Swear By The Stars

Chapter Six

Jean desperately attempted to tame his the various fly away tufts of hair to little avail. He couldn't seem to find a way to manipulate his reflection to something satisfactory.

It had been three weeks since he first met Sylvia and he had his very first kiss. He could have picked no fairer vixen to grace his lips with a spell of captivation. Letters flew between them faster than the birds had abandoned the skies in the frigid weathers. He wondered if perhaps he was able to send letters faster than Enjolras because he was willing to admit that he, himself, was smitten. Enjolras tried to write letters to Patria under the pretenses of inviting her to rallies and meetings. Once, when Enjolras had left the room, several members of l'amis attempted to sneak a romantic sonnet into his letter, but when Grantaire stumbled by to proofread it, his wine splattered from his glass and all over the parchment, leaving the letter nothing but a scarlet and black colored mess. The young lads all groaned, but managed to shut up as Enjolras came back up the stairs and they all leaned against tables and shelves with mugs and glasses in an attempt to look casual.

Enjolras's absence over the past weeks had limited their ability to tease him about Patria. Enjolras was in Normandy to visit his mother and his grandparents. They had planned various ways that they could convince Patria to write back to Enjolras, seeing as he had not gotten letters in return, or to have Patria come to visit. Whatever the costs, they were determined to have see for themselves this girl that had Enjolras, of all men, enticed and enamoured.

"Get over here, Prouvaire," Courfeyrac tugged his friend closer to him to examine his ensemble. He straightened his friend's collar and tighten his cravat. "What's the matter with your luscious locks, Jean? Did you sleep on your head last night?" Courfeyrac licked his hand and reached towards Jean's hair. Jean immediately leaned away and grasped Courfeyrac's wrist.

"Courf, kindly remove your hand from my face, I'm going to be late."

Courfeyrac shrugged but then turned his attention towards Marius, who was attentively studying a copy of Le Dernier Homme, which was tossed towards the rambunctious lad as he reached to smother Marius's cheek with his moist hand. Jean decided to leave his friends' flat before the entire scientific fiction genre was thrown across the room and venture out into the evening towards the outskirts of town. He did have plans to attends the ballet tonight, but he had another task beforehand.

He left the city streets for the rural paths of gravel and fields of tall grasses containing types of wheat and thickets. Once a grove of willow trees appeared in his sight and the grasses parted to make way for a meadow of what would be bright green grasses and wildflowers in the springtime. Beside the currently frosted meadow was a dilapidated cottage and stable.

Jean knocked on the dark wooden door and opened it to hear a friendly voice.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my godson!"

"Bonjour, Benoît." Jean glanced upward at the ceiling. "The construction appears to be progressing wonderfully. I have your payment for this month."

A man with dark hair that was graying at the roots and glasses rested on a crooked nose stepped towards Jean to extend his hand forward. Jean withdrew a pouch of money and extended it towards his friend, who grinned and accepted it.

"I just started a fire and I'm making a kettle of tea if you'd like to stay for a bit. It's quite cold."

Benoît had been a close friend to the Prouvaire family when they lived in Paris. Jean's father had designated Benoît as Jean's godfather. He lived as a carpenter and had once lived in the old cottage. After a thunderstorm that had damaged the roof, he moved closer towards the heart of the city. Jean was interested in this cottage, but found that he lacked the skills to repair it. He offered to pay Ben for his services, despite whatever claim that he made that he would do it for no cost.

"I wish that I could stay, but I have to be off soon." Jean said, tracing his fingers along the papered wall. "I can come by tomorrow morning if you'd like, to see if I can assist you in any way that I can."

"Oh, Jean! There's no need for that, you've already been generous enough to compensate. Come any time." He stopped to add another log to the fire and smirked. "Off to see your ballerina perform, I presume?"

Jean laughed lightheartedly. "Indeed so... She is beautiful, Ben, and kind and wise..."

"You're in love with her." Ben said.

Jean did not reply at first. He lingered on the way she smiled shyly, how she would fiddle with her hair when she was nervous, how she loved music of all sorts, whether it be the orchestra at the Opera House or a impoverished musician on the street corner. He recalled her handwriting on parchment papers that bore his favorite scent. He thought of the late nights they spent together on the Parisian streets, hand in hand, and her underlying courage that appeared in moments of spontaneity, like their first kiss and the ones to follow afterward.

He thought of her through bright mornings and dimmed evenings when the sky was painted with dark blues and twinkling stars. Their moments apart felt lengthened unrealistically. Above all, Jean was happy. Purely happy.

"I am." Jean breathed softly as his cheeks reddened. "I am in love with her."