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Intimate (Pontmercy): February, 1833
I hardly knew the woman's voice or her face; it was what came of having someone else pay the rent for the scant months I lived in the place, and pretending I did not live there even though I did. But she yelled, "Monsieur Pontmercy!" at me from outside the church as merrily as if we had spoken daily, and I could not help but answer, even when my heart was overflowing with love for Cosette, and I could think of nothing but her. "Yes, madame?" I said, and she took my hand firmly. "I thought you were dead, you poor young man, like the other two." I stared at her a moment, and then I knew her -- the concierge of Courfeyrac's last apartment. "I've brought your things, and theirs, as I didn't know which was whose." She gave me a broad wink. I could only stare at her in surprise and no small measure of fear. "Madame?" "Dear boy," she said, "how I worried about you all, going off to fight --" She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose heartily. "I was so glad to hear you were all right." "Thank you," I said faintly. Cosette was somewhere, talking perhaps with her father, or with some other guest I had not met. I wanted her beside me then as desperately as I had ever needed her company, to staunch the flow of memories I had thought lost or faded. "Gerald, bring the things," the woman called over her shoulder, and a dimwitted boy set three book-laden boxes in front of me and put a large, rectangular flat thing draped with a cloth on top. "What's that?" I asked of the odd object, before I remembered and felt my cheeks burn red with shame. I wanted to steal the words back, throw the incriminating thing onto the pavement and stomp it into a blur. She knew perfectly well what it was, for she gave me a dig in the ribs. "Monsieur de Courfeyrac's picture, of course." "Of course," I echoed weakly, planning how best to hide the thing from Cosette. "We'll be off, then. Come along, Gerald. Best of luck to you, m'sieur, and to your lady wife." I bowed to her and gestured to my cousin for assistance. "Théodule. You must help me." He ran his fingers over his mustache -- a most annoying nervous habit. "What do you need? Are you lacking in courage for your fair bride?" If I had not been so desperate, I would have struck him, wedding day or no wedding day. "I need you to get these books out of here, and that picture -- don't touch it!" He was on the verge of pulling back the covering and laying the misbegotten thing bare to all the eyes of the wedding guests. Instead, he turned to me, his eyebrows raised high. "No?" "Not here," I told him through clenched teeth. "All right, cousin, peace. Where shall I take these odds and ends?" "Hire a fiacre." I pressed money into his hand, far too much for a cab, and saw his expression lighten. "Take them to my grandfather's. Toss the picture into the gutter if the occasion arises." "Is it so unflattering?" I knew I had said too much. With a renewed blush, I said, "Not to the person in it, who's dead. Have a little respect." "Is she, now. Then she won't mind me looking." I shook my head. "Take the things away, now." "Have a care, Marius, before you prostrate yourself on your own wedding day." But he turned away to hail a fiacre, and I breathed a sigh of relief. With the nuisances gone, I could return to the joy of my life, my beautiful Cosette, and the revels that awaited us that day. In all of the rushing and bustling, I forgot that Courfeyrac's concierge had ever visited me, and I gratefully allowed her distressing burdens to slip my mind until I went looking for a particular book and happened into a closet. What should greet me there but the portrait, proudly unveiled, reigning supreme over the boxes that had accompanied it? I swore -- under my breath, so as not to disturb Cosette -- and closed the door. I fetched an old sheet to cover the abomination. I had at first planned to destroy it immediately, but I found I could not. In among the books -- law textbooks, classics, novels -- there was a box. When I opened it, I caught the smell of Courfeyrac's cologne, and for a moment I was dizzy, expecting him to walk in at any moment and scold me for reading his correspondence. He did nothing of the sort, and so I took the box into my study and started to flip through the letters. I told myself that I would have to forward on the ones from his family, but surely there were letters they would rather not see. One such sat on top of the stack, in bold if somewhat careless handwriting. I began reading it with some distress, and nearly stopped when I discovered who it was from, but he was, after all, dead, and what harm could come of it?
