Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Jesuit school in possession of two hundred boys on the cusp of manhood must be in want of healthy distractions.
"Could be worse," Brother Eugène told Brother Jacquelin philosophically, as they sat down to business in a flurry of black robes. "Over at Saint-Elme they’re handing out footballs, or so I've heard. On the Lord’s day, too."
"Typical Dominicans." Brother Jacquelin crossed himself, either out of contrition for the deadly sin of pride or to exorcize the outrageous football. "It’s all corpore sano with them - intellect a dead cause. No wonder their boys can’t hold their own in Rhetoric."
"Hollo, holla!" The cheerful voice of their Principal and commander-in-chief could be heard bouncing on the stone walls as he walked up the narrow corridor. The door was flung open, and he stepped in.
"Did I just hear Brother Jacquelin speak the R-word? Then you two must be in medias res. Well, brothers, here I am, ready to hear all about this year’s casting. I suppose we’re doing the Infant Jesus Found at the Temple?"
"When are we not doing the Infant Jesus Found at the Temple?" old Brother Eugène muttered. He was in charge of costumes, and having to sew up new camel suits every year for the younger and breezier actors tended to sour his otherwise beatific temper.
"An excellent theatrical exercise," came the heated ripost. "It doesn’t overtax their memories, since the Doctors can debate ad lib; provides speaking parts for the bolder elements and pantomime for the blushers; and stimulates a healthy competition for the leads."
"Not that there’s any doubt as to who will be our young Lord this year. And look the part." The Principal's eyelids dropped in dreamy contemplation. "Golden curls to match his silver tongue..."
"And good luck on stopping that once you hoist him upon a stage," Brother Eugène groused.
"Cheeks in the pink of bloom..."
"Eyes as blue as Our Lady’s cloak..."
Brother Eugène, by far the oldest in their council, gave a catarrhic little cough. "Speaking of which... who will wear the cloak this year?"
The others' sighs deflated into pained groans. Every year brought back the same quandary. Religious drama in and of itself was a hit with the boys, especially with parades and animal parts. Not so much the female roles, which had been pared to the bone but could hardly exclude Christ's Mother.
"Who's writing the parts?" the Principal asked. "Perhaps we can prevail on him to make the role more, er... engaging..."
Brother Jacquelin raised his hands noncommittally. "There’s writing," he said, "and there’s good writing, and then there’s Prouvaire’s flowery style. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t turn the Temple into the Jardin des Plantes by the time he’s done. Last time I saw him, he was chasing a rhyme for geranium."
"I don’t think he appreciated my offer of cranium," Brother Eugène murmured.
"If we cast by the Rule, the Holy Family should go to the top three in Rhetoric. That means Enjolras, Grantaire..."
"I’m not casting Grantaire as the Virgin Mary!" Brother Jacquelin’s groan would have done the Miserere proud. "One disaster a term is quite enough. Remember when we let him greet the Archbishop on prize-giving day?"
The Principal shuddered. "How he even managed to find cherry-brandy on these premises..."
"The Dominicans had a field day over this," Brother Eugène echoed grimly. "No, we need a zero-risk policy here. A gentle lad, soft-spoken, broad-minded, open to new experiences, a tender and serious spirit with a taste for theatre and a liberal approach to gender..."
The three Jesuits locked eyes almost in synch.
The play started off without a hitch.
The pilgrims from Nazareth paraded up and down, the camels and asses gamboling on their heels, until the Holy Family stopped at the steps of the Temple (an impressive scaffolding covered with about every red curtain that could be pilfered from the dormitories). Joseph helped Mary down from the donkey while everybody pretended not to notice that the Infant Jesus’s blond head towered a good two inches over his parents'. Or that Joseph’s praise of Mary had grown quite lyrical overnight, with an interesting cameo on "that dazzling, dying flush on your geranium cheek".
Whereupon Brother Jacquelin’s sharp eye caught young Grantaire collecting a few bets from the boys in his row. But none of them seemed to exceed twenty sous, and Brother Jacquelin reminded himself of Saint Ignatius’s admirable words on the divine wisdom of silence.
The Holy Family walked up the steps; the Doctors waved their scrolls of Scripture about; the curtain fell on a round of clapping and a late camel jogging after his peers. Since most of the parents had been invited to see their sons perform, Monsieur Enjolras Père, a leading merchant in the silk business and one of their wealthiest donors, held the seat of honour next to the Archbishop. To his left sat Madame in a profusion of lace and velvet that outdid even the prelate's garb. All three were beaming, and Brother Jacquelin’s soul pulsed with innocent pride as he walked round the improvised stage to cheer his charges.
In a haze of self-congratulation he stepped out of the refectory-turned-proscenium and allowed himself a pinch of snuff under cover of the pigeonhouse roof. The tobacco left him in such a relaxed state that he missed the curtain rise, and would have missed all of Act II if a young novice, panting and geranium-faced, had not run up to him.
