Epilogue
When he awakens, the only thing he can bring himself to do is lie there, looking up at the ceiling. It's morning. There's light coming in from the window. The light falls, oddly enough, right over his chest, glittering in his buttons and making him almost too warm. Clutched in his left hand is the blade half of the foil he'd broken. He holds it up and sighs, then drops his arm. He pauses a few moments, considering. At last, he gives up and climbs out of bed.
His room is still ugly and papered in yellow. He turns around in a circle, spinning on his toes. There isn't enough in it, that's part of the trouble with it. There's a full-length mirror for practicing in front of, but it only creates another ugly yellow room. What needs to be done is something must be added. He needs something else in his room, to make it whole and fill it up.
He stops spinning, and waits for the nausea to pass.
Then, suddenly, he turns to the door and unlocks it. Grantaire is curled up in the doorway, asleep. Christophe-Marie tilts his head, and nudges Grantaire in the side with his toe, feeling glad that's he's there, somehow.
"Wake up. I thought you'd stay around. You always do, don't you? So damnably persistent. Come in."
Rodolphe groans and stands up, blinking at Christophe and rubbing the back of his neck. "Bloody doorway. Put in a few pillows, why don't you? It'll make everything so much easier for me."
"I don't intend to make my doorway easier for you to sleep in. Come inside." He stands off to the side, still holding the blade, and twitching it to direct Grantaire. At the same time, he looks Grantaire over; his large, dark eyes, his old clothes, his whole face with its half-cynical, half-gentle expression, which has never made any sense. He's ugly, but not unpleasant, Christophe realises.
Grantaire is also quite obedient to-day; he sits on the bed as usual, and raises his eyebrows quizzically, but does no more. Christophe turns around again, looking about his room. Finally he sits on the bed beside Grantaire and asks, in a perfectly soft, reasonable voice:
"What on earth should I call you? You're obviously not quite Grantaire any longer, and it's starting to pull on my nerves."
Rodolphe laughs. "My mother named me Rodolphe. Is that suitable?"
"It sounds very like Christophe, doesn't it? The endings. Hm." Christophe-Marie frowns. "I dream about the things you told me, you know. You went on and on about the Amis and how I judge them too much on their appearances rather than their characters, and I began to dream about them."
"Oh, splendid. I *am* making an influence on you."
"Yes, you're interfering with my dreams *again*. I'm not in the least pleased."
"Lovely. But there's more?" Rodolphe gives him an amused smile. "There's got to be more. What else have I done?"
"Nothing, as of yet. But I've brought you in to tell you I don't dislike you as much as I previously claimed. That is to say, I don't any longer find you as annoying. Or rather," he tries again, feeling as though he'll never be able to say what he means.
"What?" Rodolphe is laughing softly, his shoulders shaking and his expression delighted.
Christophe puts his face in his hands. "Nothing. I'm not saying this correctly. Damn, but it's so awkward. Do you have any idea-And you're not making it any easier!"
With a grin, Rodolphe reaches over and touches Christophe's arm. "Difficulty in expressing one's own thoughts. Betrayal by one's own lips and mind. Anyway, you've brought me here to tell me that I am no longer a hated and despised creature. Alas, now, I'm only worthy of indifference. I shall make haste to drown myself."
"Is it possible that you could stop twisting everything I say?"
"Only slightly. I enjoyed your play. I think I told you that last night, but in all honesty, I can't remember. I also think I would have made a much better Horatio, despite the fact that I've never acted and certainly never set foot on a stage once in my entire useless life."
"Oh, yes, you would have been a better Horatio, and Cosette would have been a better Ophelia," Christophe mutters, and Rodolphe looks up sharply.
"Ah, your pretty sweetheart who I was once to look after."
"Not my pretty sweetheart. Pontmercy's. But it doesn't matter. It's quite over, Grantaire." At last he means it. It was always over, he adds to himself. There was never anything to begin with. It was a mistake of his, an infatuation.
Everyone makes mistakes.
"You've asked my name, and then call me Grantaire. Well, that's all right. I do think Hamlet's still ragged, Enjolras."
"Yes, well, that's because none of my loose ends are tied up," Christophe says helplessly, to excuse himself. This is quite true. The only one that begins to be finished is the play, and he's still got another performance of that to-night. But oddly enough, he doesn't care. Anyone has loose ends, but, he realises, he's got time to tie them up, hasn't he? There's an insurrection, a revolution, which he must create, but in the meantime, there're more than enough moments and days to fix things. And right now he's happy. He's quite happy. Rodolphe, as he'd suspected that morning, makes his room look far better than it did before.
"That would be orderly. Orderly things are no good," Rodolphe says, and by this time Christophe's forgotten what he's replying to. His train of thought has rather taken him away from the loose ends. Rodolphe is quite right, orderly things are a waste of time. He wishes that he'd realised that before now.
Rodolphe laughs. "You're not listening to a word I say, are you? No." He takes Christophe-Marie's hands and kisses them. Then he smiles. "Your hands smell of rosemary, lord."