Dearest Aimery, I called on you the other evening, or rather I attempted to call on you, only to have Daniel inform me in a laugh that you were not expected for two weeks, even though you've been gone for six. Why this long absence, dear brother? You must know our fires burn lower in your absence, when we have nothing to stoke them with but increasingly distant memories of this speech or that, of your charming face and, as you must be aware, the fond touch of your hands. Of course I was seeking your company sheerly for the pleasure of talking to you. Do you laugh at me now? Well you might, for I prevaricate in letters. Daniel, you may be gratified or worried to hear, wanted none of the fine damsels I had meant to introduce you to, and I in your absence found my taste for them weaker than I had expected it to be, like stew without salt or spices: sustaining, pleasant enough in its own right, but without the piquant flavor that so delights me in your presence. You may well have spoiled that fellow's palate for anything less savory than yourself. He seemed a bit wan, I'm sorry to say, and if he would have accepted my comforts I would have proffered them. But he is ever so devoted to you, and so he pines away like any abandoned mistress -- though I suspect most abandoned mistresses are rather more amenable to distractions; perhaps he merely comforts himself in ways I haven't heard about quite yet. For myself, I sought out Jehan and pried him from his Eagle's nest. Does it ever surprise you to look at him when he is in a filthy mood? He says things that would have made him die of shame, when we first met him, and his eyes are still as bright and seemingly innocent as they ever were, and his cheek as smooth -- though that is increasingly through art rather than nature. One wonders whether our Eagle is Roman in his tastes, or Greek, to prefer his poet so desperately young in appearance. I can't say that object to the aesthetic; he is not so old that the artifice shows to anyone who does not know every inch of his skin. We spoke of you, as we often do, and felt your absence all the more keenly because of the great distance. We spoke fondly of exploits long past and laughed together over our own temerity. He reminded me of several girls whose names I had forgotten before he called them to my mind. Does that speak poorly of me, or well of him, or both, that he should know my mistresses better than I do? Certainly several of them were quite fond of him, and I seem to recall that Angélique was terribly fond of you, if I recall her name correctly. I can certainly remember her pretty face, whispering fond nonsense to you and begging you to press on even as you gasped for breath and pulled her close in a glory of desire. She was a truly depraved girl, that one, well suited to your tastes, and, if I must admit it, to mine. Now you are laughing again, I'm quite sure. Have your laugh, if you must; I am laughing too, for Jehan reminded me of the sweet incident that you, for once, admitted to instigating. It was several years ago, but he was quite sure we could safely blame you. How often the two of you cavort and call it "my fault," as if there is any fault to be assigned in the pursuit of ecstasy. At least this once you admitted that the seed of the idea, as it were, was yours. I remember the evening as golden, first from sunlight, then from lamplight, and the shivering haste with which we undressed Jehan. In the morning, we couldn't even find his cravat, but even had we known it that night, would we have cared, dear brother? Not with the visions of pleasure before our eyes, I am quite sure. You had both come to my apartment, you from the meeting and Jehan fresh from a bath. He could hardly sit still for a moment that night; politics would have been a terrible distraction from joy. And yet he argued at first, as he is so wont to do -- generally, I suspect, for the purpose of inflaming as many passions as he can kindle. The dear, wicked boy does love a good debate, and he will persist until his lips are swollen with kisses and he cannot breathe. Only then did he remind us with a shiver in his voice of the promise you had made him-- a mad promise, surely issued an instant before you came some sweaty evening. I know you and your rash promises all too well. And you regretted that promise, I recall, and tried to ignore his insistent undulations until he forgot the very thing that had obsessed his debauched mind. How on earth did you think you could distract Jehan from such an idea once you had planted the seed deep within his head? He knew all too well what he wanted, and nothing would do but his fantasy made flesh. "Take me, damn you," was, if I recall, his precise command, issued in that light voice he saved for such backhanded endearments. I told him he was being far too ambitious and he started to sulk. He is so pretty in a sulk that it is a shame to disturb it; sometimes I regret my decision to bind his hands that evening, but I daresay it kept him out of our hair. It had been some