offering to tell him a story. How long ago was it that anyone had ever asked that? Someone was offering him the chance not to step in and take action, but to stand by and listen. Listen to a fantasy, no less.
With Cosette growing up - something he hadn't expected, or hadn't wanted to expect - he was becoming more and more the old father, forgotten. It was only natural that he be forgotten. He protested it within him, but outwardly he was docile and accepted it. Now he was sought out, and someone was asking to indulge him, not like an old father, but like a boy.
"Very well," he said. "You may go, Toussaint." He gave her a small, reassuring smile, and she left. Courfeyrac grinned, but this time, it wasn't the huge grin that stretched his whole face. It was a pleasant, friendly sort of grin, not half so mocking as before. He looked nice. He looked a nice person.
"Well-- What's your name? May I call you by your first name?"
"It's Jean," Valjean said softly, wondering why he had just told Courfeyrac his real name, instead of one of the countless others.
"Jean. A splendid name. It is, though. My name, by some coincidence, is Jean. Or, at least, Jean-Pierre. Doesn't it sound saintly?" Courfeyrac spoke softly as well: a soft, gentle voice. "Oh, but I'm not. I'm a disgrace. But didn't I say I would tell you the story of the peach?" He held it up in three fingers. "A sad, battered fruit. You shall see why. Once upon a time (all stories must begin, 'once upon a time'), there lived a young man. He was called Dance, and he was beautiful, and clever. But he made a mess of himself, in the eyes of everyone else. Because he was so beautiful and clever, everyone loved him. He spent all his time with women. He could have done a great many things, but instead he chose to use his talent to seduce anyone in his vicinity. It was rather a waste of a mind, wasn't it?"
He paused, and waited expectantly. Valjean said, "Yes," because it seemed that was what was needed for Courfeyrac to continue.
"Yes, it was. Among other people, his parents disapproved especially. Were they truly his parents? Or was he born out of the ocean like Venus, on a cushion of foam? At any rate, they were furious with his conduct. They told him that he must either stop, or they would invoke the wrath of the gods against him. But nothing stopped Dance, because it wasn't in his nature to quit on something that he enjoyed. So his parents, in desperation, called upon the gods."
"Well?" Valjean demanded, as Courfeyrac stopped.
"Well? What happened? I imagine the gods turned him into a peach, don't you? Something beautiful that everyone loved? But a peach... Oh, everyone who loves it must destroy it. That was a fate fitting such a boy, don't you think?"
"Did he deserve it? If he was only a boy--"
"Youth should never save anyone; that is convenient, because it rarely does. --And the peach is quite bruised, because other fruits make a mockery of it." Courfeyrac set it down on the bench. "I should find a happier tale. That was morbid. Well--"
"Why did you come here?" Valjean interrupted. "Have you been going down the street doing this at every house?"
"Hardly. No, I had the address from a friend of mine. He mentioned it in passing. I though you must be lonely. Young girls are fickle companions. They need to be always entertained, and anyone over the age of thirty is a disinterest to them. I thought you might long for someone to come and keep company with you. Alas, I've only been wasting your time with meaningless faerie stories."
"No. You aren't wasting my time at all." Valjean put a hand on Courfeyrac's arm, and regretted it instantly. He wasn't surely what Courfeyrac's reaction would be.
Courfeyrac's reaction was to smile. It was an odd smile; a gentle, sweet smile. "I'm glad to know that. Wasn't my peddler front amusing? Tell me you were amused," he ordered good-naturedly.
"I was.. No, I wasn't. I was surprised. I didn't know why you should be so insistent. Who did you receive my address from? Who on earth would we both know? I haven't the acquaintance of many people to begin with."
"Marius Pontmercy. A very silly young man with a vague manner. Head in the clouds."
"I don't know him..." Valjean frowned.
"Ah, well, you can't be expected to remember every dreamy rascal you've ever met. For all I know, you once asked him to run an errand for you." Courfeyrac's handsome face twitched a little in amusement. "But tell me-- you're glad I came, aren't you? You're glad you're not sitting in this garden by your lonesome."
"I--I am glad," said Valjean.
