I never let on that I was down.
You blame yourself for what you can't ignore.
You blame yourself for wanting more."
The boy who had lost everything awoke to a reality he fervently wished were nothing more than a bad dream. He clung to those last ragged shreds of sleep for as long as he could, but within moments the light was too bright, the jolt of the carriage too jarring to ignore. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to the sight of the doughy-faced matron sitting opposite him, her cheap romance novel obviously open to the same page it had been when he had fallen asleep a little over twenty minutes ago.
"I'm glad you're awake," Madame Bergeret said baldly. "We're nearly there."
Pascal Thibodeau did not reply. He looked out the window instead, at the countryside rolling past and rolling on. The sun hung low in the sky, heavy as a great bronze-coloured orange, unaware of the boy who was worse than an orphan being sent to live with the only people who would take him.
He brought nothing with him. Before they parted four days previously, his sister had pressed a rosary into his hands and in that first lonely night of terror at the orphanage, Pascal held the beads against his cheek trying in vain to smell her familiar perfume in the smooth sheen of the polished wood. When Madame Bergeret had come to bring him to Provence and his new guardians, he had left the rosary behind. The god that Katherine had chosen to seek refuge in was no god of Pascal's and, in Pascal's opinion, He was completely unworthy of His new handmaiden.
Madame Bergeret brought with her a letter from Monsieur Cyprien Enjolras. It was both curt and courteous and made no mention at all of the circumstances of Pascal's sudden misfortune. In fact, this complete lack of reference had been the common binding factor of all that had happened within the past week. Sometimes Pascal wondered if the people whose lives he was being briefly shunted through even knew what had happened to him. Just when he was beginning to think that perhaps they did not, however, he would turn when they weren't expecting it and catch a glimmer of conciliatory understanding and sympathy, and know that they did.
Monsieur Enjolras was a cousin of Pascal's mother. There were other closer relations, but none had stepped forward to accept responsibility when the crushing blow fell. Katherine was sixteen already and a girl, so she was of no real concern and nobody except for Pascal seemed to care when she announced her intention to withdraw into a convent. Her twelve-year-old brother posed more of a difficulty however, and the son and heir to nobody and nothing had given himself up for lost long ago. He did not allow himself to grow hopeful at the thought of prospects regained - these days he hardly allowed himself to even breathe too loudly - for he knew that the situation he would enter into with the Enjolras family was hardly ideal.
He knew of them, of course. Like his own family had been, the chateau Enjolras were noble by lineage (not that one made too great a mention of it these days, of course) and wealthy through the industry of the recent generations. As with his own family there was a single son, whom Pascal had met on a handful of previous occasions. According to Madame Bergeret, Monsieur Enjolras had not been asked by anyone if he would take Pascal into his family but had volunteered the act of charity.
I cannot come to fetch him myself, Monsieur Enjolras had written, but we shall be ready to receive him into our home any time after the sixteenth. The sooner the better, for his sake.
Things could be much worse, Pascal knew that. But that did not make him feel any less sick and weary and afraid as the carriage rolled smoothly down a wide drive shaded by sweet-scented trees, towards a pair of great iron gates with the Enjolras crest furnished ornately above them and a large elegant house behind them.
Madame Bergeret was leaning out the window and looking at the house, her face dimpled with admiration. "Handsome looking place," she remarked. "And look - they're out to meet you." Pascal looked. Standing at the top of the steps leading up to the house were an equally handsome-looking couple who had to be Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, accompanied by three servants.
The carriage came to a stop and one of the servants stepped forward and opened the door. Pascal alighted and was mildly surprised to see that Monsieur and Madame Enjolras were making their way down the steps. Madame Enjolras held her hands out towards him.
"Welcome, Pascal," she said quietly, her lovely face sad and kind as she embraced him quickly and a little awkwardly. She smelt like violets. Pascal swallowed, sternly telling himself not to cry.
He could hear Monsieur Enjolras speaking quietly to Madame Bergeret behind him. Then Madame Enjolras was holding him lightly by the shoulders and looking down at him, the same sad, kind smile on her lips. "We've been looking forward to meeting you," she said. Then, as though she was anxious not to appear insensitive, "Although we're sorry the circumstances aren't happier."
Pascal tried to smile and maybe he succeeded, a hint of hope crept into Madame Enjolras' face. "Thank you, madame."