time since I had had the pleasure of your company, if you'll recall. How he wailed when I kissed you instead of him, and how you grinned, dear brother, at my suggestion. Surely Jehan is the only man whom I have heard protest the touch of your fine tongue and the embrace of your knowledgeable lips. I was sure he would fall off of the bed with fighting to get away, bound hands or no, when you stopped -- in mercy, or in torment, neither of us were quite sure. I decided a moment later when you kissed me, sharing the taste of his juices as if we were sharing a fruit. I remember how piteously he cursed us, aching with his own impotence to egg us on to anything more. When I bent to taste him, he protested in the name of Robespierre -- enough to knock any man out of bed. "This isn't what I wanted at all," Jehan said, his fair face blotched with irritation. And how sweetly you comforted him, in his misapprehension. "Later, chéri. Soon enough." "Why not now?" The dear, impatient boy could hardly think, and his voice grew petulant. "Let us help you relax," you told him -- how sweet you can be when you want to cajole. He calmed only a little when he understood, only enough to allow us to tease him. I loved the way he shivered, watching you, nearly as much as the arch of his back when you let me savor him. Poor Jehan, tortured so by his loving friends. He was appreciative after a while, and how he shivered when he came. Do you remember the curve of his back and the madness in him at the last? He was not quite so sweet when we had finished as when we began, but his delicate face, lately scarred with frowns, reflected his gratitude. Isn't it lovely to snuggle up to him? He's a kind boy when he wants to be. And relaxed, he would have let us do nearly anything. He nearly fell asleep with his head on my shoulder before you pressed your fingers inside him, and then he began fidgeting. Sometimes I wonder whether his ingenuousness or his insatiability is more charming. What would you say, my love? Whichever it is, he was displaying both characteristics most clearly that night. He pressed against your fingers as eagerly as anything. "Now?" he asked, as if we had offered him the best reward in the world, and then held it far above his head. He kept asking -- as he always does -- until my fingers had joined yours, stretching him as he shuddered. His impatience got the better of him, and he wriggled away, laughing at us, goading us. How is it that he could be so impatient, when we were waiting for him and we had already satisfied him once? I expect he had dreamed of the promise long before that night; I am sure that I had spent time meditating on it, nearly as much as I have since. Lovely Jehan, mad with laughter, spread his legs and thrust himself down over me until I shuddered. You called him greedy, with good cause, and he only laughed again, acknowledging the truth of it. I grinned up at him, exulting in the feel of his body against mine. With your deft fingers teasing him, he was soon writhing and saying, "More, more." Could you have denied him? I could not have, in your place. I tucked my legs under yours as you moved into him. Didn't he whimper sweetly? How lovely his face was, though you could not see it. He bit his lip, clung to my hands, shuddered against me, and leaned against you with all the force his courage permitted him. Could anything be more intimate than that was, Aimery? Could anything burn with such desire as we did, sliding together, holding each other tightly, until Jehan came again, calling our names and cursing with each hissing breath. The impossibly tight embrace of his body spurred me on; how you clung to his hips. It was too beautiful, too maddening to survive for more than a few moments. Do you ever dream of that night, love, and the way we held each other afterward? On the evenings when I am unfortunately alone, I sometimes recall it. Perhaps the memory will comfort you tonight, and until you return -- none too soon. I expect we could coax Jehan into repeating the spectacular performance, if you can spare an evening. It will be lovely to see you again. With affection,
Christophe
I had no way of knowing whether the tale was true or false, and all the participants were long buried. Still, I could picture them clearly, and the idea of their antics made me shiver. If that was what it had truly meant to be one of their brothers, then what sweet madness had I missed? Too late to rectify the situation now, certainly, but I could easily stop Aimery's parents from seeing the letter. It would scandalize anyone; it shocked me even though I found it plausible. I resolved to keep reading and hold back any similar documents to protect their memory of their son. It would hardly do to have them vilify his name after he was gone. In a large envelope labeled "Daniel," there was a packet of short letters, each reading approximately the same, with some variation of amusing anecdotes and explanatory information about something that had been removed. It pained me to read them.
