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“We’re here! We’re here!” Matthieu chanted as they approached the house. He bounced up and down on the seat, rattling the carriage even more than the horses and the dirt road did.
Georges pulled his little brother down by his coat sleeve. “Cut it out!” he hissed. “You’ll wake up baby Fantine.”
Matthieu threw a wide-eyed glance at his mother. “Did I wake her up?” he asked. His lower lip wobbled dangerously.
Cosette smiled and shook her head, taking the chance to glance at the sleeping face of her one and only daughter. “She’s still sound asleep,” she reassured him. “But Georges is right, Matthieu, you should stop bouncing so much. You might hurt yourself.”
Matthieu pouted but settled in his seat. He still chanted “We’re here! We’re here!” to himself as he looked out the window. Georges groaned and let his head fall back against the carriage seat.
Cosette laughed. She leaned to her right and rested her head on her husband’s shoulder. “He looks so much like you,” she said.
“Who, Georges?” Marius asked playfully.
“Matthieu,” Cosette corrected. She laughed as Marius proved her point by pouting at her disapprovingly. “Yes, yes, dearest, they both look like you. But the younger one has certainly inherited your… flair for the dramatic.”
“WE’RE HERE!” Matthieu screeched, jumping to his feet almost the instant the carriage stopped. “Let’s go, Mama, Papa. Please, please, please–”
“Calm down, Matthieu,” Marius said with a laugh, retying the ribbons of Cosette’s bonnet and making sure little Fantine’s blanket protected her entirely from the cold. “We’ll get there soon enough.”
As soon as the coachman opened the carriage door, Matthieu leapt out, evading his father’s grasp, and knocked three firm raps on the door.
Cosette laughed at Marius’ long-suffering sigh as he stepped down from the carriage. Georges followed, the perfect picture of a calm and obedient son–Cosette knew from experience, however, that that picture wouldn’t last very long.
The door was opened by a tall slim girl in a simple dress of deep green that set off her pale brown hair perfectly.
“Annette!” Matthieu screeched. He launched himself forward and hugged her legs. “We’re here to visit Uncle!”
“I can see that,” Annette replied, smiling at the rest of the family. “Hello Georges! Come in, Madame, Monsieur. He’s been waiting for you.”
“And wearing himself out in the process, most likely,” Marius added as he hung up his coat and hat just inside the door. “Thank you, Annette. Now where have my boys gone off to this time?”
The boys had, indeed, seemingly vanished from under everyone’s noses. “I’ll look for them, dear,” Cosette said. “I know you’re anxious to see him again.”
Marius smiled and kissed her on the nose. “Whatever would I do without you?” he said.
“Forget and lose everything,” Cosette replied under her breath as he left. Annette stifled a laugh.
<O>
“Well, if it isn’t old Father Abraham!” Marius exclaimed as he stepped into the well-lit sitting room. The curtains were all thrown wide open, and the shouts and cheers of children at play came dancing through the open windows.
A blonde head showed itself from behind a huge maroon armchair. “If I am old, Monsieur Pontmercy, what does that make you?” the man to whom the head belonged asked, eyes twinkling merrily.
“Timeless,” Marius replied with a grin. “It’s good to see you again, Enjolras, old though you may be.”
Enjolras threw his head back and laughed. “It’s a wonder that I miss you when you’re gone,” he teased. He started to stand up to greet his friend despite said friend’s protests, but fell back into the chair with a grimace. “Michael!” he called.
A small boy of about thirteen years instantly came into the room through the sliding doors that led to the garden beyond. “Yes, Monsieur?” he said. The sparkle in his green eyes matched the one in Enjolras’ blue ones.
“Could you get my cane for me please?” Enjolras asked with a sigh, avoiding Marius’ stern gaze. “I think it’s in the library.”
“Sure!” Michael ran into the room.
Enjolras cleared his throat.
Michael stopped and looked up, noticing Marius for the first time apparently. “Oh, hello, Monsieur Pontmercy!” he said. He extended his hand, and Marius shook it heartily. Then the boy took off again, footsteps echoing in the hall.
Marius turned his focus back to Enjolras with a frown. “You’ve been overworking yourself again,” he chided.
Enjolras had the decency to look slightly ashamed as he massaged his right thigh with one hand, fingers deftly running around the scar there. “Perhaps,” he consented.
Marius knelt beside the armchair, resting his hand over the old wound. “Is there still much pain?” he asked.
