"And Be Careful of Old Deuteronomy..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

Finally I have finished talissarocsham's fic, with ISeeDeadPeople!JehanProuvaire:

Ghost Story

In the winter, the boarding house in Paris was a mixture of cold and hot. In some rooms, when one lit a fire in the fireplace, the walls kept in all the heat from the burning wood and made the place stifling. In the other rooms, it didn't do a thing, and one would shiver all night long. Everyone who stayed there adapted to the conditions in different ways. For the most part, it seemed safer to get the warm rooms so as not to freeze to death, and just wear one's lightest clothes, but a good number of people also took the cold rooms and bought extra quilts and afghans.

No one worried much about the summer. They would all bake anyway.

The boarding house was very old, and some of them thought this accounted for the hot and cold. The roof didn't leak--yet. All of the floors creaked, and everything collected unbelievable amounts of dust. The windows would not open. And yet, somehow, there were always people living in the place.

Quite a few of them had been living there for a very long time. They were accustomed to the way things were, and either didn't mind or had become resigned long ago. They knew each other, and eyed new boarders warily, never quite trusting anyone until he had lived in the boarding house at least six months with no trouble. There were ten of these people, and with them all occupying their own rooms, there were only four available for newcomers.

Of these four, one belonged to a young man who owned a bookstore in the city, and whom no one ever saw because he got up so early to mind his place and came back so late in the evening.

One belonged to a somewhat well-off dressmaker who kept it full of all sorts of materials and delightful cloths. The old inhabitants didn't expect her to stay long, but they still liked to find excuses to visit her and look at her things.

One belonged to a tiny family who didn't yet have a house of their own, although the husband would say often, in a soft, worried voice, that it was only a matter of time. The boarders talked about him and his wife and their infant... infant (no one knew the sex of the baby) regretfully. To some they were sad, and to some pathetic.

