Few people remember the Parisian summer of '63. It was soon overshadowed by larger, grander events involving kings and queens and scandals in exotic places. But it began on the small scale, with a very little person who went by the unassuming name of Henri.
Born
at some point, he was orphaned soon after and knew nothing of his
heritage, his people or his own age. Educated in the gutters of the
great city, he learned that he had a royal name and so adopted what he
considered a fitting manner to match. He raised his head to the passing
carriages of kings while others looked at the street in humble
reverence. Were it not for his easy charm and quick smile, his head may
soon have rolled for such impudence. As it was, those carriages usually
ignored him. Once, it was rumored, an icy empress from some foreign land
of hard people actually smiled back at him. Henri insisted the story was true and repeated it to everyone he met, usually more than once.
His
audience generally consisted of the other children of the street, the
little beggars who looked up to him as far wiser and older than they. To
them he was a hero. Literally. Every last one would have caught varied
diseases in summer and died in winter of consumption were it not
for Henri's "connections." These consisted of putrid holes in the earth
covered in rags cast off by the comfortable classes. As savage and
sickly as these accomodations were, they served their purpose in
prolonging the misery of the city of orphans.
Soon after the snow had melted and the city cast off its winter trappings, Henri
was pleased to welcome back his favorite feature of summer: the
markets. In particular, a garish market of works and wares in the rue
Lamartine held his attention. The young girl in the butcher's stall with
raven colored hair was a sufficient draw for him. On most mornings he
could be found wandering among the stalls, charming the peasantry as
powerfully as he repulsed the bourgeois.
Perched
atop a stall near the butcher's on a fine June morning, he watched
an urchin of the uninitiated classes swipe a tart from a low set shelf
nearby.
"Beginner's
luck, eh?" said Henri, appearing suddenly at the small child's side and
snatching the tart from his hand. The frightened child jumped nearly
out of his own skin and turned to run. In his haste, however, he ran
straight into the edge of the stall, knocked himself cold and tumbled to
the ground in a heap.
"What's this, Henri?" The tart seller, a deeply sallow man with a respectable mustache, turned at the commotion, fist raised.
"Saved you a tart," said Henri quickly, holding said tart aloft. "This one tried to snake it."
Furious,
the mustachioed man pulled the failed thief up by the scruff of the
neck and yelled a warning so stiff it paralyzed the child almost as
powerfully as his hot breath.
"You ever come back here and I will put you in a tart to sell!" the man concluded with a final, violent shake. "You learn from Henri!
He has saved your skin! Honest little boys become kings! Little thieves
we eat for supper! If it were not for him, I would cut off your ears
and splatter your head across the stones!" The tart man turned to look
at Henré, but the wiser of the two street rats had made his exit.
The child, now a quaking pile of rags, shook in terror but was otherwise still when the man released him.
"Go!" Cried the man, kicking him hard.
The
child ran as fast as he could down the first crack he found in the
crowded market. When at last he stopped and looked round him, heaving
from fright and exhaustion, the first sight he saw was Henri, sitting carelessly upon a stump, flashing his wide, easy smile and polishing off a tart.
Henri followed the tiny, tartless child that morning and finally took pity on the wretched creature.
"You'll be dead in a week," he said, taking the child's hand. "Come with me."
The child instantly pulled away but Henri held fast.
"That was a dirty trick!" cried the waife, in a painfully high-pitched voice. "I've been hungry all morning!"
"You
never saw the magistrate," said Henri. "Had I left you to it, you'd be
in a workhouse." From the powerful shudder these words cause in his
newfound orphan, Henri quickly ascertained the child's recent history.
"What's your name, little one?" he asked.
"Émile."
"I am most pleased to meet you." Henri bowed low. Straightening, he muttered, "You's supposed to bow. It's proper."
Émile flushed with embarrassment and imitated Henri as well as he could."Did I do it right?" he whispered.
"It'll do."
In a flash the two ragged gentlemen were running down the alleyways of the great city. Émile soon realized that the whole of those
huddled masses seemed to know Henri. In every street, at every corner,
flower sellers and bakers, knife-grinders and cidre sellers nodded their
greetings. Even the gruffest among them lightened their scowls at the
sight of Henri's quick smile and friendly greeting.
"You must be friends with the whole city!" cried Émile at one point.
"Like as not," Henri replied quickly. "But they is all my friends."