“Not as much as before, no,” Enjolras said. “The pain is more like a dull afterthought now. It flares up every once in a while, but it usually only hurts when I stand for too long.”
“And I suppose that instead of taking it easy like we asked countless times, you went on right ahead and played and worked with the boys?” Marius said, eyebrow raised.
Enjolras’ small half-smile confessed what his words wouldn’t. “I can’t just not work, Marius,” he said.
“I know. That’s just who you are,” Marius said as he stood up. “But you could at least try to rest regularly, hm? For all our sakes as much as for yours.”
Enjolras took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll try, I promise.”
“Found you, Uncle!” Little Matthieu came tearing into the room, arms outstretched for a hug.
Before Marius could warn his youngest son of his “uncle’s” leg, Enjolras lifted the boy into his lap with a laugh. “Why, hello there, Matthieu!” he exclaimed jovially. “Did you say hello to Luc already, then?”
Matthieu nodded repeatedly. “He said we will build a barricade later!” he exclaimed. His fist almost slammed into Enjolras’ chin in his excitement.
Marius raised an eyebrow at that. “A barricade?”
“A barricade,” Matthieu repeated. He nodded again though this time it had more of the solemnity of an old general going to war and less of the excitement of a small boy. It looked a lot like the way Enjolras nodded, now that Marius thought about it. “May we use the seat cushions, Uncle?”
Enjolras smiled knowingly. “I think the cushions had better stay out of this one, Matthieu. The girls just aired and dusted them this morning.”
“Oh, but they make the best barricade!” Matthieu protested. “Mayn’t we use them? Please, please, please, please, please – ”
“How about this?” Enjolras interrupted with a laugh. “You can use the cushions if you help clean them up afterwards.”
Matthieu scrunched up his nose. “Uncle?” he said after a moment.
“Yes, Matthieu?”
“I was thinking,” Matthieu continued thoughtfully, “maybe we don’t need the cushions to make the barricade.”
Enjolras nodded. “I agree,” he said.
Matthieu mirrored Enjolras’ nod then hopped off his lap. “Goodbye,” he said and ran away as quickly as he had entered.
“You could’ve told him to get off, you know,” Marius said as soon as his son was out of earshot.
Enjolras stretched out his bad leg with a wince. “I could never,” he said. “One day that boy will be like Georges, ‘too old to sit in laps’ and all that nonsense. Then the next thing you know, he’ll be all grown up and off to college and you’ll be left wondering where all the years went–”
“You’re not just talking about Matthieu, are you?” Marius said with a knowing smile.
Enjolras huffed and looked away. He shook his head the slightest bit. “Time flies,” he said.
“Indeed, it does.” Marius sat down on a nearby wooden stool. “How old is Annette this year?”
“Seventeen by next month,” Enjolras said. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s enough to make a man feel ancient.”
“Any suitors?” Marius asked, then laughed at the death glare Enjolras threw at him. “No suitors then.”
“If one more young man comes knocking at my door again, I’ll–”
Just then, Michael came running back into the room, a simple cane of polished wood in hand. “It got kicked under your reading chair, Monsieur, so I didn’t see it right away,” he said, panting.
“Thank you, Michael,” Enjolras said with a smile. “You may return to… whatever it was you were doing outside.”
“I was drawing bugs!” Michael said with a grin. He ran back outside, though he closed the door gently behind him.
Enjolras stood up, leaning on his cane. “Would you like to see the library?” he asked. “The boys and I made some modifications.”
“Ah, so that’s why your leg is hurting now,” Marius said as if he were a scientist who had just made a new discovery.
Enjolras lightly hit Marius’ shin with his cane as he limped by him to lead the way.
<O>
Annette laughed, and even after all these years it made Cosette’s heart dance with joy and love for the young girl. “I never realized Monsieur Pontmercy was so dramatic!” she said between giggles.
“Believe me, Annette, you haven’t even heard half of it,” Cosette said with a grin, gently bouncing Fantine who was now wide awake in her arms.
Just then, the library door opened and in walked Enjolras, obviously limping but smiling, followed by Marius.
“As if we summoned him,” Cosette whispered to Annette. “Bonjour, Enjolras! I hope that leg of yours isn’t hurting you too much?” she said in a louder voice.
“It barely hurts now,” Enjolras said. Marius threw him a look that told Cosette that that wasn’t entirely true. “Would you like to come with us? I was just going to show Marius the changes we’ve made to this room since your last visit.”