Beloved, I forget sometimes how monotonous life can be without you nearby. Granted, there are still the arguments and the politics, and our friends are ever ready to have a row if I'm tired of quiet. But other than that, I wake in the morning and miss you; I have dinner alone and miss you; I talk to our mad brothers and miss you; I go to bed and wish to God you were with me. Yours, whatever the distance,
Daniel
The next envelope down had some of the oddities described briefly in the letters: a sheaf of finely executed drawings, most in pen, all in the same style. The first ones were of the men I had so briefly called brothers in their favorite haunts: Enjolras raising a hand to make a particular point in an argument; Joly rubbing his nose with his cane, as he was wont to do; Combeferre and Bossuet playing at chess with studious expressions. The next pages surprised me -- for here were these same familiar men, elegantly caught by a trick of posture or dress -- but they were clinging to one another. Here Jean swooned in Bahorel's arms; in the next, he had his arms around Bossuet with such an adoring look on his face that it made me ache, remembering the nights I had spent with him. In one, which seemed so true to life that I felt tears spring to my eyes for my lost friends, Enjolras' cold demeanor melted away, warmed by Combeferre's embrace. And yet I was not prepared for the final set, which burned my eyes with tears of longing. They were a labor of love, painstakingly rendered. In the first, Aimery and Daniel shared a kiss, their arms around each other's naked bodies. The curves of their bodies fit perfectly, comfortably, and I knew it was no exaggeration on the part of the artist. The imagined caresses trumpeted love; I was absurdly jealous of one, of both, for though I had my sweet Cosette, I had never had any impact on these lovely men, never mind that I ached for them. If it had been anyone else depicted, I might have closed my eyes, sealed the envelope, and burned the pages, but I had known them, had slept between them and felt the heat of their hands on my body. Could I have put it away before I looked further? Perhaps, but I had no desire to do so. The following page was a tangle of limbs, several smaller drawings that made my pulse pound in my ears. Daniel knelt before Aimery, who leaned against a wall, knotting a hand in his hair and watching him avidly. Aimery returned the favor with gusto as Daniel arched off of a bed, their hands twined together. Across the bottom half of the page, from three different angles, they devoured each other, greedy hands tugging on hips, pressing searching fingers between spread legs, and everywhere hungry mouths eager to be filled and give pleasure. My head spun, taking in this blatant, adoring display. I could almost smell Aimery's room, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, and the light, acrid tinge of oil paint. I missed them more sharply than I had since I first discovered that they were gone; I wished I could hear their voices, touch their hands, anything but sit alone in a closet and look at drawings of them that Daniel would have torn in two, had he ever known I would see them. The thought killed my ardor. I began to wonder if they somehow knew that I was rifling through their possessions, but I pushed the thought aside as superstition. I was not finished looking at the pictures, let alone the letters, and it did not seem prudent to send either on to Aimery's parents uncensored.
The next letter was in a hand I did not know. Its contents made me all the more determined not to send anything along without reading it first.
Dearest Aimery,
You ought not to leave us; you must know how we miss you and ache in your presence. I woke this morning certain I could taste you and found myself with my thumb in my mouth, whimpering into the pillow. Christophe laughed at me and bade me kiss him, but I would not until we had had breakfast.
If you were here, cher, you would be enjoying yourself as we are. I know you are by the sea and it cannot possibly be as calamitously hot there as it is here -- my ink dries the moment I open the bottle. Christophe has been taking care of me for the last few days; our arrangement is that he will bring me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so long as I promise not to dress in his brief absences. It has held since Monday. Who knows how long it may persist, with Bossuet at home and you abroad?
We play such games as we have the energy for in this weather, though lassitude often overcomes us as soon as the flames of passion die. Would that you were with us, beloved. Yesterday Christophe would not let me out of bed. Nothing would content him but that I should suck him while he did the same to me, his agile tongue and fingers teasing me until I was on the verge of screaming and had to let him go to gasp for breath. And then he would stop, damn him, and chuckle at me as he always does, until I recovered myself enough to let him press into my throat again. Whenever he began again, it was as if nothing had gone before, and he was so gentle it made me want to kill him. Does he do the same to you, cher, pretending he does not know you tremble for him even when you tell him so? It must have gone on for an hour, Christophe playing the virgin whenever I grew too close to coming or pushing me away before he lost control, before I broke down and begged him.
I am sure I swore scandalous things to end that delicious torture, promised him anything he could conceive of, any favors he could demand of me, but he only laughed at me, telling me he would do as he liked without my promises. It made me shiver, not unpleasantly, for I knew it was all in keeping with the game. I knelt on the blessedly cool floor and let him take my mouth, all his well-stoked passion overflowing at last. I wished you were there so strongly that I could almost feel you inside me as warm and desperate as he was.
When he had caught his breath, he bound my hands, ignoring my protests. I did not want him to subject me to another hour of anticipation. I begged him all the while, repeating my earlier promises, but he would only give me feather-light touches, enough to make me whimper but never truly sufficient. He fetched a few pillows -- does he do that to you, love, putting you on a pedestal as it were? He laughed at me again, and I despaired, preparing myself to wait until dawn or later before he grew bored.
