ᴀᴍᴇʟɪᴀ ✷

“Perhaps those of us who have no blood family are the most fortunate of all…”

It had started to rain. Which was, of course, completely expected. Not forecast, but expected. It was exactly Grantaire’s luck. The canvas roll and lumber he held were sure to be soaked by the time he got home.

He hoisted it higher, attempting to keep it out of the mud, and trudged on through the sprinkle that was quickly becoming a deluge.

People scattered from the streets: women held up their skirts through the quickly forming mire in the cobblestones, men held their hats on tighter, while students held books and papers tightly under their coats. As the respectable citizens of Paris fled to homes, restaurants, and shops, Grantaire soldiered on through the rain. It was getting late, and the lamps were not yet lighted. But, no matter, for Grantaire knew his route by heart. He allowed his feet to carry him on, and his mind to wander. His plans for this canvas were another entry in a futile series that pursued a task which the goal of was to commit the visage of something of a divine being to canvas. He was not a particularly religious man, but nonetheless. Often those who find themselves with a lack of belief in God begin to create one out of man. This particular figure was one that had caused Grantaire to encounter great trouble in the process of depicting. Nevertheless, he persisted, and he hoped that this attempt would be his final. As he walked, he imagined the exact paints, brushes, techniques, he would use. The precise composition that he had decided on after many, many, sketches. He had given up hope on keeping his canvas dry, though he hoped the extra red ochre in his pocket had not leaked, as it was quite a disturbing fashion to present to polite society to have one’s breast pocket be emitting a mysterious red substance.

As he turned a street corner, he spotted a small figure approaching him quite rapidly, a figure much too small to be an adult. In the glow of a restaurant window, the creature now identifiable as something slightly more than a creature, accosted Grantaire. A gamin, he was. Barely taller than Grantaires waist, he was turned out decently in a ratty pair of men’s trousers, a woman’s blouse, an old waistcoat, and a small brown cap. His face, though obscured by grime and freckles, was cherubic, despite the missing couple of teeth. His blue eyes glinted in the restaurants light, and his quite dirty blond hair glowed almost like a halo.

“Good evening, monsieur!”

Grantaire was caught off guard. One who is lost in a daydream is never prepared to wake back up.

“Good evening, I suppose,” Grantaire replied, attempting to continue walking.

The gamin, undeterred, followed him.

“Well, that’s fair enough. Most people do tend to walk right past me. It’s a bit of a useful skill, I suppose.”

Grantaire was a little struck by this strange gamin-fairy. He had a charm, and a unique audacity, unlike many of the street-children Grantaire encountered, who could be off-putting. Before he could continue the conversation, the gamin did.

“Now, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I’m hoping you’ll do me a bit of a favor. Any second, a police inspector is going to walk down the end of this road. He’s looking for me.”

Grantaire was intrigued.

“Why, pray tell?”

“Well, he’s an inspector! It’s what they do! They prowl, they lurk, they get you for things you never did.” The gamin made a quick impression of an inspectors walk: hands clasped behind a straight back, an upturned nose and a haughty look. Just as quickly, he returned to his normal posture and continued, “Now I really don’t have much more time to explain this but if you could go through the trouble of giving me some cover, I would greatly appreciate it, good monsieur.”

Before Grantaire could reply, there indeed was the inspector turning onto the road that they were walking down. He looked particularly severe in the growing darkness, a tall hat and sharp coat silhouetted against the sky and rain. He approached the artist and gamin as if he knew exactly who they were.

“Good evening, may I trouble you for a moment?” His voice was polite in tone but rough, and seemed as though it was more suited for reprimandment than casual conversation. Grantaire glanced at the gamin, who was making no attempt to hide himself, if anything he was standing with a better posture than before.

“Why of course,” Grantaire replied, regretting he did not have more information to work on in terms of making an excuse for this strange child.

“I believe this child here-“ the inspector pointed at the gamin, who made a sort of ‘why, is it me you speak of?’ expression, “has stolen a coin from a respectable gentleman and therefore should be under my custody.” He said this in a tone that sounded nearly like that of an exasperated parent.

Grantaire was unsure of how to proceed. This was most certainly not an issue that affected him at all. His most base of instincts told him to just simply walk away, let things be, not invest himself in the situation. But, despite having a very mere interaction with him, he was becoming fond of this gamin, and certainly didn’t think he deserved to be dealt with by this absolutely cartoonish inspector. Despite having little practice in the subject of resolving himself to things, he made up his mind.

