The Chances You Take
Written by interest of several persons.
Blanche had never been alone before.
She woke in the middle of the night, and lay in bed looking at the canopy and thinking this. It was remarkably odd. She was used to being with someone always. When she was a little girl, she had seven brothers and sisters and innumerable cousins, and as far back as she could remember, she had been running hand in hand with somebody in the sand (they went to the seaside for the whole of summer, nearly).
Then Georges had married her and taken her to live in his big house in the south of France, where there were always servants and especially always him. That was when she was sixteen, but she didn't have a child who survived until she was twenty-five. Jean. Sweet, pretty Jean, and she took care of him for seventeen years. However, Jean had gone to a college in Paris a year ago.
Yet she hadn't minded that too much. She was not alone. She had Georges, even when the house became too big and empty to live in, and they'd quietly bought another, smaller, house. But two weeks ago, Georges had died of a brain fever. Blanche had never seen anyone die before, either. She paid for the doctors and the funeral and moved back to the big house to manage it, although she knew nothing about managing.
Two weeks ago. She hadn't realised it before. Here she was, unable to sleep nights any longer, and really, truly alone.
She wondered, gazing at the ceiling, what she would do. She was almost frightened of the big house, and she didn't want to be alone. She wanted Georges back, and no one had even thought to tell Jean yet--
And, suddenly, it came to her. Jean had only been in college a year now! She could visit him! Of course, there were hundreds of reasons for such a visit: to break the news of his father's death; to offer solace and take care of him in his time of grief (despite the fact that it would be decidedly the other way about); give him a mother's love and tender care; and simply to visit him, out of pure affection. Not only would she not be alone, but she would be able to leave the big house and its responsibility.
Blanche smiled gladly. There, that solved everything. She would begin to make arrangements directly the morning came...
~~~
Jehan Prouvaire came quietly into Musain on a Saturday morning, holding a sheet of paper nervously. He immediately went to the table in the back room where Combeferre was sitting, reading something that Courfeyrac would have called 'obscenely large and disgustingly ponderous', and Bahorel, 'a waste of time'.
"Paul?" he murmured, not meeting Combeferre's eyes.
"Yes, Jehan? I haven't seen you much about. Where have you been?" Combeferre smiled.
"Er--working. Yes. I've found something of a job for my spare time. Er--Paul--I've gotten a letter from my mother. She's coming to visit me. I should think from the date on the letter that she'll be here in two days."
"Your mother? There's nothing wrong with that, Jehan?"
"Well--er--Enjolras," Jehan mumbled, looking floorwards.
"Ah," said Combeferre, and drew in his breath a little sharply and apologetically. "Yes. Yes, that is a problem."
It was well-known among Les Amis that Enjolras, as Lamarque's health continued to decline, was becoming rather nastily prone actually to stop by the houses or rooms of his companions to demand they come at once to Musain or Corinthe, or else to worry them with reprimands which Courfeyrac, for one, found entirely unnecessary. One could hardly imagine, Combeferre thought, what Jehan's well-bred, aristocrat mother would think if a blazing god of divine wrath and passion came bursting in and crying for her son to get out on the streets and rally the people. Well, perhaps he was being a bit harsh. Enjolras did not exactly burst in anywhere. It would be far more likely that he would come in straight-backed and solemn and then harangue her for being an aristo.
Jehan was now looking at him pleadingly. "What shall I do?"
"Well," said Combeferre resolutely, "I shall do my best to help you, if you like. I shall try to warn Enjolras off her, too."
"Thank you," Jehan said, and, as it sounded quite heartfelt, Combeferre nodded and pressed his hand reassuringly.
"You'll see. It'll all turn out fine."
~~~
Blanche stared up at the tall, ugly boarding-house front with curious eyes. What a dreadful place Jean had picked to live! It was very grey..
But at that moment, she heard a young voice call out, "Maman!" and instantly found her arms full of Jean, smiling and talking and hugging her.
"Oh, but Maman, it's been ages! How are you? How is Papa? Why on earth are you wearing all that black? I'll get your things! You brought a portmanteau, yes?"
"Yes, of course, Jean," she said softly. Good heavens. It had been ages. And for all that, Jean still looked like a girl, she thought wryly, looking at her dear pale boy. His taste in clothes had not improved, either. She must do something about that; it was a wonder he actually had any friends, wearing that dreadful orange waistcoat with a dark green cravat. One didn't do that. But here he was, struggling with her portmanteau and leading her inside, talking his way up the stairs.