Perhaps that despair was what he had been seeking, for as I let my body relax onto the pillows in recognition of a long, torturous night, he pressed his fingers inside of me and I cursed him, laughing. He had had enough of teasing, finally; I could feel the determination as he began again, this time in earnest. Every tease he had used earlier was magnified, the final copy of a painting instead of a sketch, and when I began to shiver he encouraged me. I tried to hold myself back at first, afraid that he would suddenly stop again, but he did not, and I had no choice but to trust him, to press against his tormenting tongue and the full heat of his fingers, and let myself descend into madness.
I don't know how long it was before I woke again, but he had freed my hands and pulled the sheet over me, and at some point he had acquired dinner. I sat up, exhausted and dizzy. He brought me a bowl of soup and reminded me that I wasn't getting out of bed. I wrinkled my nose at him, but I was too hungry to argue. After the soup, I felt a little better, enough that when he offered me dessert I could imagine enjoying it.
His dessert was melted chocolate, which I discovered only after he had smeared some on my chest and nuzzled me to lick it off. Perhaps it had been a neat bar when he bought it; between the day and the warmth of his hand, it fairly drizzled off of his thumb. I have come to know Christophe's requests when I see them, so I sat on his lap and captured his hand to suck the remnants of the first piece from his fingers. Always one diabolical step ahead, while I suckled his thumb he wrote his name in sweet goo across my belly, then pushed me down on the bed to trace the letters with his tongue. I had thought I was exhausted, but that was before I slept for perhaps an hour and had lunch. By the time he drew chocolate lines up the insides of my thighs, I pushed his wrist upward, asking for him to decorate my renewed erection.
"Not yet," he told me, and "Turn over." The maddening brute. He left sticky fingerprints on my shoulder blades, down my spine, and in meandering lines over my buttocks that tickled abominably when he cleaned them. He let me catch my breath after that, so that I might not choke on the pillow in my laughter. I settled in his arms, wondering -- hardly for the first time -- if it were possible to feel as utterly protected anywhere else. I don't love him simply because he is formidable, but it is a reassuring strength nevertheless.
Again we teased each other -- I say we, though I bore the brunt of it, for he can easily hold my hands over my head with one hand and torment me with the other. One would think that as a devoté of equality in all things, our dear Christophe would be less bent on torturing his acquaintances and friends, but whatever his professed politics, when I protested he laughed at me. I am sure he knew how sincere I was -- admittedly, not very. I've felt drunk since this began, dizzy with pleasure and willing to submit to his fancies, however ludicrous. When I found the chocolate, I retaliated until he pinned me to the bed and kissed me hard enough that I could barely breathe. He took my breath away again with a series of caresses; I could not help but beg him never to stop, the wicked man, and for once he was sympathetic.
Afterward we lay together. The world felt blurred around me and I held onto him tightly; sweet Christophe knew, he must have known, how close to madness I was, for we spoke of mundane things until I fell asleep again. He was gone when I woke, but one of his books was on the bedside table, so I read Virgil until he came home. It might have been one hour or three. Without my watch, I had no clear idea.
He was grinning from ear to ear when he came back, that charming leer that announces to the world that he is desperately proud of himself. "I brought a present," he told me gleefully, undressing with great haste.
It took me a few moments to return to myself. He was nude by the time I could think in French again. I set the book aside and reached toward him, begging for an embrace. Instead he pressed something searingly, blissfully cold to my chest and slid it down my stomach, leaving a wet trail. I am sure I gasped, certain I cursed him, and positive that when the cold reached lower I braced my feet on the floor and arched toward him. He laughed at me, as he teases anyone who shows half as much passion he does. "Turn over, chéri," he said, and I did, knowing full well that the only other choice was to get out of bed where no one would rub disintegrating diamonds of ice down my back or press them inside me. I had to hide my face in the pillow for fear someone would hear me; I could not make myself stop crying out. The precious, vicious stuff lost its form within me, but Christophe's fingers followed, once, twice, and before I could take a breath I was deliciously full of him, burning with the residual cold and the ecstatic press of his body. He laughed again, gasping out his chuckles, and I sat back on my knees, meeting his thrusts.