The last room belonged to an aristocrat's son, and no one knew what he was doing there. It did not seem the proper place for anyone wealthy. They watched him coming and going from his college, and tried to mistrust him, but when he saw them, he always smiled and waved, looking delighted and innocent, and it was rather difficult to assume he might have ulterior motives. He had eyes the colour of violets, he was eager to talk, and they learned his name very quickly. It was Jehan Prouvaire.

~~~

Jehan loved his new boarding house. It was full of ghosts.

The ghosts in the country on his parents' estate were usually miserable and often glowered at him. He was afraid this was because of his parents. Once in a while, there were some who were content just to sit on his windowseat and put their fingers through the glass and laugh, and there had even been an interesting one who would sleep on the foot of his bed like a cat. The trouble with her was that from there, she liked to put her hands through his blankets and grab his ankles, and that went from rather frightening to horridly annoying. But for the most part, the ghosts in the country just lay with their backs on the ceiling or the walls and glowered or wept.

When Jehan went to Paris for college, however, things were different. First he stayed in an expensive place that his parents arranged, but there was a little transparent cat who was always running in circles around him and trying to get him to run after her. This caused trouble because she only appeared in public places, and people started looking at him oddly. One day he decided just to follow her, and she led him to a poor-looking building where he saw other transparent cats looking out at him through a high window, and a young man at one of the other windows, who stood with his hand gently and elegantly resting on a cat's head, looking at Jehan quietly.

Immediately, Jehan left his first boarding-place and moved to the new building.

The young man had been dead for sixty years, as he explained, but was fond of his cats, and they wouldn't leave. His name was Raoul, and he told Jehan he'd died of consumption.

He was a clever and an interesting companion, but Jehan did his schoolwork for six months with Raoul peering over his shoulder and whispering to know what this or that meant. Raoul had never been to college. Raoul also liked reading Jehan's poetry, which flattered him rather, and Jehan was very pleased about the cats, because real cats made him sneeze.

But after six months, during which his professors complained about the splodges on his essays from the rain coming through the roof, and the distracted manner in which he wrote (that was, of course, because of the cats walking on his desk), he saw a white bat through the window and decided it was best he move again. He packed his things and said good-bye to Raoul.

The new boarding house was better kept, and the old woman living in his closet was much quieter than Raoul. She hardly came out. The trouble was, when she finally did, she wanted to talk as much as possible. She said she was lonely, and Jehan felt bad, so he listened.

"Is the white bat yours?" he asked.

"Oh! Yes. Bats are darklings, even when they're white, don't you think? Little darklings. He's quite stupid, though. He let a cat catch him."

"One of Raoul's cats?"

"No. Even he isn't stupid enough to be caught by one of those. Huh. Raoul's cats indeed."

Jehan moved from there in a hurry.

After that, there was the boarding house with the snakes and the man who claimed he was a magician who had been the victim of a mob, and then another one with a man who talked to himself all night long, along with his pretty, silky dog. By the time Jehan had left the place where the little girl and her huge, flowing, transparent fish stayed, he was afraid he'd never find anywhere he could live that wasn't full of animals and mad ghosts.

And then he found the old boarding house in Paris, with its overheated and its freezing rooms.

All the ghosts there were old, and most of them were agreeable, and they seemed to like him. He was always walking in on Valerie reading (she liked to read in the chair by his window) and when he did, she looked up long enough to smile before going back to it, or else he would find old Bernard in the lobby, sleeping on the couch. There was Daniel, who minded the fireplaces because he had nothing else to do, and he always told Jehan personally if the fire in his room had gone out. Madeleine embroidered things, and showed him her patterns. So they must like him, he thought.

It pleased him terribly. He'd spent such an awfully long time trying to find the right place. After the country and the country's ghosts, and then all the failures in the city--he thought himself lucky to have found the perfect boarding house.

He quickly learned that the living people who stayed in the boarding house rather liked him too, and he learned also that this was an honour. The newcomers in Rooms Three, Eight and Twelve were not half so well received.

Twelve was the bookshop owner, and Jehan wanted desperately to meet him. Anyone, he thought, who lived among books for so much of time must be wonderful and terribly intelligent.

It was the ghosts who helped him meet Twelve at last, or, to be precise, it was Madeleine and Daniel.

It was eleven at night, and Madeleine had finished one of her transparent tapestries. She was holding it up for Jehan to look at when Daniel came in to look at the fire and sweep the ashes from the hearth back into the grate as usual. This could take him a good half an hour, and usually longer, because his hands brushing were like tiny wisps of wind, and only had the smallest effect on the ashes.

Madeleine's tapestry was beautiful. Somehow, Jehan had not expected it. He looked in wonder at the tiny white stitches, and then, daringly, put out his hand to touch it.

Later, he wondered why in the world Madeleine had tried to give it to him. Perhaps she was flattered by his awe, or perhaps she just forgot. At any rate, she carefully put the tapestry into his arms and of course, it sank through and fell on the hearth.

Daniel had the glass doors to the fireplace open while he swept, and the tapestry, half in and half out, caught instantly and went up in a huge burst of white-hot, blazing, ghostly fire. Jehan fell back with a loud yelp of surprise, and Daniel and Madeleine both vanished.

Jehan's door was flung open, and there was Twelve from across the hall, alternately staring at the scorchmark on the hearth and looking at Jehan worriedly.

"Did you cry out?"

"Yes--yes--" Jehan stared back from the floor. His hair was singed around his face.

"What happened?"

"I don't know--something caught fire."

Twelve came over and helped him up. "You ought to be careful."

"I'm sorry," Jehan murmured, feeling abashed. "I'm Jehan Prouvaire," he added shyly. He realised that Twelve was terribly lovely, and that made him shyer than ever.

"Michel Enjolras," said Twelve.

"Er--you own a bookshop, don't you?"

"Sometimes." Twelve's beautiful eyes studied him carefully. "Are you at all familiar with Les Amis de l'Abaisse?"

"I've--I've heard of them. I admire them..."

"I am their leader, Monsieur Prouvaire."

~~~

In summer, the boarding house in Paris missed two of its tenants. Jehan Prouvaire and the bookstore owner in Twelve disappeared with no word for three days, before someone came to collect their belongings for their families. At this, everyone was stunned.