She was to take the room next to his, he said happily. It was rather nicer, but then, the landlady liked women boarders better than men. And it was very near Montmartre, so she could see--well, perhaps she'd rather go to the Luxembourg. But! it was still lovely! And perhaps she could meet his friends, later. Perhaps. If she wanted to. But it was seven o'clock just now, and wasn't she hungry? He knew a dozen good restaurants.
Blanche smiled. This had been the best of ideas.
~~~
As Jehan and his mother left, Combeferre came out of the absurd little place Jehan had hidden him. He was sure that the only help Jehan had needed was a little advice, and, with his mother in another room, it was far less likely that Enjolras would even discover her at all. Clearly she had been pleased with her lodgings. All seemed well.
He made his way back to Musain, with another of his large books under his arm. His head was full of moths, and, if Courfeyrac was absent, he had every intention of doing some sketches. On the other hand, if Courfeyrac was there, he would probably be dragged into another long discussion of which cafe, precisely, had the best wine, and could Grantaire's word be trusted at all in such matters, being as it was he could hardly taste what he was drinking anyway?
Walking in the doorway and seeing no Courfeyrac, his hopes were high, and he made his way towards his usual table. Just as he was sitting down, he heard a voice cry out cheerfully:
"Combeferre, old fellow! Do come over here and join us! Bahorel's just made the most ridiculous claim about Cafe Mouille's wine!"
~~~
The following day, everyone noted that Jehan Prouvaire was, incredibly, wearing black. He was also wearing a suit of clothes that matched perfectly, were of a decent cut, and fit him well. Naturally, as soon as classes at the college were over, he was attacked. He hurried to Musain, seeking refuge, but this, evidentally, was quite the vain hope.
"Jehan, my dear boy, what on earth do you think you're wearing?"
"Jehan, you should be congratulated! It matches!"
"Good Lord, Prouvaire, I do believe I may faint!"
"Someone's died, hasn't he?" said Joly gloomily, sniffling a little into his pocket handkerchief.
Jehan nodded. "My father."
"All men should lose their fathers at an early age," said Bahorel. "It saves a great deal of horror for the father at seeing his son grow up, and gives a great deal of relief to the son, whom no one any longer wants to become like his father."
"Do shut up, you insensitive clod!" Courfeyrac cried, pulling Jehan into a fierce embrace. "The poor boy is bereft!"
"Courfeyrac, let him go. God knows he doesn't want to follow in his father's footsteps, but you're increasing his chances. You've got a stranglehold on him," said Feuilly reprovingly, as he took Jehan's hand and pulled him away gently. "I'm very sorry, Prouvaire."
"Thank you," Jehan whispered, straightening his jacket.
"Is your mother all right?"
"Er--she's here. I mean to say, she's back home. That is--at the boarding-house. But here. In Paris. I promised her I'd bring her here. But not to-day. I don't think, anyway."
"Dear child," said Courfeyrac, smiling beatifically, "I would adore meeting your mother as soon as possible."
"Yes, I'm sure that's what he's afraid of," Bahorel laughed.
"I beg your pardon?" Courfeyrac looked indignant. "My good sir, I consider myself a person the acquaintance of whom any woman would be pleased to make."
"Oh, I don't doubt it."
"I should challenge you to a duel if we were in England!"
"But we're not. Do calm down and stop making an ass of yourself, Courfeyrac," said Bossuet cheerfully. "Bahorel, leave him alone. Think of Jehan. I'm sorry, my boy," he added to Jehan, who was looking worriedly at everyone. "And I should like to meet your mother, but at your leisure."
"Thank you..."
Suddenly they all turned at the sound of a door opening, and looked around to see Enjolras coming out of the back room.
"Why," he said darkly, "is everyone standing about out here? And where is Combeferre?"
~~~
"Je m'appelle Paul Combeferre, Madame Prouvaire." Combeferre bowed politely. "I'm one of Jehan's friends."
"'Jehan'? Is that how he's saying it now?"
"Yes, Madame."
Blanche smiled. She'd gone out for a moment to see the sky properly, and accidentally knocked into this pleasant young fellow while she was looking up. He'd introduced himself quite genially and seemed to know who she was already. So Jean must have talked about her. That was rather a nice thing to know. But how silly, calling himself 'Jehan'. They'd named him after her grandfather, who had died of the cancer quite a long time ago, and she was rather put out that he didn't want to keep his name.