Guided by his sage protector, Émile
soon had a full stomach, a washed face, dry lodgings and even shoes on
his feet. By evening time, his circumstances much improved, he was happy
to sit with Henri on the river. He chattered away for a long time
before he realize that Henri wasn't listening.
Henri's gaze was far away, lost in some foreign place.
He stared without flinching at the horizon until long after the sun had
set. Then, without warning, he suddenly lept to his feet.
"You will meet the family!" He cried, clapping his hands together and rushing off down the street.
Émile
ran as hard as he could, trying to keep pace with Henri, until he
though his lungs would burst. Stopping just outside a crowded public
house, he found himself among a rowdy group of much older boys, playing
games with dice, smoking, dancing and yelling bits of news to each
other.
"Boys!" shouted Henri. Nobody paid him any attention, though.
"Boys!" he tried again, louder.
"Street rats!"
Silence
rang out and turned the air stale. This last cry had not belonged to
Henri, but to a large, burly man with a bushy black beard, hovering in
the doorway. He took two large strides toward Henri, struck him square
on the nose and melted back into the pub.
Henri writhed on the ground for a moment, but beat back the boys who tried to help him up.
"Let
me be!" he shouted, finally scrambling to his feet. He twitched a few
times, but shook off the blow. "I'd like to introduce the newest member
of our family." Henri, now grinning through a small but steady stream of
blood and a quickly swelling eye, introduced Émile.
"What's you doing out here?" he asked when greetings were exchanged.
"Arnaud," answered one boy, shrugging. "You see it yourself. He's in for blood."
"I'll talk to him," said Henri, but the boy who had spoken clutched at his arm.
"No Henri. You're lucky to be alive. Don't tempt fate. Not with that man."
"What's a man?" asked Henri, puffing out his chest and bristling at the implication. "What's a man compared to a gentleman?"
"You?" scoffed the boy. "Gentleman?"
"Only
the finest Paris has to offer!" Henri cried with conviction. He met the
gaze of every boy around him, one by one. Caked in dust and bleeding, a
scar over his right eye, his left turning a deep purple, hair matted
and rough and thick with dirt, his chin lifted in haughty indignation,
Henri found pity in each gaze he met. It infuriated him. "Time to prove
it," he said.
Émile
ran to his side. "Henri!" he whispered, pleading. "Don't. I know you're
a gentleman. You were probably born in a great house, maids
everywhere."
Henri shook his head. "Gents ain't born, little one. They's made."
Henri
burst through the doors of the pub and an pell mell to the back of the
room, boxing the unsuspecting Armaud on the ear with such force, the
larger man was almost completely disoriented. Henri took him down at the
knees, pushed his shoes into the man's chest and neck, hovered over him
and pulled out his small jack knife. This he pressed to the man's
throat.
"This
is how I'd kill you," he whispered. "But as I is a gentleman---" Here
Henri head-butted Arnaud so forcefully the man went limp.
Henri raised his arms above his head in victory, standing upon the dazed Arnaud's chest.
A
small circle of ragged spectators stood in stunned silence for a full
minute while the rest of the bar went on carousing, little concerned
with another brawl in the back room.
"Go on!" Henri finally yelled to his spectators. "Tell Paris how the cub whipped the bear!"
With a sudden cheer, the amazed group of boys scattered to the four winds.
"Émile!"
Henri waved his protege over.
"I has an important mission for you. Find the butcher's daughter, from the market. Tell her what happened. But don't let on I's the one that sent you."
Émile nodded and ran, knocking over chairs and sending beer flying, but eventually he made it out the back door.
Henri
stood in triumph over Arnaud and breathed deeply, knowing nothing but
victory for one moment. He did not see Arnaud's quick hand, nor did he
feel the quick glance of the blade as it plunged deep between his ribs.
Looking
around him, Arnaud quickly picked up the small body of Henri, whose
grin didn't desert him even in death, and pushed him through the back
door, into the stench of the alley.
Without bothering to straighten himself, Arnaud limped to the front of the pub, sat at the large, heavy bar and sat down.
The barman approached and found him shining a glittering blade with one of the linens.
"You
put that away, Arnaud," said the barman, pushing a bottle in front of
him. "I hear say you was beaten down by one of the pups you like to kick
around! Serves you right. You was always mean as a dog. Little Henri,
was it? Friendly little rat, he was. Never quite thought he had it in
him."
Arnaud put the bottle to his lips.
"Even the rats have their glory."
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