They all knew Jehan Prouvaire, after all, with his smile and the way he was always so polite! and the way he liked to talk to the old inhabitants. Of course, they didn't know Twelve at all, so perhaps he really was a dangerous terrorist. Well, of all things. Owning a bookstore seemed so respectable. But Jehan Prouvaire!

Then, during the night of June tenth, everyone was startled from sleep by a muffled kind of wailing from Room Eleven, Jehan Prouvaire's old room, currently vacant. Someone investigated, but said there was no one there.

Valerie had set down her book at last and was cradling the pale, transparent form of a sobbing young man whose eyes used to be the colour of violets. Old Bernard had come up from the lobby couch, and was trying to say supporting things. They were both looking furiously over the boy's shoulder at Daniel and Madeleine.

"I know you were fond of him," Valerie whispered at last, "but letting him meet Enjolras when you knew he could be killed! What were you thinking?"

"He wanted to meet Enjolras. He was always saying so. And at any rate, we loved him," Madeleine said stubbornly, before old Bernard could protest. Daniel nodded.

Valerie was not really very surprised when Jehan moved away to stay with Raoul. The leaking roof was a small price to pay.

~~~

And for petitecatherine, Combeferre/Prouvaire consolation fic. Please to enjoy!

La Galerie des Colours

One of Combeferre's greatest pleasures was going to the little art gallery tucked away in one of the dead-end alleys in Montmartre. It was something of a guilty pleasure, since he was sure there were other things he ought to be doing instead of looking at the paintings, but he had never really been able to give himself a good reason he should stop.

The paintings displayed could done by anyone. If you thought yourself an artist and sent in your work, it would usually be put up. Persons who stopped in could purchase it, and the gallery's owner, an old man who didn't charge to have the paintings displayed there, would send you the money. Multiple rumours circled as to his social status and wealth, but it was generally decided he was quite rich and lonely and liked owning the gallery because he was able to socialise with the artists and buyers alike. For all this, it was never particularly crowded. Perhaps that was because of the location.

Combeferre preferred to visit on Tuesday, and allowed himself to buy two paintings every month, but no more than two. His little apartment would not bear a huge collection. As it was, he still couldn't display his current twelve all at once.

This Tuesday, the first Tuesday of February, he was walking through thoughtfully looking for something to purchase--but not for himself; this would be for his younger sister back in the country. He had high hopes for finding something perfect. With all the different artists who contributed, there must be something for every kind of person.

Monsieur, the old man who owned the gallery, shuffled over to him cheerfully.

"Ah, Monsieur Paul! How nice to see you. I do keep forgetting, but this is your day, is it not? Tuesday. Yes. This is also Monsieur Georges' day, and Mademoiselle Helene comes to-day and Saturday."

No one was known by his or her last name--they preferred the sort of friendly anonymity of les prénoms. Monsieur never went by anything but Monsieur.

"Now, Monsieur Paul, I do not remember if this is your buying day. But if it is--you are fond of Monsieur Alexandre's paintings, are you not? He just sent in three new ones."

"Non, non, Monsieur," Combeferre said pleasantly, "to-day I'm looking for something to send my sister. Her birthday is in a week."

"Ah, but I understand! Madame Catherine brought a new picture yesterday that I believe no one has discovered yet, and Mademoiselle Michele had an errand boy bring two particularly nice landscapes. Your sister is--?"

"Madame Claudia. She lives in the country, but she tells me she misses Paris. Her husband brought her here when they were first married."

"Well, in that case, Monsieur Eduard has several lovely paintings of the Seine, and various salons and cafés. He is fond of painting les cafés."

"May I look at them?"

"Of course. Come with me."