“I can take care of Fantine, Mademoiselle,” Annette put in quickly. “I’ll take her to the playroom. I’m sure the girls will be happy to see her again.”
“Yes, thank you, Annette,” Cosette replied, passing Fantine into the girl’s slim arms. Annette lightly touched Fantine’s nose with her own, and Fantine stared at her with wide eyes, a smile growing on her little mouth.
“Annette certainly has a way with children,” Cosette said as she fell into step with Marius. He offered her his arm, and she took it with a smile.
“She has. I’m blessed to have her here still,” Enjolras said.
“I asked him about suitors,” Marius said in a stage whisper.
“I can hear you, Pontmercy. Ah, here we are!”
Enjolras stopped in front of a doorway-sized curtain hanging from the wall. “Behold,” he said with a flourish of his free hand, “the children’s haven.”
He pulled the curtain back to reveal the open doorway to a sunlit room. Bookshelves lined two of the walls from ceiling to floor, filled to the bursting with books of various sizes and colors. And those that didn’t have books had various children’s treasures tucked in, from rocks to little potted plants to dried flowers to well-loved dolls and toy soldiers.
The west wall which was closest to the door had a huge window with a view of the creek that ran behind the house. Hanging on the wall beside it was a large map of the world that stretched from end to end. Below it was a smaller but no less grand map of France, and around them both were artworks made by the children throughout the past ten years, from Annette’s early incoherent scribbles to Michael’s careful sketches of the local cockroaches. Small desks were lined up along that wall too, each with its own little wooden stool.
Sprawled on the floor by the large window were Georges and another boy who looked his age. They were surrounded by sheets of paper and scattered crayons.
“And that’s how to make a paper flower!” the boy exclaimed just as the four adults came into the room. “You see?”
Georges tilted his head at the crumpled and creased square of paper in his hand. “Not quite,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
The boy nodded seriously. “We can try again.”
“Ernest,” Enjolras said. The boy immediately stood up, as did Georges. Cosette couldn’t help but smile. “He’s the newest of the children,” Enjolras explained. “Ernest, this is Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy, Georges’ parents.”
“A pleasure to meet you all,” Ernest said with a small bow.
“Ernest is teaching me to make paper flowers,” Georges said.
“I can see that,” Marius said, glancing at Enjolras. “Who taught you how to make flowers, Ernest?”
“Monsieur Enjolras did!” Ernest said, a smile lighting up his thin face. “He said he learned how from one of his best friends. And so I want to teach it to my best friend!”
Georges’ jaw dropped. “I’m your best friend?” he squeaked.
“Of course!” Ernest said, nodding his head repeatedly. Then he stopped and frowned. “Do you… not want to be my best friend?” he asked hesitantly.
“No!” Georges exclaimed. “I mean… Yes! I mean…” He stuck his hand out and waited for Ernest to take it. He shook the boy’s hand firmly and said, “There. Now we’re officially best friends.”
Cosette could’ve cried at the way Ernest’s face lit up as he shook her son’s hand.
Enjolras smiled and patted each boy on the head. He carefully stepped over their mess of papers on the floor and led the way to the opposite side of the room. “Ernest was so sick when he arrived here,” he said quietly when the boys resumed their conversation. “I shudder to think of what would’ve happened if Michael didn’t find him when he went to town.”
The other adults nodded in sync. Cosette remembered Michael when he first came to the Enjolras home, a scrawny child with sparkling green eyes and a heart big enough to hold the whole world. He was orphaned and left to fend for himself until Enjolras and Annette spotted him on one of their walks. He was the second of the children to join Enjolras’ now very large family.
“It’s amazing what you do for these children, Enjolras,” she said, resting her hand on his forearm for a moment. “I’m sure they’ll never forget this.”
“Every child has a right to grow up in a good home,” Enjolras said with a shrug, though there were the beginnings of a smile around his mouth, “and with a loving family. And I’ll be forever grateful to you and yours for helping me give that to them.”
Cosette stopped in front of one of the shelves to admire the wide collection of books there. “And you’re giving them a good education!” she added. She picked out a particular book from the shelf and held it up, one eyebrow raised. “Really, Enjolras?” she said with the most serious face she could muster.
Enjolras held up a hand. “It’s not my fault that Annette and Michael share my love for Robespierre’s works.”
Cosette laughed and slid the book back into the shelf.
“Of course, I should’ve known you were raising little revolutionaries in this house,” Marius said with a shake of his head and an exaggerated pout.
