{nicéphore} all my fears screaming to be heard

[claudine]

When she had first found out about their plans, she was fairly sure that, had she been a weaker woman, she might have cried. It was something a woman cried about, wasn’t it? The loss of people dear to her. Well, she supposed they weren’t lost yet, but if Monsieur Enjolras carried on in his godforsaken quest, then even she wasn’t sure she wanted to predict the future. No one would have, had they been in her position and even telling them to stop wasn’t going to be enough. She was loyal to them, and they were loyal to him. That was just the way it was and over time, perhaps she had grown to accept that, for fear of being driven mad with jealousy had she not. She wasn’t a jealous woman, she never had been…but maybe there was a part of her that was jealous now. Jealous and terrified for what might befall not only Joly…not only Lesgle, but all of them in the coming months.

Perhaps it was true then, to say that even a woman such as her was falling into desperation. If they wouldn’t listen to her, perhaps they would listen to someone higher than even the King. If someone had told her a few months ago, that she would be seeking the help of a priest, she perhaps would have told them that they needed the help of a doctor, but that being said, here she was. If she couldn’t help them, perhaps God would. There was some doubt though, more because she wasn’t exactly the most religious woman in the world, never had been…her father had believed in God, he just hadn’t liked him all that much. It was obvious desperation then that had led her to be wandering down the slums of St. Michel looking for the priest she had been told often came down here. She had been careful, covering her hair with cloth, choosing her dress carefully so as not to stand out. Things could get dangerous for a girl dressed as she normally would down here, she knew that most of all.

It wasn’t hard to find the priest in the crowd; men like him always did tend to stand out when around others. It was only when she saw him though, that she began to get the flutter of nerves in her stomach, but she pushed on, making her way past the crowds seemingly so needing to grab onto her as she passed them. Until at last, she stood next to him, taking a deep breath. “I heard you speak to God…monsieur,” Her voice was quieter than one who knew her would expect, but she put it down to where she was, and who she was speaking to. For all she knew, he could judge her the moment she told him about Joly and Lesgle. She knew for certain that being the mistress of two men, even if she loved them dearly was certainly frowned upon. “I was hoping He could help me,” God himself, she hoped could help her, but she needed this man to be her connection.

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Distributing goods was as fulfilling as ever to Nicephore, even though the actual thanks was scarce. It seemed to be a part of humanity that poverty would harden the hearts of some while it opened the hearts of others – and Paris’ proud children could be of the hardest hearts. The man Nicephore had once been, of higher disposition and origin, would have called them vulgar and mean, but now he only saw them as a rich variety of God’s children, which he ought not judge. As his figure was well known in these parts, he soon was surrounded by a crowd of people of all age and flair. Little boys and girls tugged at his frock and asked for some crumb or a story to tell them of a saint, the lames – fake and genuine -- were crying for alms and the mothers were presenting him half-starved infants with the plea for a little water or a clean piece of cloth. The young monk helped where he could, but distributed his spare goods with great care, knowing he had far too little to satisfy them all. For many, he only had a kind word and a blessing, and a promise that they would be the first on his next round.

Earlier in the day, he had paid a visit to the unfortunate thatcher that had been one of the victims in the escalated May Parade. He had been trampled on by the mob after he had fallen to the ground, and as his spine and several other limbs were broken, he could never climb a roof again, exposing his wife and three children to sudden poverty. All vital energy had left the poor soul, and the thought that he might give in to his severe injuries soon and leave his wife a widow weighed heavily on Nicephore’s mind. How was it fair that innocents should pay for the folly of those who had provoked a riot on that joyous evening? Both with the tumult and the shooting, both parties had been guilty, and yet there was no one to judge them but God himself.

Helping though were he actually COULD help was a relief to Nicephore’s troubled mind, and he soon resumed his usual gaiety. He was in almost good spirits again, when he suddenly was approached by a young woman, whose voice pulled him out of a leisure talk about the Franciscan ideals with a common beggar. Immediately, he excused himself, so he could give that woman his full attention, as something in her voice told him how troubled she was. She was pretty, he observed with the detached interest of a clear man of God, with a shock of bright red locks framing a face of delicate beauty very rare for the background her clothes noted her to be of.
“We all can speak to God, mademoiselle”, he replied with a polite kindness, though his eyes shown warmly. “He will always listen though we might not often hear his answer in the noise of our world. What is it that ails you and that God might help you with? If you want, we can seek for a more secluded spot so you might confess to me without hesitation.”

By any other man, this suggestion might have been laced with a certain offering undertone, but Nicephore’s wide, gentle and naïve eyes made clear there was nothing further from his mind and that he sought only her comfort in offering privacy.

