Grantaire gazed upwards at the sign towering over him: The Café Lemblin. “The best coffee in Paris,” he thought to himself. “Well, I suppose a break from wine never hurt anyone.” He ambled inside.
Grantaire was a mastermind of understatement, and his use of the word ‘suppose’ was a prime example. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Grantaire was mortified by the incident at the Café Musain three weeks ago; it was there that all of his worst vices were exposed and ridiculed. And in front of Enjolras! Nevertheless, Grantaire had continued to frequent the café. Twice he had been ejected by the proprietress, once of the proprietress’ son, and the last time, he threw himself out, keeping what little shred of dignity he had left.
For it was worse now that it had ever been. Most of the students now ignored him entirely; Enjolras didn’t even bother to insult him anymore. Marius Pontmercy actually went so far as to run away from him if they encountered each other on the street. Grantaire felt more dejected as the days wore on, and his drinking increased proportionately. He squandered almost a hundred francs on wine. He avoided sobriety the way most people avoid debtor’s prison and certain doctors. It was the only way he could forget that he was alone in the world
But a part of Grantaire realized this, and it was this part that drove him into the Café Lemblin, supposing that he needed a break from wine.
Grantaire sat down heavily at the counter. Without even bothering to glance up at the serving girl, he muttered, “French hazelnut, cream one sugar.” He silenced the part of himself that wanted to add, “and a shot of brandy if you’re got any.”
“Grantaire!” A rough girl’s voice answered him. Miserably, he looked up at her.
“Aurelie, it’s such a pleasure to see-”
“Save it Grantaire! I’ve heard it a hundred times. Now, I’m not fond of you to being with, so it’s easy for me to tell you to get out. Usually it’s a bit harder for me to actually get you to leave. But this time, the master of the house be backing me up. Told me to tell you it you dare show your face here, I can rightly call the Inspector. I hear you two have a bit of history.”
Grantaire’s heart dropped into his feet. “But surely-”
“You’re not welcome here!”
Grantaire slumped out of his chair and left. There was nowhere left to go. He had never been so miserable in all his life. In despair, he curled up in the gutter and made an attempt to sleep.
“Papa, look at him!”
Grantaire was confused. “Birds don’t speak…ah yes, she’s a girl, not a bird.” He opened his eyes, but his vision was too blurred for him to make anything out.
“Papa, didn’t you hear me?” A pause. “Papa!”
“Yes, my child, I see him,” answered a gentle tenor. Another pause.
“Do something!” the girl trilled. When Papa did not answer right away, she grew impatient. “What are we going to do? We can’t just leave him here!”
“You are right, my child, we cannot.” Seconds later, Grantaire felt himself being lifted up unto someone’s shoulders. Then consciousness again was lost.
“What is this place?” Grantaire wondered. His head pounded, reminding him anew why he shunned sobriety so. He attempted to get out of the bed, but his unwieldy limbs tangled in layers of white linen, and he fell to the floor with a loud crash.
Light foot treads echoed outside his room. Seconds later, the door blew open. A young girl flew inside, light curls and a white chiffon robs flowing after her.
“Monsieur, are you quite alright?” she asked as she knelt by his side.
Grantaire was taken aback. Monsieur… He scrambled away from her. “I’m fine!” It came out harsher than he intended.
The girl’s face crumpled. “But you’re on the floor…”
An older man appeared in the doorway. “Cosette?” Grantaire looked up in surprise; he had not even heard the gentleman approach. Presumably, he was the girl’s father. He had pristine white hair and a beard to match. His gentle eyes sparkled like sunlight reflecting off ocean spray. The man simply radiated an air of serenity that put Grantaire more at ease. He repeated, “Cosette, what has happened?”
Cosette faced him, but did not leave Grantaire’s side. “He fell on the floor!” She looked stricken.
Grantaire managed to pull himself up. “Floor’s the place for me, little Lady.”
“But no one belongs on the floor!” She pulled at him.
Grantaire stared at her. “You are very strange, you know that?”
Cosette looked perplexed.
“Monsieur, my daughter and I discovered you unconscious outside the Café Lemblin. Perhaps you could tell us your name, and how you came to be in such a state?” the girl’s father said.
