Julien: Reflections
[2002-01-23]
Sometimes I think he is two different people. I can scarcely make sense of it otherwise. Grantaire, who still slouches in his corner, laughing at everything I hold sacred, who still interrupts conversation with rude non sequiturs-- still exasperates me. I have no need to feign that for decency's sake. He has nothing to do with my Sebastien, whose touch is so gentle, and who, though he is not invariably sober in my presence, is never offensively drunk. Impossible that that sneering mouth should be the same that kisses me with such tenderness, or that grating voice the one that whispers my name in the night. Julien.
No one else, except for Combeferre, dares or deigns to call me Julien. No one in the world says it as he does, half caressing, half reverent, as though it's an invocation whose power he hardly comprehends. Perhaps it is. When he calls me by it, I am unable to resist him.
That would frighten me, if I thought he realized the effect he has on me. He would not be so tentative if he did, or so worried. He takes my embarrassment for offense, my astonishment for reproach, and is certain that he has frightened me when I am only overwhelmed. Sometimes he seems afraid that I will shatter if handled too roughly.
Impossible to credit such sensitivity from the drunkard in the corner. But when I try to say so, late in the night, he turns anxious and apologetic, though I do not mean to accuse him. I should learn to keep quiet; I am capable of saying exactly what I want to say in other matters, but alone with him I can never find the right words.