I wandered down the dark Paris streets, lost in my mind. Strangers hurried by, and the street lamps cast shadows and reflections of other worlds in the rain pools in the uneven cobblestones. The chill of the night hung on everything, dripping into the puddles and seeping into the alleyways. I watched my feet, fascinated by their monotonous repetition, one boot placed in front of the other, again and again. I did not notice the man until I ran into him, stepping on his bare feet, and toppling onto him in the wet cobblestones. I hastily removed myself from him, shaking my coat out.
Before I could speak, the man said, “Forgive me, m’sieur. I did not see you . . .”
“My fault entirely,” I amended.
I regarded the young man shivering in front of me. He wore a tattered coat and a fraying scarf. A peasant’s hat slouched over his auburn hair. I could not see his eyes because of the hat and his long bangs, but I caught a glimpse of ragged sideburns, bluish skin, and a scattering of freckles. His gaunt form hunched over; his arms wrapped around his waist. My heart turned in compassion. I reached into my pocket, but the man stiffened and backed away as if I were about to pull a viper from my coat.
“I do not want your charity.”
“Then let me buy you something to eat.”
“That is no different.” His voice rose and cracked from either lack of use or lack of water.
I sighed. Peering through the darkness, I saw he held a small box against his body. “Are those cigarettes?” I asked. “Are you selling them?”
He looked down at the box as though he had never seen them before, but nodded after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes. A franc for the box.”
An exorbitant price, but we made the exchange. The man pocketed the franc with an eagerness that troubled me.
More friendly now, he looked up at me and I saw a flash of stinging green eyes. “Where are you going now, m’sieur?”
“To the Café Musain.”
“I was going there myself.”
I doubted this had been the case five minutes ago, but I did not argue and continued on my way with my new companion. On we went through the mist and dark in silence. I felt rather like I was pulling a shadow or a cockroach behind me. The young man avoided the light from the lamps, skirting into the depths of the night.
At last, we arrived at the Musain. Light flooded from the windows. I entered, the young man creeping behind me. I made to seat myself at one of the tables, when my companion took my arm and whispered, “What is your view on politics?”
I frowned, startled, but replied, “I am a Bonapartist democrat.”
He snorted. “Do you really think any king has done France good?”
“I-uh-”
“Come, you must meet Celestin.” He pulled me toward a door in the back of the room. I resisted, unsure of the wisdom of trusting him.
“It’s all right, m’sieur,” the proprietor called to me, smiling. “Ariel knows what he’s about.”
I shrugged and followed the man, Ariel, through the door and down a long hall to a door at the far end. We stepped into a bright, loud room filled with young students around my own age. A tall, blond man with a demeanor which was simultaneously charming and terrible, stood when he saw us enter.
He strode up to us, his face fierce. “What are you doing here, Ariel? Who is this? And you aren’t drunk, are you?”
Ariel glared. “I was about to say I brought someone whom I thought might be sympathetic to your cause.”
“You will never be one of us if you do not claim the Cause as your own.”
“And I am not drunk now, Celestin.”
“You have a heavenly name,” I remarked, hoping to diffuse the argument. “What is this Cause?”
The fierce young man, Celestin, turned on me, his bright blue eyes sharp. After assessing me, he replied, “We are the Société des Amis du Peuple.”
“Rebels! What of the king?”
“The king is a taint. Someday a change will come over this torn country. The nineteenth century was great, but I am certain the twentieth will be happy.”
“Happy? That is an interesting way of putting it. Aren’t we happy the way we are, though?”
“Are the people truly happy, friend? Does Ariel here, victim of all King Louis-Philippe’s fripperies, look happy to you?”
Unconsciously, I glanced at Ariel. “I suppose.” It went against everything my mother taught me.
“Come,” beckoned Celestin, motioning to a table. “Sit. Bertille will get you something to drink. Perhaps we can discuss this more thoroughly.”
I removed my hat and coat and sat down, facing several other young students.
“Friend,” said Celestin, standing over me, “these are my comrades, my lieutenants. Killian Brunet, medical student and my second-in-command; Barthélémy Latude, also a medical student; Gaël Dantes, law student; and Jean Prouvaire, philosophy student. Our poet.”
