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Error (Pontmercy): December, 1828
It was all terribly confusing at first. They are all so close to each other, and I, I know nothing of any of them, not even Courfeyrac who was very kind, I suppose, in offering me a place to stay. If he had not, I might well be back at my grandfather’s doorstep, asking for forgiveness. But Courfeyrac is generous, and so I have a little dignity left. He is also odd, he and his friends. It seems that there is nearly always someone visiting him late at night or first thing in the morning, and I don’t entirely understand why. Perhaps they simply have a great deal to discuss, though they seem to have many discussions during the evenings when they are all together, too, and I can’t imagine that there are that many things to talk about in the world. They seem to find them, early and late. And they may well be talking. Some of his friends -- Bahorel, for instance -- are less sensible even than I would expect from men who profess to be militant Republicans. But some make a little sense: Combeferre, Feuilly. Feuilly, especially. I wonder how he and Courfeyrac can be quite as close as they are when one is quiet and the other is frighteningly outspoken; one is calm and the other is ever excited about something or other. Feuilly seems like the sort of fellow everyone needs around, dependable and sensible. Not to say I dislike Courfeyrac, but I certainly prefer Feuilly’s company, as he won’t tease me about anything or laugh because I seem like I don’t know what is happening all the time. Unlike Courfeyrac, he knows he has faults. But they are charming faults, I would say. Certainly I can understand his tendency to be quiet among his friends; they are all brilliant and terrifying by turns. I cannot usually find words among them, either. And whatever the reason, he is always as ready with a smile as any of them, though I would have thought that someone in his social position would find it difficult to be merry very often. Surely he cannot afford to relax, and yet he does. That in itself is admirable. And when he does relax, he is witty; when he smiles, it makes one want to smile back. I had never meant to tell him how much I respected him, for however I tried, it would have certainly sounded awkward, but one morning I met him in the hallway outside of Courfeyrac’s room. He was on his way to work, I en route to class. We nodded and said, "Good morning," and should have left it at that. Instead, I watched him lock the door behind himself and noticed that he had a key, which was odd. He looked up at me when that was done and gave me another smile. "Have a good day, then." I am not entirely sure why I embraced him, then, and gave him a brief kiss on each cheek as one might do with a friend. He patted my shoulder, as confused as I was, and he must have expected that I would let him go in a moment, but instead I kissed him. It was the first kiss I had ever given anyone outside of my family other than the brief kissing-the-air, and as such it was at least as muddled as anything else that morning. I knew nothing more than that I wanted it to go on longer, to stand with my lips pressed against his and my arms around him for half the morning. He smelled warm and comforting, a little like paint and a little like fresh bread. I believe I took him by surprise in kissing him, for he did not object or try to move away, but neither did he kiss me back. He doubtless knew a better way of kissing or a girl he would rather have kissed, and perhaps he thought of the latter and forbore to do the former. He protested eventually and stepped backward so that I could not entirely hold him. His cheeks were red with a blush. He did not meet my eyes. He said, "Good morning," again, and set off down the hall very quickly. I took a few steps after him, wanting to apologize or perhaps talk more than we had, before I realized how odd it would be to pursue the matter just then. I wrote a letter, careful to address him politely as vous throughout though my heart ached to call him friend: Mon cher Feuilly, I must apologize for my conduct yesterday morning. What I did was wrong and you no doubt think less of me for it; I am sure that I offended you. Please, trust that I shall not do anything of the sort again. It was inexplicable and, perhaps, unforgivable. The latter is entirely your decision. I, of course, hope that you will forgive my idiocy and deign to remain my friend. I meant no harm. Please believe that. I apologize for my lack of manners and my inability to communicate in a sensible fashion -- hence this misbegotten letter, at which you are doubtless laughing if you have not given up in disgust. I admire you greatly. I would not have acted so foolishly if I did not. you seem terribly wise and kind to me -- and though I have little else to commend me, I fancy myself a good judge of character. I suspect that it would not be wholly exaggeration to describe my emotion for you as love. Again I have been foolish and again I apologize. If it bothers you at all that I have described my feeling thus, you need not tell me so. I shall not approach you regarding this letter nor speak to you of its contents unless you address me about it first. I assure you that the folly I committed yesterday will not be repeated. Please, if you value me at all as a friend, though I am foolish and stupid and infinitely less wise than you, say nothing of my faux pas to your friends, and do not tell them of this letter. You must think me piteous, perhaps perverse; if you are terribly distressed then you may have already told them of my mistake. If I am luckier than I deserve and you think you could forgive me, please tell no one lest they find me reprehensible. I would be ever in your debt if you said nothing to them -- particularly Courfeyrac. I shall be patient, and if you do not answer, I shall take that as an outright dismissal. -- Marius Pontmercy I finished the letter at eleven o’clock at night, and