"It was all we could think of to do," she replied, slipping an arm around his shoulders. The gesture was tentative and Pascal wished that she would hold him tighter. "When we heard about - about what happened, Cyprien wrote straight away. And please, call me Isabelle."
He nodded, although he was not sure whether he could be so familiar. By now Monsieur Enjolras and Madame Bergeret had finished talking and both were looking at him.
"You'll be taken good care of here," Madame Bergeret said. "Monsieur Enjolras tells me that he's enrolled you in his son's school and you can start whenever you feel ready."
"Thank you, sir," Pascal said to Monsieur Enjolras.
"You've been fortunate, master Pascal," Madame Beregeret added. "See how the good Lord provides for those in need."
So he didn't have to meet the solicitous glances of the servants or the uneasy glances of the Enjolrases, Pascal looked down at his feet while Madame Bergeret stepped smartly back into the carriage. As it rolled slowly around the drive and back towards the gates, Madame Enjolras turned and gently steered him up the steps towards the great doors of the house. Monsieur Enjolras walked behind him.
"I'll take you up to your rooms," Madame Enjolras said. "There's warm water and soap and towels I'm sure you'd like to fresh up a little - you've had quite a journey."
"I'll take him up," Monsieur Enjolras interjected, "if you don't mind, my dear."
"Of course not." She smiled and moved away, silk and taffeta rustling across the marble floor.
Then Pascal felt Monsieur Enjolras' hand on his arm. "This way, Pascal."
They walked up the stairway in silence. A maid was polishing the banister on the first landing and she stared at Pascal with open mouth and wide eyes as he passed, seeming not to even hear Monsieur Enjolras' quiet rebuke.
Finally, as he led Pascal down a large hallway with a high ceiling, he spoke. "I know it will be hard, but we'd like you to think of this as your home. We shan't turn our backs on you. What's past is past and it can't be helped." He looked down at Pascal from his considerable height and his pale blue eyes were kind. "What I mean to say is, don't think of yourself as a visitor here. You are family, after all."
Pascal tried to think of something to say in reply to this but he could not. The truth of what Monsieur Enjolras had said - as well as the untruth - made his head ache and his chest uncomfortably tight. He was tired of feeling this way, sick with misery and that constant queasy low-key panic.
Monsieur Enjolras stopped outside a large white door and Pascal stopped with him. "This is your room," Monsieur Enjolras said. "We weren't sure what sort of things you would like, so if there's anything amiss just tell Isabelle or myself and we'll see to it." He pointed down the hallway. It ended in a junction. "Our son's quarters are just down there, to the left. You've met him once before, actually. Do you remember?"
Pascal shook his head. Monsieur Enjolras shrugged, smiling slightly. "I didn't expect you to. You were both quite small at the time. Justin's in town with a friend and his parents today. Perhaps he could show you around the estate tomorrow. Would you like that?"
"Very much, sir," Pascal replied, realising immediately how obsequious it had sounded. Keep your pride, a memory of Katherine whispered in his ear. Don't let them take your dignity away. "I mean, perhaps if I'm not too tired."
Monsieur Enjolras smiled that hesitant smile again, and held the door open for Pascal. The room was light and airy and well furnished. The bed was canopied. There were two large windows with a view out onto the courtyard and orchards beyond. Hot water steamed in a bowl on the dressing table and Pascal washed his face and hands as Monsieur Enjolras sat on the window seat and watched him. The soap smelt faintly of lavender.
"There aren't too many house rules, but my wife and I expect them to be adhered to strictly," Monsieur Enjolras said conversationally, running a hand quickly through his dark hair. "You won't be allowed to go into town alone until you're fifteen, and you won't be allowed out at night after eight, unless accompanied by my wife and I, or other adults. So if you want to go home after school with friends and stay with them for dinner, be sure that we have advance notice. You'll have to go to church every Sunday until you're fifteen also - but after that we won't force you if you're not interested, there's no point. You're allowed anywhere on the estate but watch out for the bulls in the east field - the fence is there for a reason - and you can swim in the river but not below Sainte-Agnes' bridge, the current gets stronger further down. Do you ride, by the way?"
Pascal finished drying his face on the towel. "Yes, sir."