“Well,” Grantaire began. He paused to back away from Cosette, who had inched towards him again. “My name is Grantaire. You haven’t heard of me on account of I’m a failure-will you get away from me?!”
Cosette’s eyes brimmed with tears.
Grantaire sighed, frustrated.
“Go on, Monsieur,” the old man encouraged, rubbing his daughter’s arm to comfort her.
Grantaire hesitated, but relayed the entire incident to the father and daughter. The man’s eyes widened momentarily at Inspector Javert’s name, but he said nothing. When he was finished, Grantaire softly confessed, ”But I don’t want to live like this anymore. Being the drunkard no one takes seriously. Being the hopeless cynic.” A pause. “Being the one Enjolras hates more than anyone else.” Another pause. Grantaire struggled to keep back his tears. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I mean, I don’t even know who you are,” he concluded lamely.
“My name is Jean Valjean,” the old man thought to himself. “More of a disgrace to society than even a lost man such as you. But surely I cannot tell you that.”
”Grantaire, you may call me Monsieur Fauchelevant,” Jean Valjean said instead. “We are more alike than you know; I believe I may be able to help you-with the aid of my darling Cosette.”
Cosette beamed. “So you can get off the floor now!” she told him.
Realising that he was beaten, Grantaire conceded. “But how can you help me?” Grantaire asked Jean Valjean. “How could you possibly teach me to be a respectable Frenchman? And why?”
Jean Valjean’s eyes twinkled. “I have my reasons,” he answered. “And as to how, I have my ideas. But for now, Grantaire, rest. When tomorrow comes, there is much work to be done. You need your strength. I will call for you at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Until then, goodbye, and God bless.” Jean Valjean left. “Come Cosette! Say goodbye.”
Cosette curtseyed, and trilled, ”Goodbye, Grantaire! I shall see you tomorrow!” She fluttered out of the room.
Grantaire sat down on the bed, his mind reeling. He could hardly comprehend all that had just occurred. So he didn’t bother to try. He lay down. “When tomorrow comes,” he murmured, just as he dropped back into a deep slumber.”
Grantaire didn’t know what to make of any of it. A happy home was a thing utterly unknown to the poor man. There was no angry yelling or swearing, as he was used to in his past. There were no riled students hollering and singing, as he was used to now. No riots, no arrests, no fighting.
“Probably no wine, either,” Grantaire grumbled to himself. But then he sighed, remembering that he was to become a respectable Frenchman. And respectable Frenchmen did not drink, or so Grantaire thought, but he actually didn’t know, having never really met a respectable Frenchman. Well, except for Monsieur Fauchelevant. Grantaire was almost positive that he had never been drunk, or done anything wrong at all, for that matter.
Grantaire got out of bed and went downstairs, marvelling all the way at how clean and bright the house was. Jean Valjean and Cosette were sitting in the dining room, and he joined them.
“BONJOUR GRANTAIRE!” Cosette bounced over to him. “Just look at how beautiful this morning is!”
“Good morning, Grantaire,” greeted Jean Valjean. “I was just going to send up our maid Toussant to wake you.”
“I’m already awake. And I’m hungry.”
“We’re about to have breakfast, Grantaire!” Cosette informed him.
As if on cue, a woman entered carrying a plate piled high with steaming croissants. She set it down right in front of Grantaire; he felt his mouth start to water. His hand shot.
“Ow! DAMNIT!”
Cosette had stabbed him with a fork.
“Papa! He cursed!”
“She stabbed me with a goddamn fork!”
Cosette gasped and clutched her heart. Her bottom lip started to tremble.
“My child,” began Jean Valjean, lightly touching her hand. “Forgive him. He is ignorant of our life.”
“Why are we not addressing the issue of my attack?” Grantaire demanded.
“Grantaire, forgive her. She was only trying to keep you from eating before we said Grace,” Jean Valjean explained. “Now, I will begin so that we can eat.” Jean Valjean clasped his hands together and lowered his head. “Dear God, thank you for bringing Cosette to me, and thank you for our new companion, Grantaire. Please help us learn to live together in peace.”