Fin
When he awakens, the only thing he can bring himself to do is lie there, looking up at the ceiling. It's morning. There's light coming in from the window. The light falls, oddly enough, right over his chest, glittering in his buttons and making him almost too warm. Clutched in his left hand is the blade half of the foil he'd broken. He holds it up and sighs, then drops his arm. He pauses a few moments, considering. At last, he gives up and climbs out of bed.
His room is still ugly and papered in yellow. He turns around in a circle, spinning on his toes. There isn't enough in it, that's part of the trouble with it. There's a full-length mirror for practicing in front of, but it only creates another ugly yellow room. What needs to be done is something must be added. He needs something else in his room, to make it whole and fill it up.
He stops spinning, and waits for the nausea to pass.
Then, suddenly, he turns to the door and unlocks it. Grantaire is curled up in the doorway, asleep. Christophe-Marie tilts his head, and nudges Grantaire in the side with his toe, feeling glad that's he's there, somehow.
"Wake up. I thought you'd stay around. You always do, don't you? So damnably persistent. Come in."
Rodolphe groans and stands up, blinking at Christophe and rubbing the back of his neck. "Bloody doorway. Put in a few pillows, why don't you? It'll make everything so much easier for me."
"I don't intend to make my doorway easier for you to sleep in. Come inside." He stands off to the side, still holding the blade, and twitching it to direct Grantaire. At the same time, he looks Grantaire over; his large, dark eyes, his old clothes, his whole face with its half-cynical, half-gentle expression, which has never made any sense. He's ugly, but not unpleasant, Christophe realises.
Grantaire is also quite obedient to-day; he sits on the bed as usual, and raises his eyebrows quizzically, but does no more. Christophe turns around again, looking about his room. Finally he sits on the bed beside Grantaire and asks, in a perfectly soft, reasonable voice:
"What on earth should I call you? You're obviously not quite Grantaire any longer, and it's starting to pull on my nerves."
Rodolphe laughs. "My mother named me Rodolphe. Is that suitable?"
"It sounds very like Christophe, doesn't it? The endings. Hm." Christophe-Marie frowns. "I dream about the things you told me, you know. You went on and on about the Amis and how I judge them too much on their appearances rather than their characters, and I began to dream about them."
"Oh, splendid. I *am* making an influence on you."
"Yes, you're interfering with my dreams *again*. I'm not in the least pleased."
"Lovely. But there's more?" Rodolphe gives him an amused smile. "There's got to be more. What else have I done?"
"Nothing, as of yet. But I've brought you in to tell you I don't dislike you as much as I previously claimed. That is to say, I don't any longer find you as annoying. Or rather," he tries again, feeling as though he'll never be able to say what he means.
"What?" Rodolphe is laughing softly, his shoulders shaking and his expression delighted.
Christophe puts his face in his hands. "Nothing. I'm not saying this correctly. Damn, but it's so awkward. Do you have any idea-And you're not making it any easier!"
With a grin, Rodolphe reaches over and touches Christophe's arm. "Difficulty in expressing one's own thoughts. Betrayal by one's own lips and mind. Anyway, you've brought me here to tell me that I am no longer a hated and despised creature. Alas, now, I'm only worthy of indifference. I shall make haste to drown myself."
"Is it possible that you could stop twisting everything I say?"
"Only slightly. I enjoyed your play. I think I told you that last night, but in all honesty, I can't remember. I also think I would have made a much better Horatio, despite the fact that I've never acted and certainly never set foot on a stage once in my entire useless life."
"Oh, yes, you would have been a better Horatio, and Cosette would have been a better Ophelia," Christophe mutters, and Rodolphe looks up sharply.
"Ah, your pretty sweetheart who I was once to look after."
"Not my pretty sweetheart. Pontmercy's. But it doesn't matter. It's quite over, Grantaire." At last he means it. It was always over, he adds to himself. There was never anything to begin with. It was a mistake of his, an infatuation.
Everyone makes mistakes.
"You've asked my name, and then call me Grantaire. Well, that's all right. I do think Hamlet's still ragged, Enjolras."
"Yes, well, that's because none of my loose ends are tied up," Christophe says helplessly, to excuse himself. This is quite true. The only one that begins to be finished is the play, and he's still got another performance of that to-night. But oddly enough, he doesn't care. Anyone has loose ends, but, he realises, he's got time to tie them up, hasn't he? There's an insurrection, a revolution, which he must create, but in the meantime, there're more than enough moments and days to fix things. And right now he's happy. He's quite happy. Rodolphe, as he'd suspected that morning, makes his room look far better than it did before.
"That would be orderly. Orderly things are no good," Rodolphe says, and by this time Christophe's forgotten what he's replying to. His train of thought has rather taken him away from the loose ends. Rodolphe is quite right, orderly things are a waste of time. He wishes that he'd realised that before now.
Rodolphe laughs. "You're not listening to a word I say, are you? No." He takes Christophe-Marie's hands and kisses them. Then he smiles. "Your hands smell of rosemary, lord."
Fin