Monsieur Enjolras nodded approvingly. "I'll watch you later and see how you go. If I'm satisfied that you can hold yourself in a saddle and know how to treat a horse, you can have your pick of the yearlings in the first stable. From then on, you supervise its maintenance." He paused a moment, as though considering whether to continue. "If there are any other sports you played at home or would like to learn, just tell me and we'll see about lessons. Justin rides and he plays tennis every now and then, but not much else."
Pascal nodded. Then he noticed a white envelope on the table. "What's this?"
"That's your allowance. Ten francs a week to begin with, paid every Tuesday and it has to last. You'll get more when you get a little older, of course." His face suddenly became grave and his voice gentle. "I don't suppose they'll be sending any of your clothes on?"
Pascal swallowed and shook his head. "They won't be sending anything. They're not allowed."
Monsieur Enjolras lowered his head. "That's what I thought." He looked back up at Pascal with that sympathetic gaze Pascal knew he really couldn't afford to resent but resented anyway. "We'll have a tailor come tomorrow and fit you up for new clothes. There are some of Justin's old things in the wardrobe for you to go on with, but we weren't sure if they'd fit."
He rose and patted Pascal's shoulder. Like Madame Enjolras' embrace, the act was awkward. "Dinner will be served at eight. Would you like to eat at the table, or should we send a tray up here?"
Pascal was about to say he would prefer to eat at the table when Madame Enjolras appeared in the doorway. Man and boy turned to her. Her face was pale and her voice taut. "Cyprien, the Combeferres have come home early with Justin. They'd like to see you downstairs." She looked to Pascal and flashed an equally strained smile. "Is the room alright, Pascal?"
"Yes, Madame."
Pascal looked back up at Monsieur Enjolras. His brow had furrowed and his eyes darkened. "What's he done this time?" he asked stonily.
Madame Enjolras shook her head slightly. "I think you had best come down and talk to Doctor Combeferre."
Monsieur Enjolras bowed his head for a moment again. When he lifted it his face was calm and his eyes cool. He followed his wife out into the hallway and after waiting until they were a safe distance away, Pascal followed. Better anything than sitting alone in that big empty room.
The maid who had stared at him was talking quietly to another, younger than she, in the hallway. "There was a riot in town today," the younger was saying. "That's what Jérome told me. And master Justin was right there in the middle of it." They both fell silent as Pascal approached and then passed them before continuing to whisper excitedly. Pascal heard his father's name said by one girl and then repeated by the other.
He paused just below the first landing. Already he could hear voices drifting up from the entrance hall.
"They said they were going to see the fountain," a man said, sounding more aggrieved than angry. "It didn't enter my head that they would lie."
"If I had any say in the matter I wouldn't let them ever see each other again!" came a woman's voice, tearful. "My son could have died today."
"It's just a scratch, Mother . . ." began a boy' voice as the woman's collapsed into quavering sobs.
Pascal inched further down the carpeted stairs, pressing up against the banisters until the floor of the entrance hall came into view.
Madame Enjolras was consoling a woman in a plum-purple gown, the feathers trembling in her bonnet as she wept into a lacy handkerchief. At her side was a finely-featured man of slight build holding his hat in one hand, running his other through his thinning brown hair. Between the two adults was a boy with brown hair and spectacles, his right shirtsleeve rolled up above the elbow and heavily bandaged.
The man - Doctor Combeferre - was in the middle of addressing Monsieur Enjolras who appeared to be standing between the doctor and another boy, tall and fair-haired. He turned around just in time to hear his son's protest. "And it's only through the grace of God that it's not more than a scratch," he said severely. "Just what were you thinking, rushing in there!? You're older than he is - what kind of example is that to set?"
"It was my fault, sir!" The blond boy stepped around Monsieur Enjolras and up to Dr. Combeferre. "I wanted to hear what Lalande had to say. Eduard could see the gendarmes gathering around, he thought we should stay away but I didn't listen. It was my fault." This has to be Justin.
Monsieur Enjolras pulled his son back beside him, not ungently. "Be quiet," he ordered, before addressing Dr. Combeferre. "Will your son be alright?"
Dr. Combeferre took a deep breath and nodded. "He's right, it's just a shallow cut. My wife doesn't like the sight of blood, as you know, I put the bandage on to pacify her. It won't even need stitches."