would have gone to bed, except that I heard voices in the corridor outside my room, saying, “Perhaps, mon frère, we shouldn’t have had quite so much wine.” “Perhaps, but it’s no great hardship.” “To you, it’s not, but you don’t need to be awake in the morning, do you?” “And neither do you. It’s Saturday.” “Oh. So it is.” “So that’s all right, then.” “I suppose so.” A door shut, and I sat up. One of those voices had certainly been Feuilly’s, the other Courfeyrac’s. I could go next door and give him the letter, which was already weighing heavily in my hand, and it would be over. I did not doubt that he would be discreet enough to keep it from his friend. I stood and took a candle into the hall, knocked lightly on the next door over and tried the knob when there was no answer. It was unlocked, and without entirely meaning to do it, I opened the door. There was no lamp lit, but by the weak light of the candle, I could see Courfeyrac, his hair unbound and wild. He had his arms around someone and was kissing them with a passion that explained why he had not answered the door. I was too surprised to turn around immediately and speechless with embarrassment. I did not realize it was Feuilly in his embrace until they broke the kiss and he looked at me. I dropped the letter, forgetting what it said, forgetting the need for secrecy, and veritably flew back into my room, where I put out the light and attempted to think. He had seen me, but that sickening knowledge did not keep me from trying to hide, trying to pretend I had not seen what I had seen nor discovered what I had discovered. Before I had decided what to do next, there was a knock on my door. It was Courfeyrac, surely come to chide me for my thousand mistakes. I tried to apologize for the last and most glaring. I couldn’t look at him, but I said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -- to do anything wrong." "You didn't," he said, and touched my shoulder. "You haven't. It's all right." I didn’t immediately push him away. It was good to have some vague reassurance that he did not loathe me, but I was not convinced of the rest. "It's not all right." "Pauvre petit, have we shocked you?" I hated him for that, though he meant it gently. "Don't. I said I'm sorry." I looked at him for the first time since he had come in the room. His hair was mussed, but he looked rather strangely serious. I wanted him to leave. "What else do I need to say?" "And I said that you have nothing to apologize for, except not knocking loudly enough." He shook his head. "Calm down." "I'm perfectly calm,” I said, though I was lying. “What did you want to say, then, if you aren't upset?" "Well, to apologize, for one thing." Courfeyrac grinned crookedly. "I ought to have had better sense." "What do you mean?" Courfeyrac sat down beside me, too close, too intimately for any discussion, particularly one like this. "Could have locked the door, at least." "It's my fault.” I was not entirely sure of this, but it seemed reasonable. "Well, how were you to know?" "I suppose I wasn't." And when I sighed, Courfeyrac put an arm about my shoulders, as if he really had forgiven me, as if it were all forgivable that easily. "What's the matter, mon ami?" I wanted to embrace him or, failing that, to throw him out immediately. "I feel like an idiot." "Oh." Courfeyrac chuckled, though there was nothing funny about any of it. "Well, that happens." "I'm sorry," I said again, hoping that he would leave. "Marius. Don't worry about it." Courfeyrac hugged me. I hardly heard him say, "It will be all right,” for I wanted to hold him, and I wanted him to go. "I don't see how." Courfeyrac was quiet for a moment and looked at me as though he were trying to read my thoughts. Then he shook his head, despairing of whatever he’d seen. "I think you're upsetting yourself over nothing much. Get some sleep. And--" It was more rejection than I could bear. I said, "I'm not tired, thank you." "All right, stay up and read your newspapers then. But tomorrow, I think you should talk to Daniel." Courfeyrac stood. "I don't know what you mean." That was, of course, not true, but I had not been expecting him to say anything of the sort, and he had embarrassed me. "Only," he said, slowly, as though he believed my prevarication, "that Feuilly is a good man to confide in... particularly for the lovelorn. And his advice is generally sound." As if he had ever needed to be lovelorn, damn him. As if he’d ever known what I was feeling. I put my head in my hands and wished he had never spoken to me in the first place. "Thank you. I can see I didn't need any dignity." "Oh, for God's sake." I had aggravated him, but I was not sorry. He was aggravating me. "Dignity is all well and good, young man, but don't overindulge." "Damn it." I stood, glaring at him. "What did you want to say to me? Oh, it's a shame I can't see what's right in front of my face, how sad that I can't do anything right, perhaps I'm a nice boy but that doesn't go far, does it?" "Calm down." His face was red, perhaps with annoyance. "I'm not your enemy, for heaven's sake, Pontmercy. What do you want me to say?" "I didn't want you to say anything. I don't know what you wanted to say to me when you came over here, it's nothing -- nothing to do with you." I had never wanted him to know any of it. "I came over here because you left in something of a panic, mon ami, and I thought you might need reassurance. As for the rest-- no, it's nothing to do with me, except that I consider you a friend. Both of you," he amended, after a moment, in case I had missed the fact that he was Daniel’s friend. I bit my lip. "All right. I'm sorry," and I was, sorry for a thousand things, although not necessarily for angering him. "It's all right." Courfeyrac took a deep breath. "I'll leave you to your newspapers, I suppose." I crossed my arms. "I'm sorry." "I said-- it's all right. Get some rest; you'll feel better in the morning." He went toward the door. "Good night, mon ami." "Good night," I