As Combeferre followed Monsieur, he continued to look around. He caught sight of Monsieur Alexandre's new paintings hanging on the Blue Wall (where they were backed by blue velvet). Monsieur Alexandre did rural scenes with children picking flowers or young women reading in gardens, but the works Combeferre loved best were the paintings taken from literature. He already owned several illustrations of Shakespeare plays and various myths. After he'd found a picture for Claudia, he must look at these new ones.

"Here we are, Monsieur Paul. Monsieur Eduard's best work."

Combeferre stared.

Standing by the Green Wall, looking earnestly at the busy cafe scene full of bright light and colour, was someone he knew well.

"Monsieur Jean!" Monsieur beamed. "Monsieur Jean, I did not know you liked Monsieur Eduard's paintings! But how nice! Monsieur Paul is also here to look at them. Monsieur Jean," he added to Combeferre, "has only just become coming. He has not yet found a day."

"Yes. I know Monsieur Jean, Monsieur."

At his name, Jean Prouvaire turned around, looking surprised and delighted. "C--"

Monsieur gave him a warning glance. "You know Monsieur Paul, Monsieur Jean?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I do. I didn't know your first name was Paul, C--Monsieur Paul." He tilted his head engagingly.

"That's les amis for you, Monsieur Jean." Combeferre smiled over his spectacles and turned to Monsieur. "That one, the outdoors café with the stone patio and the metalwork tables and all the people. How much is it?"

Taking the painting off the Green Wall, Monsieur said, "Oh, this one. Seven francs. But perhaps I may suggest that one, which is only, I believe, five francs and slightly better painted."

"This one?" Combeferre touched the frame. "'Le Café Nuit'. You're right. It's actually eight francs, by the way."

Monsieur smiled indulgently as he put the first painting back. "Ah well; everyone makes mistakes."

"So they do. I think she'll like it."

"Excellent, Monsieur Paul! I shall wrap it for you." Laughing, Monsieur left the room, carrying the painting carefully.

"Is this place good?" Jean asked nervously, after he'd gone. "I--I like the paintings, but I'm never sure."

"It's wonderful. I can't think of a better place."

"All right."

"It takes a little while to get used to the names, doesn't it?"

"Why does he do it that way?"

"For the privacy of painter and purchaser alike," said Combeferre. "That's just the way it's done. I wonder--have you seen Monsieur Alexandre's paintings on the Blue Wall?"

"No. No, I've not."

"Then I must show you. He's my favourite artist."

"All right." This time, Jean giggled. "I like it here. It's so strange. Do you think he'd let me write here?"

"I'm sure he would. We're supposed to support the arts here. But you can ask--here he comes."

"Monsieur Paul, Monsieur Paul, here is your little painting. Please give Madame Claudia my regards, and I am very much in the hope she likes it."

"I think she will." Combeferre gave Monsieur the money, and then politely went to the Blue Wall to look at Monsieur Alexandre's paintings while Jean put his question to the owner of the gallery. In a few moments, Jean joined him. "Well? What did he say?"

"He said yes! He said I'm welcome to come by and write whenever I please."

"That's wonderful."

After that, Combeferre saw Jean often. He was always sitting on the floor or standing by the Red Wall scribbling earnestly in his notebook. The buyers became used to him, curled up in the chair set out specially for him, which he moved around to write about and study a different painting every day. Unlike most of the regulars, Jean never chose a day. He simply came when he could; at least, that was what he said. Despite that, and to everyone's slight amusement, he actually came every day.

So, when one Tuesday he was absent, they were all rather surprised. Combeferre had already missed him at the college and Enjolras' café meeting, and inquired rather anxiously of Monsieur if he knew where Monsieur Jean was.

"Oh, yes, Monsieur Paul. Monsieur Jean is ill to-day. He sent a boy to tell us, along with his very first painting. It is displayed on the Blue Wall, next to Monsieur Alexandre's and Mademoiselle Juliet's."

Dutifully, Combeferre went to look, deciding with a vague smile that it was just like Jean to tell Monsieur, but no one else.

The painting was a portrait entitled simply 'Monsieur Paul'. It was a portrait of Combeferre.

He blinked once or twice, and looked at it again in astonishment. It was certainly him, from his red-gold hair to his spectacles to his usual grey waistcoat and jacket. "Good Lord," Combeferre murmured. Of all the things to paint...