"Good," said Courfeyrac. Then he leaned forward and kissed Valjean's cheek. "I'm afraid I must go. But I shall be back to-morrow, indeed, if you'll have me."
"Of course," said Valjean, poking the peach with his forefinger. Courfeyrac gave a short, charming laugh, picked up his valise, and disappeared.
Valjean had washed the peach carefully, and cut away all the bruises and bad spots with a little knife. He had then eaten the peach, out of guilt, because otherwise it would have rotted or gone to waste. It was the sweetest thing he'd tasted in ages.
He supposed that was how Courfeyrac had become so important. Courfeyrac just slipped into a place, and as soon as he had, he belonged there. His charming laugh dissolved into the air like sugar in water, and then hung there, invisible but present. Courfeyrac never belonged to a place, really, though; the place belonged to Courfeyrac. He made it his. He made the garden his. He made it so that if he failed to come, even for a day, the garden felt empty. It was just something Courfeyrac did.
He told Valjean his full name on the day that he knelt on the bench, polishing a little black rock, and talking rapidly about how the rock had once been white. Suddenly, he had just changed subject.
"My full name is Jean-Pierre de Courfeyrac. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No," said Valjean, frowning, wondering if he'd missed something.
"I'm glad. What's yours? Or don't I want to know? Am I happier--are we both happier--with you just Jean? Should I not have told you mine either? Jean and Jean. Yes. We'll just leave it there."
He kissed Valjean on the day the columbine bloomed. They had been watching the butterflies just a moment before - the cloud of white butterflies that made snowflakes in spring. He turned towards Valjean, said, 'such a beautiful old man', and touched his lips to Valjean's like a butterfly stepping.
The funny thing was that at first Valjean wasn't surprised. It was something very in Courfeyrac's nature. It was moments later, when he realised Courfeyrac had kissed him again, and he'd liked it, that he felt amazed.
"Jean? I'm not a poet like Jehan Prouvaire. I'm a fool. Why am I sitting here watching butterflies?" He kissed Valjean again. "Never mind. Am I mad? Of course not. I'm perfectly sane. At least, I was. Oh, dear Jean. Don't mind me."
"What is wrong?" Valjean had asked, because he was always asking the questions. He'd put his old, worn hand against Courfeyrac's cheek, and Courfeyrac had suddenly smiled. His face cleared as though everything in the world was all right again, and he understood. Valjean was relieved.
"Nothing at all is wrong." And then Courfeyrac had stood up on the bench, caught a butterfly in his hands, and seated himself again. He threw his hands out and opened them at the same time, and the butterfly spun back into the cloud.
That was how Courfeyrac had become important... Because he was Courfeyrac. It meant everything. He had created an idyll in the Rue Plumet.
But idylls were rather meant to be shattered, and everything turned turmoil in the next month. In June. Valjean could almost hear Courfeyrac's happy voice crying out, 'Alas! alas!' It was something Courfeyrac would have cried out.
Cosette, who had been most important to him, was most important again. England. Everything still sounded jumbled in his head. Telling Courfeyrac about England. Courfeyrac had laughed and laughed.
"You're going to England? Good God, dear Jean, what can you see in England?"
Valjean had forgotten how hard folk laughed when they were angry.
Then going to the barricades to find Marius, and finding Courfeyrac as well. Valjean had forgotten - he couldn't believe he'd forgotten - how long someone can stay angry. He hadn't, however, forgotten how it felt to lose someone one loved in such a way that one could never get him back. He hadn't known, so he couldn't have forgotten.
In fact, he could only remember. Courfeyrac had looked so different with one shoulder a torn mess of blood. People didn't look the same when they were dead. They didn't look the same with blood streaming over their faces. He remembered that.
He didn't really know how Courfeyrac had managed to be anything more than an irritating peddler who stopped by one day and forced his way into the life of a reclusive old man who didn't care about anything in the world but a daughter who wasn't his daughter.
It was odd. He was quiet. The garden had been his quiet place, until it was filled up with Courfeyrac laughing. But after June sixth, when he'd ventured into it, it had sounded so empty it hurt his ears.
Fin
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