"Well, M. Combeferre, I'm very pleased to meet you. Do you go to school with him?"
"Yes, I do, Madame. We take quite a few classes together."
"How wonderful! Is he happy with them?"
"Oh, certainly. We both take philosophy, and I believe he enjoys that particularly," Combeferre told her, still keeping very polite. Jehan's mother was decidedly giddy. She was always smiling brightly, and very eager, despite being--he mentally raised his eyebrows--somewhat older. Still, it was somewhat ingratiating.
"Philosophy!" she said excitedly. "Do you really? That's wonderful. What on earth is it like? I envy men for going to college."
"I like it, Madame. It's very interesting, you understand, comparing what..."
Blanche was delighted. Not only was he pleasant, but he was intelligent, despite being--she mentally raised her eyebrows--rather young. No matter. Jean was probably younger, and he was wonderfully clever. This boy did make her want to go back to the big house and live in the library, however. She must remember to ask him to lend her some books...
~~~
"So, in short, no one has the faintest idea where on earth Combeferre might possibly be?" Enjolras concluded, giving his followers something which could only be described as 'the Evil Eye'.
"That's right," said Courfeyrac happily.
Just then, the door opened, and Combeferre entered, escorting a short woman dressed in black. She smiled at everyone.
"Salut, mes amis," said Combeferre. "This is Madame--ah, I beg your pardon, Jehan. You should introduce your mother. I'm sorry."
"No, no," Jehan shook his head. "It's all right. Amis, this is my mother, Madame Prouvaire. Maman, this is Martin Courfeyrac; Dominique Joly; Camille Lesgles; Luc Bahorel; Damien Feuilly; you know Paul Combeferre; and this is--er."
Enjolras looked quietly at the woman, and her shortness became glaringly apparent. "Je m'appelle Enjolras, Madame. Michel Enjolras." At his politeness, even distant politeness, everyone relaxed visibly, and Madame Prouvaire extended her gloved hand happily.
"Pleased to meet you, M. Enjolras. I'm very pleased to meet you all."
Jehan beamed.
~~~
It was quite late that evening when Jehan, his mother, and Combeferre left Musain, and they left at entirely different times. The reason for it went as follows:
Madame Prouvaire had been captured early on by Courfeyrac, and it was only when Bossuet insisted that he absolutely must speak to her to offer his condolences, and she rather inexpertly faked a fainting spell that they had gotten her away and Bossuet had taken her outside.
"There, are you all right? Courfeyrac can be something of a bore," said Bossuet, leaning against the outside wall of the cafe and laughing a little. He was quite tall, and Blanche tilted her head back to look up at him.
"I'm quite all right. Thank you very much, M Lesgles; that was very kind of you."
"Not at all. --Heavens, is that 'Chetta? Pardon, Madame," and he ran across the road to Joly and a pretty young woman, just barely avoiding being run over by a cart.
When she had gone back inside, she had been immediately hurried into conversation with Jehan and Combeferre, to avoid further attention from Courfeyrac, who was sulking good-naturedly in the back.
"Well, Madame, what do you think of Jehan's friends?"
Blanche looked at Combeferre sadly. "I don't think they can be good for him. Jean, my love, you were never this shy before you left home. Don't you remember? We went shell-hunting in Brest and met that boy who was digging out sand crabs, and when you and he both went for a shell and a crab at the same time, you fought quite fiercely! --Not that I want you to fight with anyone. But you don't stand up for yourself at all any longer. You let that Bahorel push you around dreadfully."
Combeferre had found himself astonished. He couldn't picture Jehan ever fighting with anyone (although shell-hunting seemed entirely in character).
As for Jehan, he was blushing. "Well--Maman--Bahorel doesn't mean any harm. He's really very nice. And, er, Courfeyrac is too. Usually."
"There! Look at yourself! Jean, you can't let people take advantage of you like that. You wouldn't have before."
"I don't mind it, Maman. They're my friends."
"Pardon, Madame, but if I may say so, he's right. Everyone is very, very fond of Jehan. Courfeyrac and Bahorel are that way to everyone, as you may have noticed yourself."
"But, M. Combeferre, I took care of myself when they were. I expect you do, too. Jean is letting them get away with it." Blanche frowned.
Jehan pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "I take care of myself very well, Maman, and if I let anyone say anything to me, it's because I know them well enough to see they don't mean a word of it. Please don't think I've changed or that anyone has changed me. I've simply learnt not to take everything in the world so seriously." He turned and walked out stiffly.