After a few minutes, the cold had faded and Christophe paused. I reached back, seeking him, incoherent, and he kissed me. I turned to face him and he pulled away from me, sitting on the edge of the bed before he let me embrace him again. I ached for him, and I wished you were there. You mitigate his teasing at least as often as you magnify it.
When I slid onto his lap, my cheek against his warm chest as he filled me again, I murmured to him that I missed you. "Soon," he said, breathless, and I decided to write to you even as he kissed me and the tension began to trickle down my spine. He held firmly to my hips, trying to stop me from moving. I could only rock a little and sigh, wanting nothing more than for him to move, sharply, quickly, with all the passion I knew he held in check. He ignored my pleas and when I thought I had slid free of his hands, he tugged me close again and embraced me, telling me, "Wait," and caressing me until I shuddered and swore to him that I would die if he didn't fuck me.
That penetrated his fogged brain as nothing had and he helped me up, guided me quickly to kneel on the bed, bracing myself against the wall. At every stroke he raked his fingernails down my back until I was sobbing with the sting, begging for more with every breath he forced out of my lungs. He kept his hands on my back except to pinch my nipples, and every pinch made me gasp anew. I could not move my hands, could not induce him to move his until I was dizzy with lack of breath and I begged him -- oh, how I begged him. He gave me release at last, tugging it from me with unmerciful force, not slowing his thrusts in the least. I swear to you it was not a single climax, not after the debauchery he had subjected me to, not with the tingle of ice and the delectable burn of him within me. I hardly knew when he climaxed; by then I was halfway unconscious. I did not wake fully until morning, when he pressed last night's dinner upon me -- those parts that did not spoil in the heat -- and clucked over the state of my back, all penitence.
Come home, beloved. Help me hold Christophe's hands down and tie his ankles to to the bedposts. He won't yield to me, but between us we can best him, particularly when he is pleased to see you and off his guard. I want you to kneel over his chest and let me suck you while he watches, unable to move until he pleads for mercy and we decide he's suffered enough adoring torment. I cannot imagine freeing him before we are both at least temporarily sated. Let him watch; it will do him no harm to be the patient one for once. Help me repay my great debt to him.
With deepest longing,
Jehan
I had not yet seen anything that could match it for prurience, and from Jehan -- whom I had thought I knew at least as well as the rest. I decided that none of Aimery's correspondents could possibly be trustworthy unless they were his own parents.
The next set of drawings further confirmed my fears.
Beloved, I rarely employ models, but I assure you that this one was fully compensated. We miss you desperately. Yours,
Daniel
The related drawings made me blush crimson. I had never imagined that Daniel would use a model, as he put it, but when he said it, I pictured some lovely, lithe creature. Not Bahorel. And yet there he was, in all his robust glory, kissing Daniel on one half of the page and Aimery on the next. I could see the differences in the lines that marked a pose done from life rather than mirrors or sketches. It lent Bahorel an immediacy that suited him perfectly and made him seem about to take a breath, pen and ink or no. I glanced through the stack briefly and felt my cheeks flame with renewed embarrassment at the images: Bahorel captured in mid-thrust with Aimery's legs around his waist, his hand resting on Aimery's cheek with a tenderness I could not credit; Daniel straining toward a tantalizing touch while Bahorel grinned at him with a satyr's leer and bent close to him, teasing unmercifully; Aimery spreadeagled on Bahorel's lap, arms around his neck, kissing him while Bahorel fondled him; another group of Daniel's many perspectives, this one with Bahorel on his knees and Aimery behind him while Daniel clung to Aimery's hips, the rhythm of their cascading movements almost palpable. I shivered, imagining myself in each drawing almost against my will. I knew the sharp taste of Aimery's mouth, the dusty scent of Daniel's skin, and the inevitable force of Christophe inside my body. I missed them and mourned them anew. My eyes prickled with tears I had never shed for my lost friends, and I put everything away carefully, stumbling out of the closet and claiming that the dust was in my eyes. When I next ventured in several days later, I found an envelope labeled "Julien." It took me a moment to remember who that was, and when I did I shuddered. There was no letter in his neat hand -- how often had I seen Enjolras writing? Every evening it seemed he began a new tract -- but it was only another note from Daniel.