said, though all of a sudden I hated to see him go. He would have his friend, his love, and I would have no company but my own humiliation. He must have heard it, for he came back and put a hand on my shoulder. I embraced him, trying not to think why, and apologized again. He said, "Mon ami. Everything's all right. Truly." That was incredible. I asked, softly, "You don't hate me?" for he must have been embarrassed, hurt, jealous, at the very least irritated. He had no reason to tolerate me at all. "Of course not," he said, and I began to believe it. My anger left me in a sigh. "All right." Courfeyrac patted me on the back and let me go, as though I were an irritated child and not his friend. "Goodnight. Don't fret." "Good night," I repeated, though I no longer wanted him to go, but he only smiled and left. I had trouble sleeping that night, and when I did sleep, I was troubled by dreams of friends who hated me, my grandfather finding me in some boy’s bed and cursing me for a sodomite as well as an idiot. In the morning, I woke with my arms clutched tight around my pillow and something that might have been tears wetting the linen under my cheek. The next evening I did not go with Courfeyrac to his political meeting. I could not have borne it, sitting there in public as if nothing had ever happened and I had not made an idiot of myself. I tried to read instead, but I could not concentrate on the book in my hand. I found myself rereading a paragraph, then a chapter, and ending with no greater understanding of what it had said than when I began. At some point, I tried to go to sleep. I woke when someone tapped on my door. I considered putting my head under my pillow or faking a snore, anything to make them go away, but after a few moments I got up and put my pants on again. “Who is it?” “It’s Daniel.” I hated him, then, with all the fervor I had spent on caring for him before. He must have known everything, how poor piteous Pontmercy had been so very upset last night, had clung -- damn my childish impulses -- to Courfeyrac in a moment of weakness, of loneliness. And here was Daniel, knocking lightly on my door, surely at his friend’s, no, his lover’s behest, for no sane man would have wished to speak to me after the embarrassments I had heaped upon him. Still, I unlocked the door for him and frowned at him in the dark hallway. I was not dressed to leave my room, and so I let him in and shut the door behind him. I could not help but smile at him then. He looked as tired as I felt, tousle-haired and worn down by a long day. I embraced him. That was a mistake. It was unexpectedly sweet to have him in my arms, so much so that before I entirely knew what I was doing, I had kissed him again, as foolishly as I had before, but this time he kissed me back, though he did not embrace me. That didn’t matter; I couldn’t let him go, and I couldn’t stop kissing him, and neither could I think. It was a relief to hold him and know that I had not had to seek him out to speak to him, and yet it introduced a kind of tension in me that I did not understand. I could not speak, then, and I could not have heard him had he said anything. All I wanted in the world was to kiss him, and he allowed it. I realized with some part of my mind that he was leaning against the closed door, and I was leaning on him and kissing him. He put his hand on my shoulder, and for a dizzy instant I feared he meant to push me away, but instead he moved it to the small of my back and pulled me closer. I must have stopped kissing him for half a moment, for I heard myself sigh as I held him closer. I could not have remained standing if I had not been holding onto him; I felt as though I was going mad, and perhaps I was. His hand was on my hip, then, and I could feel his body through his trousers. I could not think well enough to know whether it was right or wrong. I only wanted to be closer to him, and so I pushed against him, as though I could be any more in his arms than I was. Daniel said something, and I could not think well enough to know what it was, really, except that it was not a complaint. It could not have been, for he had his arms around me and was arching against me as I was against him, and I kissed him again. For a moment, two moments, three, it was perfect. And then he pushed me away and drew a breath that sounded almost like a sob. I missed the warmth of his body against mine. I was cold, standing there in the middle of my room, and I realized that I was also filthy. Daniel was half in tears, in the same sorry state as I. “For God’s sake,” he said, pulling his jacket closed, though I had already seen the spreading stain on his trousers. “Never, never do that again. Please.” I wanted to tell him that I wanted him, that I loved him, that I wanted a thousand other things from him, less shameful, less hurried, but I could feel the heat of my desire fading and sanity returning. “I’m sorry,” I said, surprised to find myself almost crying, as he was. “I won’t. I promise. I won’t say anything.” Daniel didn’t look at me. “Neither will I. And don’t. Don’t kiss me.” I bit my lip. How I wanted to hold him -- but he wanted nothing of the sort from me. “I won’t. I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “It -- it will be all right.” He left my room. It was much colder without him. I built up the fire and heated water, then, blushing though no one was there to see me, I changed my clothing and washed myself, and my pants, and my rather pathetic shirt. No one came to chide me that night, nor the next, and when it seemed they had forgotten, I went with them to their meeting. No one said anything about the wonderful, awful mistake. When the landlord came, demanding money I could hardly scrape together, Courfeyrac helped me leave. He must have been grateful to have me gone, out of his way. It was good, in a way, to be distant enough that I could never hear them talking through the wall and want to weep.
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