“Well, sir, you simply must have the wrong man! For this young boy has been accompanying me all night.”

The inspector did not seem convinced.

“Really? And why is that?”

Grantaire was suddenly grateful for the roll of canvas in his arms.

“Well he’s an assistant in my studio! I’m an art student, you see, and I often employ those who are, shall we say, less fortunate than I to do practical chores around the studio.” He leaned in a little to the inspector. “Simply between you and I? This one’s not the most helpful, but, it’s all we can do to keep the streets clean, isn’t it?” He had no idea what he was saying, but the inspector seemed to accept the excuse. He gave Grantaire a sharp nod.

“Well then, I simply must have the wrong boy. You do all look quite the same.” He directed this at the gamin, who nodded sagely. “Well, I must be off then. Goodnight.”

He strode off into the rain, seemingly unaffected by the downpour. The gamin watched him leave with his hands on his hips.

“Hmph! That inspector thinks he’s something, eh?” He turned back to Grantaire. “That was good stuff! We had him fooled! I certainly am in your debt for that, monsieur.”

The artist waved him off. “It was nothing, truly, although I am compelled to ask, did you steal that coin?”

The gamin laughed, a sharp ‘HA!’ “No! I truly did not!” As they continued walking, he gestured back at the way the inspector had gone. “That was Inspector Javert. He’s got it out for me. And, well, sure, I cause some trouble for him, but he’s never caught me stealing, that’s for sure. Whenever I steal, I do not get caught.” He said this in a very matter-of-fact way, emphasizing his last words with a slash of his hand.

Grantaire had been charmed. He found this strange child quite intriguing, despite his apparent crudeness. There seemed to be something behind his gamin front, something deeper to be seen, something a child would not usually possess. He had an idea. “Look here; I’m headed to a meeting right now. You can accompany me, and have a dinner, if you swear to be quiet and disciplined.”

The gamin looked intrigued. “What sort of meeting?” He inquired.

“A meeting of friends.”

“Your friends?”

“Well…yes, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Grantaire sighed. Perhaps this was a mistake. “Look, would you care to join me or not?”

The gamin pondered this, tapping a finger to his chin as he walked. Finally, he seemed to have made up his mind. He shrugged. “Well, it certainly beats the elephant tonight.” And continued walking. Before Grantaire could even guess as to what the child had possibly meant by that, he realized they had already arrived at the Rue St-Michel, and ahead of them was another figure. This one was walking quickly, as they were, in an attempt to avoid the rain. This figure also appeared to be walking away from them rather than towards. They were wearing a rain-soaked red jacket and a hat, carrying perhaps a book underneath their arm.

“Whossat?” The gamin inquired eloquently, pointing at the figure they were approaching. “Is that one of your friends?”

Graintaire did not know how to respond. He did indeed recognize the figure. He could recognize that particular person nearly anywhere, in any weather. Despite this, “friend” was not the word to describe this person.

“He is…also going to the meeting. And don’t point, it’s rude.”

The gamin narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen him before somewhere.”

“Yes, you probably have. He tends to be giving speeches.”

“Speeches! Well, now. Is this some sort of revolutionary?” He gestured towards the figure, who had just entered a café.

“Well, that’s not the sort of thing to discuss on the streets, now is it?” Grantaire was glad they were almost at their destination, as the now-soaked canvas in his arms was becoming quickly burdensome.

“Hm. Well where do the revolutions happen, then? Is it not the streets? Why should we not speak of them where they are bound to occur?”

Grantaire was a bit taken aback by the eloquence of this small child. He didn’t respond.

They had reached the cafe, and as they both shook the rain off their persons, Grantaire felt the inexplicable urge to wipe some of the dirt off the boy's face; perhaps straighten his hat, which was askew in ways that surely defied all laws of physics. He was surprised by this, and the origin of these thoughts preoccupied him as they climbed the stairs into the back room of the Café Musain.

A wall of noise and light hit the gamin and the artist as they emerged into the meeting room. Despite the fact that the crowd was scarce that night, only about 9 people, it was still quite raucous.

“Well, look who deigned to arrive!” This was Courfeyrac, seated as usual next to Combferre, who was nose deep in a book. The former leaned back in his chair quite dangerously to address Grantaire, and Combferre, without looking up from his book, reached out a hand to steady him. “Bossuet, I do believe this means you owe me a few sous.” Courfeyrac declared, addressing the man sitting opposite him.