“Thank you, God, for Grantaire to us, but please try to help him to understand how to behave,” said Cosette.
“Dear God, I am thankful that I still possess a hand after the assault.”
Cosette scowled. Her father sighed. “Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” Cosette repeated.
Then they both stared in horror at their companion, whose eating habits were akin to those of a wild dog. Jean Valjean shook his head; it seemed as if his task would be harder than he thought.
Cosette dumped a pile of books into the dozing Grantaire’s lap. He started and awoke.
“What is this?” he demanded, carelessly brushing the books off his legs.
Frowning, Cosette gathered them up in her arms and dropped them back on Grantaire’s lap.
“They’re for you.”
“Pardon?”
“They’re books. You know books, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know books!” Grantaire shot back. “Why are they for me?”
“Father thought you might want to look at them.”
Grantaire picked up a thin hardcover and looked at it disdainfully. “Candide, by Voltaire?”
Cosette nodded enthusiastically.
“The Canterbury Tales, Oedipus Tyrannus, The Decameron, Hamlet…the Bible! Cosette!”
But the young girl held her own. “Father asked me to bring them to you!”
“I can’t read these.”
“You can’t read? I will teach you!”
“No, I won’t read these.”
Cosette pondered a moment. “Well, then,” she decided. “I will just have to red them to you!”
Grantaire gruffly sighed. “Cosette. I’ve had to endure enough talk of books from Enjolras and Combeferre to last me the rest of my life. I absolutely will not give in to this.”
“Who’s Enjolras?” Cosette asked. “I’ve heard his name before. Tell me, he is a friend of yours?”
Grantaire’s face went blank. “Enjolras…a friend of mine? I wish I were so lucky…” He tried to shake the man’s beautiful face from his mind, but he could not. Nonetheless, it renewed Grantaire’s conviction. Perhaps, with Cosette’s help, he could indeed be on Enjolras called ‘friend,’ or at least ‘citizen.’ Grantaire sighed again. As disagreeable as he found being sober, it was at least better than enforced exile.
“Grantaire!?” Cosette’s shrill voice broke through his reverie.
He nodded in acknowledgement. “Cosette,” he said slowly. “I would rather like having you read you to me. Why don’t you chose a book?”
Cosette brightened considerably. Grabbing a fat book, she said, “Let’s start now!”
Grantaire had a glance of the title-The Holy Bible-but he said nothing. Enjolras’ face in his mind would not let him.
Grantaire turned around guiltily. He had a reason to be guilty; he was sitting in the middle of the pantry searching desperately for a bottle of alcohol. However, he had only found cooking cherry. Realising that it was perhaps the best the he could do, he had begun to drain the bottle. Jean Valjean had caught him.
“Grantaire?” he repeated, less sharply. “What is this?” as if he didn’t already know.
Grantaire stowed away the cooking sherry and tried to slink away, but Jean Valjean’s powerful form had barricaded him inside. The older man’s disappointed countenance broke Grantaire’s silence.
“One cannot simply stop!”
“One must simply stop,” Jean Valjean calmly replied. “Because it cannot continue. You must realise that your lust for alcohol had been the source of all of the misfortunes that you have suffered.”
Grantaire mumbled something.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, I wouldn’t call it a lust….monsieur.”
Jean Valjean serenely gazed at him. Grantaire had to turn away. Looking at this older man’s saintly expression for too long was slightly akin to directly facing the sun; the gentle intensity of Jean Valjean‘s soul was simply too much for Grantaire to handle sometimes.
Jean Valjean’s eyes softened. “I’ll have Toussant brew a cup of coffee for you.” Then he turned around and silently left.
“Why are you still on the floor?” Cosette demanded.
“Go away,” Grantaire grumbled.
“Don’t sit on the floor.” She walked over to him and began pulling on his limbs. “No one belongs on the floor,” she chided.
“Go awaaaaay! Bloody Hell!”
Cosette screwed up her delicate features in response to Grantaire’s most offensive curse, but she had completely committed herself to his cause, and refused to let his occasional course deter her.
“Why are you holding your head?”