I heard a strain of fondness in Celestin’s voice as he spoke these last words, and I looked over at Jean Prouvaire with curiosity. He was a boy of not more than eighteen, with red-gold hair and a small, shy smile. “Jean Prouvaire,” I repeated to myself. I liked how the name sounded on my tongue. Jean Prouvaire.
“I prefer Jehan,” he said.
“That is medieval,” I said. “Why?”
“It is more romantic.”
“Are you a law student?” Gaël Dantes, a relaxed man with an easy, teasing smile, asked me.
“Yes, but I despise it.”
A barmaid set a glass of wine before me.
“You look rather pale, m’sieur. Are you ill?” Barthélémy asked. He was a strange-looking personage, with pale wiry curls falling into huge, bewildered eyes. Pockmarks covered his otherwise smooth white skin. His hands never ceased moving, and knocked his wine glass over occasionally.
I thought he ought to be more concerned about his own death-like complexion, or Ariel’s.
“No, indeed,” I replied.
“Pay ‘Thélémy no mind, m’sieur,” Gaël whispered to me. “He’s been a raving hypochondriac ever since he had the pox.”
“I heard that, Dantes,” said Barthélémy, with a souring glare.
“Your face inspires me,” Jean Prouvaire announced. “I shall write a sonnet about the way your eyes reflect the ages past and sing of the dawn.”
Startled, but pleased, I replied, “Thank you, m’sieur. You flatter me.”
Jean Prouvaire stood and swept me an extravagant bow. I saw he wore leather trousers, and tried to keep from laughing.
When he returned to his seat, I turned toward Celestin, who still stood near us, and asked, “Now tell me, you formed an entire group to rebel against the king? Don’t you realize you could get imprisoned? Executed?”
Celestin did not answer, but Killian Brunet spoke. “We understand the risks.” He pulled at his pipe, then said, “But it is a small price to pay for the liberty of France.” His voice commanded a kind of chilling serenity that made one think hard before speaking in answer.
“The Emperor made France great,” I said after a moment, avoiding his gaze.
Ariel scoffed from the corner where he leaned, arms folded. Barthélémy choked on his wine and gave me an odd look.
Gaël laughed. “Indeed. Perhaps you did not get a good enough look at Ariel. It is dark in here. Bertille! Light another lamp!”
“France did not need Buonaparte,” said Celestin, pronouncing ‘Bonaparte’ strangely.
I stood, angry now. “He made us into the French Empire! We are a glorious country—among the ancients of Rome and Athens now! No longer a sniveling backwards, barbaric land like Prussia. We are at the epitome of the modern world! What could be grander than that?”
Killian answered, “To be free.”
I closed my mouth, uncertain of a response to this. I suddenly felt rather stupid, and sat again.
“Do not be troubled,” said Jean Prouvaire, leaning forward, his blue eyes alight. “Sometimes slavery becomes such a way of life, people do not even see it. We have opened your eyes to the future.”
I did not know if I appreciated this favor, but I inclined my head once to the noble Jean Prouvaire.
“Think it over,” said Celestin after a few minutes’ silence.
A little distressed, I stood, nodding. “I shall. I shall. I must be going now, though. Thank you for letting me join you.” I pulled my coat back on and returned my hat to its place. Celestin stood as well, watching me.
“Come again anytime you wish, m’sieur,” Killian said, a gentle smile on his lips. “I do not mind discussing this matter with you.”
Perhaps I would return. I found them all intriguing. “Thank you.” I bowed, and turned toward the door, when I stopped and faced them all again: bizarre Barthélémy and serene Killian, poor Ariel, Celestin like a Greek god of old, laughing Gaël and sweet Jean – Jehan – Prouvaire. A strange idea formed in my head as I stood there with the Société des Amis du Peuple. The words came out slow and strange. “I shall . . . see . . . that others know of you.”
Celestin strode up to me. “Thank you, m’sieur, but why?”
“Perhaps,” I said with a smile, “it will be my small way of supporting you.”
His face cleared, and satisfied, I turned to leave again, when he placed a hand on my shoulder.
“What is your name, m’sieur?”
“Forgive me, I forgot.” I bowed again. “Victor Hugo, at your service.”
“Then thank you, M’sieur Hugo.”