"Brother, Brother! You are wanted off-stage..."
Off-stage were Brother Eugène, Brother Macaire, Brother Saint-Sulpicien, Joseph, Mary, various pack animals in a state of peak excitement, Jehan Prouvaire with a quill stuck in his hair and, to Jacquelin’s surprise, a fuming Principal.
"A scandal!" the Principal was hissing. "Where on earth have you been? You are to stop this outrageous display - at once!"
From the stage, young Enjolras’s voice could be heard, its treble loaded with rhetoric vibrato.
"The Law of the Lord is that all men on earth should have equal rights to food and housing! Even now, children are persecuted by the Herods of hunger and illiteracy despite the 1698 Ordinance on fundamental education..."
"Told you," said Brother Eugène with grim satisfaction.
"Jesus!" Brother Jacquelin, the sweat pearling on his balding crown. He raised a shaky, black-clad arm to his brow. "He’s sabotaging my play!"
"Better go softly-softly," Brother Macaire cautioned them all. "Look at his parents!"
Everyone looked over at Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, both sporting ecstatic smiles at their son’s vocal bravura. Monsieur’s cane could be seen drawing flourishes of approval in the air. The Archbishop, on the other hand, was black in the face and only prevented from leaving by Madame’s ruffled skirts, which had somehow got entangled with his robes.
"Someone step out and shut that boy up!" the Principal spluttered, while the Infant Jesus, pacing up and down the stage, tried to appeal to his audience’s reformist fibre by snatching one of the dorm curtains and draping himself in it. The none-too-solid scaffolding began to shake: the Doctors squeaked in terror.
Young Grantaire’s voice rose from the audience. "Hey, Jesus! Wanna pull it down in less than three days?"
"This is a nightmare!" the Principal wailed. "I can’t interfere without offending his parents, and I can’t let this... this atrocity go on without alienating His Grandeur! Dear Lord! I swear I’ll flog that young scamp within an inch of his life once I've caught him."
"I’ll lend a hand," Brother Jacquelin offered darkly.
"No you won’t," a quiet voice said, and Mary – young Combeferre in a blue gown and veil – walked up to them, his face a study in resolution. "I’ll stop him now if you like, and the show will go on, but I want your word of honour that you won’t chastise him. He is not trying to offend anyone, really; it’s just his, y'know, nature speaking out."
The Jesuits exchanged quick glances.
"All right then, hurry up, go, switfly now," the Principal hissed wildly. "Before I lose the rest of my sanity and thrash your natural right here on stage! And that goes for the two of you if you fail, and he carries on with his – his – his infernal carrying-ons!"
"Oh, I won’t," a phlegmatic Combeferre replied, before he stepped onto the stage with a motion for Joseph to follow him. The others watched as he walked up to the blond soliloquist, never once tripping on his gown, and wrapped sudden arms around him.
"My child! Your father and I have been looking for you everywhere!"
The Infant Jesus opened his mouth for a new swoop of rhetoric, but Combeferre was quicker. He tucked Enjolras’s head down against his neck, bent his own and dropped a smacking kiss on his friend’s temple.
There was a moment’s silence while everyone gazed at the scene, entranced. When it became clear that Enjolras was no longer talking- was, in fact, rigidly averting his face -, the camels rushed in for the departure scene, and Brother Jacquelin’s voice concluded loudly and hastily: "And he told them he was going about his Father’s business..."
"My Fatherland!" Enjolras protested, but he kept his gaze down while Combeferre grabbed his hand and dragged him off-stage.
"...and they all went home safely, amen, alleluiah! Which is more than you deserve, you poisonous little Danton," Brother Jacquelin added with a furious squint at his ex-prize pupil. "You’re not getting the cross again any time soon, let me tell you."
"He won’t misbehave again," Combeferre promised. "Not here, that is. Not unless he wants me to kiss him again."
"Judas," Enjolras growled, trying to disengage his hand.
But in the years to come, that would see so many children strain and ripen into anxious manhood, the kiss would linger with them. Subtly, it would resurface in the long, feverish hours when Combeferre watched Enjolras burn his midnight oil at his desk, penning his talks. Sometimes, once the last drop of oil was consumed and Enjolras reeled with fatigue, Combeferre would walk over to him and gather him in his arms, no word being said, and place a quiet kiss on his cheek or forehead.
"Enough," he said, and Enjolras, with half a sigh, gave in. The touch was always one-sided and never spoken upon; but the touch was a sign that both of them heeded. Their days blazed with the heat of rhetoric; their nights were muddy and obscure, filled with rifle hunting and hard transactions with tinkers, workers, soldiers, spies.
But now and then Combeferre would open his arms, and all it took for Enjolras to find his rest was the silent press of his friend’s lips.
They kept the sign to themselves as the months went by, and the burning went up.