“Because I’m sober!” Grantaire snapped. “And I don’t like it. And your father caught me drinking cooking sherry. And I drank six pots of coffee to make myself think I was getting drunk. And now I’m shaking and it feels like there’s a bloody legion marching around in my head…and I’m sober!”
Cosette blinked. “So am I,” she finally answered. For some reason, that response really bothered her strange houseguest. He choked back a sob. Cosette felt upset. “Do you want anything?” she asked him.
“I just want to be left alone,” came the muffled reply.
Cosette sighed, but did as Grantaire asked. The entire episode made Cosette think about Grantaire’s progress-or lack thereof-thus far. She decided to consult her father. She ran outside to his shed.
“Papa!” she called. Her father emerged a moment later.
“What is it, Cosette? Is there something wrong?” Jean Valjean asked, concerned.
Cosette grasped her father’s hands, and said tearfully, “Oh Papa! It’s Grantaire! He’s so miserable I can hardly stand it!”
Jean Valjean sighed. “I can understand your concern, Cosette. I, too, have been worried about him. In spite of all of our love, he remains bitter and short tempered. It seems that he’d been treated so poorly for so long that his natural response to anything is sarcasm and sinful drunkenness, even in the face of out kindness.”
“It’s terrible, Papa. To think that he has been so mistreated. No one deserves that.” She paused, thinking on something. “But Papa,” she continued. “What can we do to help him?”
Cosette’s father smiled and lay his hand on her arm. “Only what we have been doing, Cosette. Love is the answer.”
Cosette looked into her father’s eyes, smiled, then kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Papa,” she purred, and skipped back the way she came.
When Grantaire woke up the next morning, he head was already pounding. Grunting and muttering to himself, he quickly dressed and ambled downstairs to the kitchen.
There was no one there.
Grantaire was confused. In the week he had terrorized the Fauchelevant household, every morning had been the same: he would go downstairs, find Cosette and her father happily chattering, say something that offended the girl in some way, apologize to her at her father’s behest, then eat the rest of breakfast in near silence. Somehow he had skipped to the last step, except there was no girl, no father, and no breakfast. However, a copy of Gulliver’s Travels lay carelessly on the table. For lack of anything better to do, Grantaire picked up the book, lounged sideways in the chair at the head of the table and began to read.
Several hours later, Grantaire was disturbed by two voices singing loudly together, a tenor and a light soprano. Presently, Cosette and her father appeared in the doorway. Both of them had their arms full of boxes. Cosette let hers fall unceremoniously to the floor, hollering, “Good afternoon, Grantaire!”
Grantaire muttered something.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, I’m reading, Cosette!”
“Oooh, good! What are you reading?”
Grantaire absently showed her the cover.
“That’s one of my favourites, too!” Cosette declared. “But look.” She picked up one of the larger boxes off the floor and held it out to Grantaire. “Papa and I went shopping today.”
Curious, Grantaire took the package and ripped it open. Inside was a brand new pair of black Wellington boots. The man was speechless.
“Go on!” Cosette urged. “There’s more!”
Grantaire opened box after box, finding undershirts, waistcoats, cravats, two new coats, several pairs of trousers, a plain overcoat, and a top hat, all chosen especially for him by Cosette. When he had finished, three stacks of brand new clothes had materialized in front of him. Grantaire was completely in awe of the Fauchelevants’ generosity.
“I don’t know what to say,” Grantaire sheepishly admitted. “This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. How can I ever repay you?”
“Your thanks is enough payment for us,” Jean Valjean answered.
“We just wanted to show you our love, right Papa?” Cosette chirped.
“Yes, my child,” her father answered. Cosette looked proud of herself. “However,” Jean Valjean continued. “We both would be very grateful if you tried to be a little more agreeable in response to our efforts to educate you.” The man smiled. “We can all benefit from that. And perhaps you can even win back your friends…and Enjolras.”
Grantaire’s eyes took on a far away look upon hearing Enjolras’ name. But, as usual, Cosette’s shrill voice broke into his reverie. “Grantaire!”
“Hmmm?”
Cosette turned to her father. “Papa, he didn’t swear at me! I suppose that’s a start, don’t you?”
Chuckling, her replied, “Of course I do, Cosette!”