“I never took you for a betting man” Grantaire said, placing his canvas on the floor and taking off his coat, which was thoroughly soaked.

“Well, when it’s a bet I’m guaranteed to win…” Courfeyrac replied, gladly accepting the coins Bossuet slid across the table with a characteristic smile.

Grantaire glanced to the corner. There, as usual, was Enjolras, his head in a book. His hair glinted in the candlelight, slightly damp from the rain. His red waistcoat was uncharacteristically unbuttoned, most likely due to the downpour he had just experienced. As usual, he merely glanced up at Grantaire's entrance.

“Courfeyrac, please stop taking Bossuet's money. He is unfortunate enough as it is.” At this, he returned to his book, then immediately exited it as he noticed the child accompanying Grantaire. The room fell a bit silent as everyone followed Enjolras’ gaze to the unknown creature in their midst. Courfeyrac was the first to speak. “R, have you had a child this whole time and not ever deigned to tell us?” He said this while still quite recklessly leaning back in his chair, and Combeferre was forced to put down his book and return the other man to solid ground. Grantaire laughed, which made Enjolras wince. “No, you hooligan, as a matter of fact we met about 20 minutes ago. I helped him evade the police and promised him a dinner.” The child stood up a little taller and straightened his cap. “The name's Gavroche. Pleased to make your acquaintances!” He made a dramatic bow to the room. Grantaire was a bit embarrassed that he had forgotten to ask the child’s name.

“Evade the police?” Enjolras raised an elegant eyebrow.

Gavroche continued, telling the story of his encounter with the inspector and consequent meeting with Grantaire. Once he had finished the story, he addressed Enjolras. “And I do believe I know you, sir, I witnessed a speech you made at the Barriere du Maine a few weeks ago.”

Enjolras seemed a bit taken aback by this child. Grantaire was noticing the gamin had that effect on people. Enjolras spoke: “Well, if he won’t be getting too underfoot, he is more than welcome to stay and join us.” He gave Gavroche a warm smile, then went back to his book. The chatter of the room resumed as Grantaire asked one of the dishwashers to bring up a plate for the child and a bottle of wine for him. She rolled her eyes, but obliged, and soon Gavroche was seated next to Grantaire at the table, feet dangling off his chair as he observed the conversation.

Grantaire had no idea what they were talking about tonight, maybe Napoleon? He did notice that Bonapartist friend of Courfeyrac’s was here tonight, and he kept stealing glances at Gavroche, as if he was trying to place his face from somewhere. Grantaire was unconcerned by this, however, and was preoccupied with his projected painting. His gaze wandered, as usual, to the corner where Enjolras sat. The man in red was truly engrossed in his book, which one could tell by the sharp furrow in his brow as he read. Grantaire noted that his hair was down tonight, most likely in an attempt to dry it from the rain. That, combined with Enjolras’ unbuttoned waistcoat created an almost intimate sense upon observing him. One got the feeling that they had maybe seen too closely into his life, and caught a glimpse of what he may look like when not putting on appearances to lead a meeting at the cafe or give a speech. One must wonder: how do we create these visions of others in our minds' eyes so stalwart that anything that may contradict them causes us great confusion? Of course one would unbutton one’s damp waistcoat, or take the ribbon out of one’s damp hair; these are things we are used to seeing ourselves do. However, when others observe actions that do not fit within their vision of another, they are put off. What line do we draw between our true selves, and the self we show the world? Are they one and the same? Should they be? What can happen when one’s devotion to an ordinary mortal begins to create a god?

Grantaire’s gaze was only torn away from the man in the corner when Courfeyrac’s friend finally spoke.

“Have we met before?” He addressed Gavroche, who was quite preoccupied by his dinner. The gamin glanced up. “Why yes. Well, perhaps not met, but seen. You do know my sister, correct?” The man seemed taken aback by this. Grantaire desperately wished he could remember his name.

“Your sister?” Courfeyrac’s friend replied.

“Why, yes. She delivered a letter to you once. Her names Éponine.” Gavroche said, matter-of-factly. “You lived next-door to her and our other sister and our parents.”

Grantaire was now perplexed. “Gavroche, if you have a family and a home, why on earth are you out on the streets? And in such weather?”