“As if your own son wasn’t making barricades in the bedroom with Luc at this moment,” Enjolras returned. “And whose idea was it to write and publish articles on liberté , égalité , and fraternité in the local paper again?”
“Cosette’s,” Marius replied with a grin.
“I’m sure it was,” Enjolras replied. “Look at these!” he suddenly exclaimed, stopping in front of a row of child-sized desks. “These were made by Mademoiselle Musichetta’s brother–you remember him, Marius? They arrived just last week.” Enjolras patted the surface of the nearest desk. “The children, as you can imagine, are delighted with them. They actually asked me to begin their lessons instead of me having to convince them to do it, if you can believe that.”
“They are lovely desks,” Marius agreed.
“Georges and Matthieu’s desks are beautifully made and will last them a long time yet, I’m sure,” Cosette said, flicking Marius’ arm and shaking her head subtly at him. “But these are beautiful, Enjolras. They must have cost a fortune.”
“My father left me a fortune,” Enjolras said with a half smile. “I might as well put it to good use for a noble cause. But come!” He abruptly turned and headed back toward the curtained doorway. “It’s about time for some tea in the sitting room.”
<O>
“Thank you, Monsieur Pierre,” Valjean said as the carriage pulled up in front of a grand iron gate. He passed the driver the fare with a little extra. “For the children, as usual.”
Monsieur Pierre smiled and tipped his hat at Valjean before clucking at his horse and going back up the lane.
Valjean smiled as he read the inscription written on the stone slab next to the gate.
THE ENJOLRAS-VALJEAN HOME FOR CHILDREN
“Come to me and I will give you rest.”
He had tried to convince Enjolras to leave it as “The Enjolras Home,” or “The Enjolras and Co. Home” if he insisted on not having it named after only him. In time, Enjolras had been convinced that “The Enjolras-Valjean-Pontmercy Home” was not a very practical name and had consented to shortening it to “The Enjolras-Valjean Home,” much to Cosette’s delight and Valjean’s embarrassment.
The gate was unlocked, as it always was when Enjolras was expecting company. The setting sun cast long shadows onto the lane, but they were anything but scary. Little things scattered across the lawn that was once always kept to perfection left evidence of children at play. A torn kite, scuffed up grass, a few wooden swords. Valjean bent and left one of the small wrapped pieces of candy he always had in his pocket next to one of the swords. Only one this time.
Five minutes later, Valjean arrived at the front door, pockets empty except for two pieces of candy he left for his grandsons. He was greeted by sounds of shouting and running. The door was opened by Michael when he knocked, but after a quick “Bonsoir! Monsieur Enjolras is in the sitting room!” he tore off again, shouting, “Fire the cannons, boys!”
Valjean laughed to himself as he closed the door and hung his coat up. He made his way to the sitting room, weaving in and out between running children brandishing pillows and wearing bedsheets. “Bonsoir! Bonsoir!” they called as they passed him by.
“Ah, Monsieur Jean!” Enjolras exclaimed just as Valjean set foot into the sitting room. The young man stood up with a wince that didn’t escape Valjean’s notice. “I see you arrived right in the middle of the war. I hope the soldiers and their cannons didn’t give you much trouble.”
“I have escaped unharmed, at any rate,” Valjean replied. He strode forward and grasped Enjolras hand. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Enjolras said with a smile. “The children have kept me busy.”
“That means he’s been overworking himself, as per usual,” Marius said with a cough.
Enjolras rolled his eyes fondly. “I have been a bit more tired than usual,” he said quietly to Valjean, “but it’s nothing that some rest and good company can’t fix.”
“Or a nice seat,” Valjean said, gently pushing him back down onto his chair. “Now,” he said in a louder voice, “where are my daughter and grandchildren?”
“Boo!” two boyish voices exclaimed from behind.
“Good heavens!” Valjean shouted, slapping a hand against his chest and looking around with wide, sparkling eyes. “Who could that be?”
Two sets of arms wrapped themselves around his legs. “Bonsoir, Grandpa!” Matthieu exclaimed. “Were you surprised? Were you? Were you?”
“That I was, you little criminal,” Valjean replied, scooping the boy up into his arms and tickling him.
Georges, feeling much more mature than his brother at nine years old, stepped out from behind a bookshelf with a grin and a hand extended for a handshake. “Hello, Grandpa!” he said with a big smile not unlike Marius’ grin.
Valjean shook Georges’ hand and ruffled his hair lightly. “Hello yourself, young man! What have you been up to today?”