[claudine]

Even the short conversation she’d had with him so far was helping. Even though it wasn’t much, a simple promise that he would talk to her like she had wanted was enough to set her mind at ease. She supposed it may be different when he found out just why she was asking for God’s help, but for now, at least, he would give her the help she so desperately needed. It was strange…being this desperate. She didn’t exactly pride herself on it, in fact, she tended to be a rather laid back woman, not caring much for the things that went on around her. She supposed then, that this was because it involved risk, death…or much worse, every crazed quest they had followed their Leader on, nothing compared to this. Probably never would. She had thought at times that maybe she could follow them, be there by their side and maybe that would be enough to stop them, but she was a woman…and a battlefield would never be her place. Just think of the uproar she would cause, taking up arms and going down there all guns blazing. Shooting things with guns was a man’s job and hers…was making sure they were safe.

Perhaps she thought he was wrong, when he told her that they could all speak to God, but she didn’t show it, lifting her chin in that way she did when she was nervous and needed to feel more confident. It was a false confidence now, but it did what it needed to do in the current situation. She guessed it might have been the look she passed over her shoulder, or the falter in her voice that caused him to offer they go somewhere else, but the more she considered it, the more she realised she didn’t actually know anywhere around here that they could go to. It wasn’t a place that she frequented regularly, or at least, she really didn’t try to. Even being here put her on edge and she supposed that wasn’t like her at all. Perhaps then, it was better that he was welcoming, able to put her at ease with the simplest of words and that, she supposed, was how a priest was meant to be. “Yes…I think that would be better,” She told him and another look around confirmed it for her. There were secrets she held that she would prefer men like these not to hear.

“Perhaps you should lead the way…this isn’t a place I usually come,” She wasn’t sure why she held out her arm to the priest. Perhaps it was habit, though more than likely, the contact would give her a bit of informality, make it easier for her to say what was troubling her. Either way, she let him lead her in the direction he saw fit, hoping to get away from the majority of the crowds. “If a person were in danger…would He protect them, no matter who they were?” It was a cautious question, perhaps one that he may think referred to her, but she would explain more when she had her answers. She supposed she was good at being vague, though she wouldn’t have been able to say where it came from. She wondered for a moment though, if he’d had any inkling to the fact that she certainly wasn’t from the background that she had dressed herself to be from, though his shear naivety put her at ease. If he had already known…he would have said something, surely? But then…were priests meant to judge? She wasn’t exactly sure, the bad side of not really frequenting the house of God as much as this priest perhaps would have liked her to.

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

She told him to lead the way, she trusted him apparently and this was a cause of mild joy for Nicephore, and he smiled. It did feel good to have someone confident in the gentleness you wanted to show, and not suspect ulterior motives or falsehood of him, like sadly many people in the lower parts of Paris displayed. Even some of his own brethren, he had observed with shock, would not think themselves above taking something for what they gave, or helping some more than others. That could not be God’s will surely! He gave a little surprised start though when she held out his arm to her as if he were a gentleman and not a man of God. Well, she apparently knew no better, but it was not befitting! If anyone was to see him like that, they would suspect dreadful things of him, if their hearts were heavy and dark, and as much as that would be their own fault, he did not wish to give anyone reason to think ill of him. Not for his own sake, but for their souls, as every wicked thought you harboured against someone was a sin. God’s message was love, not deceit and contempt.

Nicephore thus led the young woman around a corner, where a few crates allowed them to sit in a narrow blind alley. It was empty, a little bit dirty perhaps, but it would do just well for their conversation. He would have preferred a church of course, since its calm and quiet air often losened the tongues of those who had their hearts heavy with sorrow, but a church was not nearby and so he would do with what he could offer this woman. He really hoped he could help her, though often his help didn’t surpass a kind word of consolence and a little food, along with the assurance that God had not forsaken those who thought he had.
Her question, gladly, was an easy one to answer for him, and it made the slight benevolent mile reappear as he shifted to get comfortable on the crate. Of course she was being vague for a reason, but he hoped she would open up to him more. God would see into her heart of course, and know everything that was within, but Nicephore himself had no such power, yet he strived to help.

“God does not look down on people, no matter who they are. He does not care for status like we humans do, he just sees into the soul and reads what lies there within. If a person is in danger because of the ill will of others and not his or her own, then of course he will help them. He will even help the sinners, those who have done wrong and are thus in danger”, Nicephore explained honestly, nodding. “Jesus supped with the sinners, he invited them into his house. So we, his brothers, should do the same, though we rarely do. God has his eye on the sparrow, it is written, and even so much more on us, his sons and daughters.”