Blanche stared.
"Madame, are you all right?"
"How dare he say he hasn't changed! Look at him! My sweet Jean; he allows his friends to knock him about but won't let his mother give him good advice."
Combeferre attempted gentle reasoning. "But, Madame, perhaps he's right. Mightn't he not find them insulting? I don't remember that he's ever not been upset when someone was really cruel to him, but our friends truly don't mean any harm."
"M. Combeferre, I don't want him to be different. He was so dear when he left!"
Combeferre realised she was crying, and, a little nervously, he offered his handkerchief. "I doubt he's changed as much as you think he has. After all, he's just lost his father, and he must be acting somewhat differently because of that. I think you'll see that in a few days, he'll be just as you remember him." He nodded firmly and wisely, feeling an utter fool.
Blanche sniffled. "Do you think so?"
"Certainly I do. Shall I tell you about him? You'll be able to tell how little he's changed, believe me. When I heard you mention him shell-hunting, my first thought was that he must be just the same now as when he was a boy."
"Really?"
"Yes, Madame."
So they talked for an hour about Jehan. Combeferre was very glad that he'd already left, as some of the things would have been bound to embarrass him to no end (particularly the anecdote about his daisy-chain crowns). By the end of that time, Blanche wasn't crying any longer, and she smiled at him a little before standing.
"Thank you very much, M. Combeferre. You are wonderfully kind. I shall go home now to Jean."
"May I escort you?"
"Thank you again," she said, and they left the cafe.
~~~
Five months later, and Blanche still had not gone back to the big house. She had bought herself a small residence in the R. de Lourmel, and by now had stopped following her son everywhere like a nervous puppy. She knew the way to Musain by herself, although she never went into the back room, and she tried very, very hard to remember the names of les Amis.
Courfeyrac thought her delightfully silly, and often told everyone so.
Enjolras eyed her thoughtfully, but, out of respect for Jehan, he had not yet attacked her and was still coldly polite.
Blanche thought him terrifying, and often told Jehan so.
As for Combeferre, he lent her books. They were not just on philosophy; she borrowed anything he would give her. She was good about returning them, which pleased him, and she actually read them, which pleased him more. She was absolutely dreadful about remembering who said what, however, and discussions in which things said by Victor Hugo were attributed to Moliere were not at all uncommon (she had also put Cicero's words in Voltaire's mouth). Combeferre had, by now, become a master at not looking pained when he felt it.
In the long run, it was a more-than-halfway-decent setup. Jehan was certainly happy; the fact that his mother lived across Paris from him and found things to do to keep herself busy prevented things from becoming too uncomfortable.
Blanche was glad. She was never alone, and she wanted it that way. Jean's friends were still awful, but she didn't need to talk to them much, apart from Combeferre and sometimes Courfeyrac. Mostly she found other things to do. She had, in fact, recently discovered embroidery, which she thought splendid, and, of course, there was always reading to do, since Combeferre lent her so many books. She did not believe she could have been more happy.
In December, to Courfeyrac's acute and utter horror, she began walking out with Combeferre. Jehan did not precisely express horror, but he stared and coloured when he saw them talking together, and Bossuet laughed loudly and calmed him.
Blanche was completely convinced that it would never need to change, and no one could have told her otherwise.
~~~
Change came.
It was change that frightened Blanche, and she stayed in her house throughout it, pricking her fingertips on the needle as she embroidered.
When the change was over, she was alone again. She didn't truly realise it until two weeks after the funerals--for there were many of them.
She had awoken in the night, and lain looking at the ceiling. She thought she had never been alone. After all, when Georges had died, there had been only three weeks, and then she had someone else. This time, she could not think of anyone else that there would be.
Jean and Paul were dead, and she was alone. Beloved little Jean, with his face like a girl's and his badly cut clothes and the 'h' he'd put in his name, and Paul, wonderful Paul, with books and spectacles and conversation. Before them, Georges, with his ponies and his moustache and his gardens of roses. How she wanted them all! There was no one left.
Then, suddenly, it occurred to her. There was Virginie, her second sister whom no one remembered. She was alive and well last Blanche had heard, and living in Brest. She loved her little sister. There was no shortage of reasons Blanche should visit her sister--to see her after a long absence; to receive consolation in her own grief; to shower love on all her nieces and nephews.
Blanche burst into tears. There, that solved everything. She would begin to make arrangements directly the morning came...
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