A Question of Families

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel's been outside as much as ever since Enjolras returned from Paris, turning over the old and new of that trip. He'd assumed Monsieur Fauchelevent had left Milliways once he'd returned to his own body; he hasn't seen the old fellow since, and everyone else Bahorel knows jumped back to their usual lives with relief.

But there Fauchelevent is, outside near the lake.

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[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel listens, but shakes his head at the end. "I was engaged with my life in Paris, Monsieur-- no man more so. And still I was my father's son." He laughs a little, soundless, at a thought. "And still I am my father's son, whatever sort of life I may have now-- always that. The farmer's child, the smuggler's son."

He looks at Valjean, smiling, almost calm. "There, now you know something about me, too. I'm not ashamed of it, Monsieur; I don't speak of it here because to those who don't know, it would mostly mean nothing. What does anyone here care about the king's salt-taxes or the tariffs?-- but, there. You see." He shrugs. "At least you might see that I cannot understand why you think this must be a thing that comes between family. -- No, I don't understand at all! You're right if you think so! --Your reasons may seem sound to you, but they seem rotten to me, Monsieur, and I wonder you don't see the light coming through them. Look! You can't think your daughter has a harder heart than a scoundrel like me. If I can tell you, as I can, that I'd be happier to have my parents, with any title and curse on them, than the good graces of society--how can you think she'd care less?"

He sighs; Valjean is so determined, and for what? "I don't understand your reasons. I cannot force you to understand mine. But from only what my friends have said--only that! -- I already know your company is worth more than the high opinions of all the best Society in Paris. Nothing you've said has changed my mind; it's made me more certain. I would argue with you for your own happiness if I thought it meant anything; you've made it clear enough that's not your concern. So I tell you again, your daughter will need you, in the time ahead, in a way she has not before; If you knew what it is , to enter the lists in Society--and alone, without a family!" What does the old man think proper Society is, to people without family trees with roots stretching back past the Revolution into lords and nobles and finery? Does he have any idea?

...No, he probably doesn't , and wouldn't likely believe Bahorel for the telling. Bahorel bows, properly; he could carry on the argument, but Valjean seems well beyond listening. Still-- "She does need you. I hope you know it before too long, for her sake--and for your own, though I know that means nothing to you. Little as you may believe me, I wish you all happiness, Monsieur."

[road_to_calvary]

Valjean likes Bahorel, and esteems him for this devotion to his parents. It would be the easiest thing in the world to point out, again, that he is not Cosette's father - no, he could not love her more if she were of his blood, and yes, he is the only father she has known. But there is no blood tie that society might think 'well, she is unfortunate to be saddled with such a relative, but it is not her fault,' if they would even be that charitable. He is a passer-by that wronged her mother, and vowed to do right. He had not expected to love her; had had no notion of what love was, but there it was. And now, it is only right that he should step away, and not endanger a love that is far more pure, entirely legitimate and from the heart, not borne from depedance and need.

Yes, he likes Bahorel, but he is very glad to see him bow too. It would take energy to articulate all this, and the young man is so sure of himself and his life. He must have done his parents proud, Valjean thinks. It would be a fine thing to have such a son.

He bows in return.

'I will think on what you have said, citizen.'

He will too. Mostly to refute it to himself, mostly to measure his own unhappiness against the impossibility of these suggestions, to ensure that thread in his heart will not break against them. It is a terrible thing, conscience. But he will not become a wretch again, not as he was before. Honesty compels him, and he will not fall foul of the Bishop's standards now.

'I wish you well also; you and all your friends.'

He has the idea he might not see them again, and would like at least one of them to know that he hopes they thrive after death.

And with that, he takes his leave.