Gavroche was even more blunt with his response. “Well, because my parents don’t care for me. Clearly. I can’t make them any money, now can I?” He said this as if proclaiming something as simple as, ‘well the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.’

The table went silent at that. Grantaire felt a pang in his heart for this poor child, but somehow felt that his pity would not be appreciated.

Courfeyrac, as usual, broke the silence. “Well, Marius,” (so that was his name.) “Who is this Éponine our new friend here speaks of? Is she anything to you?” He winked at Marius, whose freckled face turned a red to rival Enjolras’ waistcoat. “Why, no! She’s hardly anything to me. I simply have had a few conversations with her as neighbors tend to do. God, no, I barely know her!” He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

Enjolras chose this moment to pipe up from the corner. “You barely know that girl from the gardens either, and yet.” Marius looked about ready to die at that. “Well, now she isn’t- I hardly even-“ he sputtered.

“Wha girl?” Gavroche’s mouth was quite full.

“Some bourgeois he’s seen walking in the Luxembourg gardens.” Combeferre answered, casting a withering glance at Marius. Grantaire faintly remembered an argument they’d had over Napoleon once. He wasn’t sure, he’d been quite drunk that evening.

“She’s not a bourgeois- Alright. I must be home before the rain worsens.” Marius rose, and grabbed his threadbare black coat from the back of his chair. His face was still a bit blotchy. Courfeyrac protested, “Marius, why would you walk home alone? Do you hate my company that much?” He smiled at Marius, who sighed and sat back down. Courfeyrac had that effect on people.

Gavroche piped up again. “Now, I’ve gathered a bit, but I must learn everyone’s names if I am to continue coming here.” Enjolras heard this, and looked at Combeferre, who looked at Courfeyrac. Grantaire observed as they held a silent convention, then as Enjolras gave him a nod, a silent order to introduce the gamin to everyone. Grantaire began: “Well of course I am Grantaire, although among these fellows I am occasionally known as ‘R.’”

Gavroche laughed at this. “Ah, that’s good!”

Grantaire continued with the men at their table: “The fellow with the extravagant waistcoat is Courfeyrac, the one with his nose in a book and a stick up his ass is Combeferre-“ this garnered an objection in the form of a pointed glare from the bespectacled man across from Grantaire and another laugh from Gavroche. “That bare knee there is Bossuet, and the freckled one is…” He had forgotten again.

“Marius.” Gavroche filled in.

“Yes, thank you. My apologies, the wine is quite strong to-night.” Grantaire continued with the other table, the members of which were engrossed in discussion but glanced up at Grantaire’s introductions of them.

“The one with the cap and the freckles is Feuilly, the other one with the cap is Bahorel, the anxious-looking one is Joly, and the one in the audaciously mismatched vest and cravat is Prouvaire.” Grantaire was shocked that he could remember everyone’s names at once, until he realized he’d forgotten one. “Ah, and of course, Apollo in the corner over there is our radiant leader, Enjolras.” The aforementioned “Apollo” raised his head at this and glared at Grantaire.

“Good god, Grantaire, you are going to annoy the boy to death.”

Gavroche, his mouth impressively full once again, replied, “Pleased to officially make your acquaintances,” then focused his attention back to his dinner.

“Well then!” Courfeyrac began, “it appears that Les Amis de L’ABC have welcomed a new member!”

Grantaire was surprised. He had not been positive on the reception that the group would give to the boy, but he supposed that this was as good as any. He felt a bit of, what was it? He dared not think of this feeling often, but it was apparent.

It was caring. A deep, persistent caring for this strange child. He felt a need to, not protect him, for the child could certainly handle himself, but to care for him. To care about him, in a way that perhaps only few others did. He was taken aback by this. He did not care about things. Not ideals, not causes, not values. His entire life, he had only ever believed in one thing, that man in the red waistcoat sitting in the corner. His heart was not one that was used to caring. And yet, here it was.

Those of us who have fathers and mothers but no families are perhaps the most unfortunate of us all. To know that there are ones who are supposed to care for us, and yet do not, is an insurmountable thing to grasp, most especially for a child. But what of a child who does not even know what a mother or father is supposed to be? What of those who make their own families, regardless of blood? How could one be unfortunate when one is able to decide exactly who will care for them, who will love them? How could one be unfortunate when one is given the opportunity to cause the most cynical of us all to care for something again?