“Paper flowers,” Georges said. He held up a folded piece of paper that looked very much like a flower if one squinted and turned one’s head to the left just a little. "My new best friend Ernest taught me how! And I saved the best one for you, Grandpa!"
“Thank you!” Valjean said. He took the flower and tucked it between the folds of his handkerchief. “I’ll keep it on my reading desk beside my ink pot.”
Georges grinned. “Excuse me now, Grandpa,” he said. “Matthieu and me need to get back into the battle!”
“Of course, my boys!” Valjean exclaimed, stepping out of the way.
“Thank you!” Georges said, tearing out into the hall, dragging Matthieu after him by the hand.
“Bonsoir, Father.” Marius now stood up to shake Valjean’s hand. “We were just discussing Enjolras’ plans for a school.”
“Oh?” Valjean said. He settled into the one empty armchair.
“It’s not really anything yet, just an idea,” Enjolras said with a smile. “But the children are growing up, loathe as I am to admit it, and I want them to have a proper education before they go out into the world. Combeferre more than once mentioned a few friends of his that shared his idea of education for all. If I can find them, they might be willing to help. We could put up another building, say…” Enjolras frowned in thought for a moment then vaguely gestured out the window. “Well, I’m sure there’s space somewhere out there. Our property is large, after all. And I have the funds for it.”
“ We have the funds for it, you mean,” Marius corrected, swatting Enjolras’ hand. “It’s an excellent plan, don’t you think, Father?”
“Yes, of course!” Valjean said. He put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’ll never not be amazed at how far you’ve gone and still are going for the sake of these children. I’m very proud, son.”
Enjolras beamed. “Thank you, Monsieur Jean,” he said. “But this–”
“Oh, for once in your life just take the compliment, Enjolras!” Cosette said with a laugh.
Enjolras laughed. He took Valjean’s hand from his shoulder and squeezed it. “Thank you,” he repeated.
<O>
After dinner, the children–and the adults–gathered around Enjolras’ big old armchair in the sitting room. Enjolras expertly balanced a two-year-old boy on his knee, listening attentively to his endless story of what had happened throughout that day–with some details made up along the way. Enjolras nodded and asked questions, which sent the boy off into yet another scattered story.
Cosette sat in the only other armchair in the room, her precious baby Fantine back in her arms. She hummed an old tune that she’d long forgotten the words to. She watched Annette and the other older children play some sort of game in the corner, trying to imagine what her own children would be like at that age.
Marius knelt on the ground beside Georges and Ernest, fingers flying around a sheet of paper. He leaned back on his heels with a grin as the boys gaped at the paper crane that formed in his hands seemingly by magic, quietly thanking Feuilly in his mind.
Valjean stood in the corner, smiling as he observed the happenings around him. Every now and then, a child appeared in front of him, eyes wide and searching. He’d lean down and give the child a quick embrace, inwardly mourning his empty pockets. But no child left his embrace without a grin so bright it could blind a man.
A tiny five-year-old girl called Susette stood up and ran to Enjolras. She began tugging at his coat sleeve. “M’sieur ‘jolras, M’sieur ‘jolras!” she said.
Enjolras excused himself from his two-year-old companion and turned to Susette. “Yes, my child?” he said.
“Tell us a story!” Susette said, hastily adding, “Please!” before Enjolras could say anything.
“Alright then,” Enjolras said. He adjusted the boy in his lap so that they could both sit more comfortably. “What story do you want?”
“Oh, you know what story we want, M’sieur!” Susette exclaimed. By this time, a hush had fallen over the room, and all eyes were turned to Enjolras. “It’s June 6,” she added in a hopeful voice.
“That it is, Susette,” Enjolras said with a small smile. “That it is.” He paused as if to consider. “Alright, I’ll tell the story.”
The children cheered and pressed closer around Enjolras’ armchair, eyes wide and sparkling at the prospect of the story. Even the older children who had heard it many times before stopped their games and chatter to lean forward and listen.
“About a decade ago in Paris,” Enjolras began, “there was a group of students called Les Amis de l’ABC. And within this group of students, there were ten friends–no, they were more than friends. They were a family in all but blood, much like we are here in this home.” Enjolras smiled. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back against his armchair. When he opened his eyes and continued, his voice was quieter but no less passionate than it had been before. “Their names were Combeferre, Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Grantaire, Marius, and Enjolras. And they, I believe, deserve a place in history. So listen well, my children.”
End.