Beloved, I told Julien that without you, I have little chance to draw anyone. He kindly sat for me. Kindly refrain from telling him I showed you these. Yours,
Daniel
I braced myself for another pornographic cavalcade of madness, but the first sketch was only Enjolras, dressed impeccably, reading a book. In the next, he had shed his jacket and his cravat. A line stood between his brows, marking his fair face with worry. Before the third picture, Daniel had clearly employed every ounce of charisma I had known him to possess, for Enjolras sat on the edge of a bed in a half-unbuttoned shirt, without trousers, his hair loose. He looked far too young to be as stalwart as I knew he had been. In the last picture in the series, though, he was nude, and somehow utter physical vulnerability gave him the bravery and dignity I remembered in him. It was not a sexual picture, but a portrait of such solemn beauty that I shivered, wondering madly if I had betrayed Enjolras' memory. I read the short note again and decided that however I might have betrayed my promises to him and his friends, at least I had not done it while he was alive. The next picture had no explanation, although I would have liked one. It was Combeferre, sitting on Aimery's bed with a wry, uncomfortable smile. Perhaps he had tried to pose and failed; perhaps the rest was so spectacularly successful that it was somewhere else, but I never found it. A waft of perfume accompanied a letter written in violet ink and a consciously rounded hand in which every i was dotted with a tiny flower.
Dearest Aimery, I am pining away in your absence. How could you abandon one who loves you so cruelly? You must return to me soon or I shall die without you. Every night I dream of the familiar touch of your hands, and every morning I am bitterly disappointed when I wake alone. Some day soon I must wake and find you beside me. Only your kisses can stave off madness. When you come back, will you meet me in the gardens? You are irresistible in the sunlight, beloved. In truth, you are irresistible in any light and any setting, but as I walked there yesterday I touched the smooth bark of a tree and dreamed of your warm weight pressing me against it. Hurry home to me, my love. I have tried to console myself with dear Christophe, but you must know that his caresses are not the equal of yours, and though he amuses me for an hour, he cannot fulfill my heart as deeply as the barest touch of your hand. When you arrive, do be sure to have some days free; I cannot imagine letting you go willingly while I still have the strength to cling to your hand and plead with you to stay. Yours in body and soul,
Jeannette
I only understood the florid, overblown prose when I reached the signature. It was no lady's correspondence at all -- that much was clear from the blatant sexuality in the text -- but I had not guessed it, too, was from Jean Prouvaire. Without the shame his prior missive had inspired in me, I reread it, hearing his light voice in my mind and imagining the texture of his skin. We had been lovers briefly; I was hardly his most spectacular liaison, but I had some idea that he had been fond of me. On my part, it was certainly not as meaningful as my time with Cosette, but it had been sweet at the time. He seemed such a gentle boy; I could never fathom why he was part of the brotherhood, but he was there, and he died as easily as the rest. Again I found myself with tears in my eyes for someone whom I had not thought of for months. Disgusted with myself, I brushed them away impatiently and began to sort more quickly, reading only the signature of letters to sort them into one pile or another. Aimery's family pile was all the letters from themselves, all of the correspondence having to do with his schoolwork, and anything else that would not endanger his memory, including a few relatively innocuous notes from mistresses. The other, much taller pile was everything I intended to burn: love notes from a veritable harem who all swore undying devotion, all of the drawings Daniel had done, and anything else that I would not show my grandfather if it were mine. I rechecked the pile for his parents several times before I finally sent it, along with any books that I neither needed nor wanted. The rest went back into a box. I kept meaning to burn it, along with the portrait, but when I dreamed of my friends in the night and woke with dream cannon resounding in my ears, the only respite I had from my memories was rereading the letters and looking at the pictures of them when they were happy. After a few years, I donated the portrait to an art gallery, gave the artist's name, and left quickly. Cosette had never known it was in the house. Every so often, when I looked in the mirror and found another wrinkle or looked at my children and realized how old they were growing, I went to visit Aimery's portrait. Perhaps I was the only one who could see the artist's face in it as clearly as his subject's. Whenever I went, I knew I would leave suppressing tears with Daniel's name clenched tight behind my teeth and the scent of Aimery's room fresh in my nostrils despite the decades. I could not pay my debts to them, but I could remember them. The portrait was their only immortality. I could never have betrayed them by destroying it.
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