"I'm very glad to hear it." Monsieur Enjolras looked at Justin. "Go upstairs," he said coldly. "I'll talk to you shortly."
Instead of obeying immediately, Justin looked at Dr. and Madame Combeferre. "It was my fault," he repeated steadily, "and I'm very sorry. Don't punish him." Then he started making his way towards the stairway, not yet seeing Pascal.
Madame Combeferre seized Madame Enjolras' hand in both her own. "I know they're both good boys," she said, her voice still quavering, "but sometimes I fear that Justin will be the undoing of us all."
Madame Combeferre's lips tightened again. "You're upset, Lorraine," she said. "You said it yourself, they're good boys. He'll be nothing of the sort. And you needn't fear for Eduard, I'm sure of it."
The other woman shook her head. "And now you're taking in the Thibodeau boy, out of the goodness of your heart. Aren't you afraid of him giving Justin, well, ideas?"
Pascal's stomach lurched and he had to grip the banisters tightly for fear of his feet giving way beneath him. Everything became blurry and for a few moments he could only see spots and stars dancing before his eyes. He heard Monsieur Enjolras' voice cut coldly through the air. "Lorraine, I would ask you to keep your voice down. The boy's just upstairs. He arrived this afternoon."
When his vision cleared he saw Justin Enjolras standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at him. He appeared about to speak when he glanced back towards the adults, thought better of it, and ascended quickly and quietly.
Pascal stood his ground as the other boy approached. Justin Enjolras was taller than he. He looked at Pascal levelly and with a little curiosity. "Hello," he said quietly.
"H-hello," Pascal replied. There wasn't much else to say.
The voices of the adults continued to drift up in waves. Justin glanced back down over the banister, then pointed up. Pascal nodded and the two boys made their way silently up the stairs.
"When did you arrive?" Justin asked once they'd reached the landing.
"A little while ago. Your father showed me my room." Pascal paused for a moment. "Your father looks very angry. Will he beat you?"
Pascal did not intend the question as a taunt, and Justin obviously did not take it as one. He shook his head. "The last time he thrashed me was when I was ten." He bit his lower lip. "I don't care what they do, as long as they make Dr. Combeferre see that it wasn't Eduard's doing. He won't take it from me, but he will from my parents."
They walked down the hallway towards their rooms. The maids had gone by now.
"What happened?" Pascal asked, genuinely curious and also hoping to stave off any questions Justin might ask of him.
"Exactly what I said. I wanted to see Lalande speak in the market. There were more people than I thought there would be, and police. People started getting excited and the police stepped in. There was fighting."
"What happened to your friend? He had a bandage on his arm and his father said he was cut."
Justin dug his hands deep into his pockets. His expression was deeply troubled. "We got separated in the crush. Some of the workers were waving knives around. I didn't see quite what happened. But when I could see Eduard again, he had his left hand pressed to his other arm, and there was blood between his fingers." He paused. "What Madame Combeferre said about you was cruel. She was upset, she didn't mean it."
Pascal looked down at the floor. "Don't be so sure." His voice sounded weaker than he meant it to.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Justin asked quietly.
Pascal looked back up at him. The older boy's eyes were looking straight into his. Candid. Honest. "What?"
"I think your father was very brave."
That dizzy feeling swept through Pascal again and he had to lean against the wall. "You don't know that." His voice was trembling.
"What do you mean?" Justin frowned. "Don't you think so too?"
"Justin!" rang out a clear, angry voice and both boys looked up sharply.
Monsieur Enjolras was standing at the landing, looking down the hallway at them. His eyes were cold again. "Justin, come with me." He looked at Pascal and they softened a little. "I'm deeply sorry you had to see us like this on your first day. If there's anything you need, then ring for it."
He stood waiting for Justin to follow. Before Justin did, he looked back at Pascal. There was hurt in his clear eyes . . . and confusion. Then he followed his father back downstairs and Pascal went into his room and closed the door.
The boy whose father was a traitor to the country of France crossed the floor to his new bed and lay down upon it. The boy whose mother was found lying dead on the floor, empty vial in one hand, letter to her children in the other, counted his breaths until his chest stopped aching again. The boy who had lost everything except his name - and what honour was there in that, cursed as it was? - wrapped himself in stillness and silence willing this first long day to end.
Justin Enjolras did not understand.
And that was how it began.