"Er, Monsieur," he hailed Monsieur distractedly, "that new one of Madame Julienne's, with the dragonflies and pond. Could you please wrap that for me?"

"Monsieur Paul, that will be your third painting this month (it is also eleven francs, Monsieur Paul)..."

"Yes, I know. It's for Monsieur Jean."

"Oh! But of course. I am always making mistakes." Monsieur shuffled off pleasantly while Combeferre got out the money.

Combeferre carried it gently under his arm all the walk to Jean's apartment. The directions were supplied by a variety of shop owners. It seemed that Jean frequented all the shops selling either coffee, paper, inks, or paint, and it was easy to find persons who could tell him the way.

Combeferre knocked on the door of Jean's room softly.

"Come in," called a weak, ill-sounding voice.

Easing open the door, Combeferre entered, and set the painting down on the first chair he found. Oddly enough, there were four. "Hello, Jean. Monsieur told me you were ill."

Jean sniffled and sat up in bed. "Yes. I've got a terrible cold and--" he sneezed miserably "--a fever, too, I think."

"I'm terribly sorry. I bought you a gift."

"You did?" Jean smiled.

"Have you seen Madame Julienne's paintings?"

"Of course! She does ponds. And insects," he added, before sneezing again.

"I bought one of hers." Combeferre unwrapped the painting carefully.

"Oh!"

"Do you like it?"

"Terribly! Will you hang it on the wall? There're hooks all over. The man who owned this room before me had an awful lot of pictures."

Combeferre obeyed, looking over his shoulder at Jean, who had his nose buried in his handkerchief. "There."

"Thank you!"

"I'll come to-morrow if you like," Combeferre offered, wondering why he was. "I can bring you something to eat, if you think you can, and talk for a while."

"Oh, that would be nice. I hate staying in bed."

Jean was even more ill the next day and unable to eat anything, and Combeferre promised Jean's landlady that yes, he would be by the next day too to make sure Jean was all right. Thus it was that Combeferre began to take care of him while he was ill, in as easy a transition as it took for Jean to become a fixture of the art gallery. But Combeferre enjoyed it rather, because Jean was a sweet person, fond of talking in an excited, delighted voice and expressing his love for nearly everything. By the time Jean was well enough to go back to the art gallery, Combeferre was worried about the empty gap it would leave in his schedule where he'd made everything fit around his visits to Jean.

Jean was quick to try and thank him, and spent long hours in his chair writing constantly. Meanwhile, Combeferre couldn't wait for Tuesdays, so he could wander through the gallery, look over somewhere and see Jean immersed in his poetry.

Monsieur was the one to give him Jean's thank-you poem.

"Monsieur Jean wishes that I give this to you. I think, Monsieur Paul, he is a little too shy to give it himself. He has painted another portrait of you, but Monsieur Fernand bought it this morning. He said it was delightful and had beautiful soulful eyes. You should be flattered, Monsieur Paul."

"Monsieur Fernand is a hopeless romantic," Combeferre said, peering at Monsieur over his spectacles.

"Ah! I know. Now, you must read Monsieur Jean's poem! I shall assist Mademoiselle Helene with her purchase." He quickly disappeared.

Combeferre read, not noticing Jean edging into the room and watching him hopefully. When he looked up at last, he was surprised to find that his cheeks were wet. It was not as though anyone had every written a poem for him, particularly one as pretty and awkward as this.

"Paul?"

"Jean," Combeferre said, taking off his spectacles with one hand and wiping his eyes. "Good Lord, Jean, thank you. That's beautiful." It was not beautiful. It was pretty and awkward. But that, Combeferre thought, was what made it so wonderful.

Jean beamed and suddenly hugged him, a hug that felt shy and warm. "You're welcome," he whispered, and when Combeferre kissed his cheek he hugged him tighter.

Monsieur looked around the corner of the Blue Wall at Monsieur Jean and Monsieur Paul and smiled delightedly. Ah, yes, yes, La Galerie des Colours, the art gallery, was a place of beauty and romance. How nice. Here, one came in contact with one's own soul and the soul of others; with the souls of the moon and the stars; with the beauty of art and love. Yes, everything fit perfectly.