Ce N'est Rien
(Quotations are from the Original French Concept Album of Les Miserables, translated by Madame Bahorel, except the second, which is from the original novel as translated by Charles E. Wilbour.)
She is drifting now. For a long time she has clung to awareness, incredulous that life should slip from her so soon after beginning to promise her joy. She has focused on the sunlight shining through her window each morning, insisted that Suzette should dress her hair as immaculately as ever, had letters and contracts, bills and proclamations brought to her in bed when she could not rise. For a while she demanded news of the castle, of the kingdom, of the great world, until she realized that they were not telling her the half of what she asked to know. She is an invalid. Time taken to inform her of events is time wasted.
In her room, in the soft deep bed, in her chair by the window overlooking the garden, she occupies her days. She does embroidery, the delicate fragile work that so delights her, and she does the light mending. She writes letters, reams of letters to her friends and her less-estranged kin, brief courteous notes to members of the court, and every so often an official communication touching some minor matter. The matters of importance, with a sense of mingled protest, relief, and shame, she leaves to her husband.
Scarcely a day passes that she does not see him, though some days his visits are few and brief, his words loving but distracted. He is busy. He has so much to attend to. She feels no resentment; she is too much in awe of him, still. So busy, so handsome, so talented, so full of life. She has always felt a little pale beside him, and paradoxically a little brightened by his presence. Each time the door shuts behind him, a tiny sigh escapes her.
| Prince d'amour... te voilà, comme en rêve
Les anges, quelquefois, se rencontrent sur terre. |
Prince of love... There you are, as in a dream The angels, sometimes, meet each other on earth. |
Every day she has her son brought in to her. Nearly a year old, darkly lovely like his father, and like his father, she thinks, sufficient unto himself. When she plays with him, sings to him, he laughs his beautiful baby laugh and clings to her. When tears suddenly overcome her, he leans on her shoulder and she can feel his small hand patting her arm.
'Maman?'
'Maman loves you so very much, little angel, little sweet one.'
And she imagines that in his half-formed baby talk she can hear him say that he loves her.
| Bonne sainte vierge, auprès de mon poêle
J'ai mis un berceau de rubans orné; Dieu me donnerait sa plus belle étoile, J'aime mieux l'enfant que tu m'as donné. Madame, que faire avec cette toile? Faites en trousseau pour mon nouveau-né. Les bleuets sont bleus, les roses sont roses, Les bleuets sont bleus, j'aime mes amours. |
Good holy virgin, by my bed I have put a cradle draped with ribbons; Were God to give me his fairest star, I should love the babe thou hast given me more. "Madam, what shall be done with this linen?" "Make a trousseau for my newborn." Violets are blue, roses are red, Violets are blue, I love my loves. |
It slips away.
One day she is too weak to get up, even to move to the window on Suzette's steadying arm. The next day, the same. One day she does not wake until noon. The fever reaches out to reclaim her, one hot and hungry finger at a time.
There are times when she feels almost ferociously lucid, can see every line of the furniture outlined in sharp clarity, can feel every thought darting through her mind like a flash of light. There are times when she feels delirious, as though even the most ordinary things are figures of nightmare. There are times when it becomes impossible to tell the difference.
| J'avais rêvé d'une autre vie,
mais la vie a tué mes rêves; à peine commencée, elle finit comme un court printemps qui s'achève. |
I had dreamed of another life, But life has killed my dreams; Barely begun, it ends As a short springtime snuffs itself out. |
"Would it be all right if sometimes I called you mother?"
Quicksilver child, all bright eyes and tumbling curls, all bursting enthusiasms and smoldering pouts. The sort of child that she, as a child, stood back from and watched admiringly, envying such confidence. The sort of child that Geoffrey must have been. A beautiful child; all Geoffrey's children are beautiful, and Kate perhaps most beautiful of all.
Kate visited her from time to time, with tales of childish pranks and teenaged amours and adult responsibilities, making her smile. Now she is not sure. Sometimes she sees Morien, but Morien would never journey from Timiro merely to visit her sickbed. Sometimes she sees Geoffrey, only to surface and remember that Geoffrey is away. Sometimes she sees her mother, and then even Suzette takes an hour to quiet her tears.
So she cannot be sure if Kate is here with her, or if this is only another fever-dream beside her, with tearful brown eyes and trembling voice, stroking her hand. She rather hopes so. She would not want Kate to be so distraught.
"I'll be good," she hears a little girl's voice whisper. It sounds like Kate's voice, but it might easily be her own, years ago. "I'll be good, only don't leave me."
Don't leave me, don't leave me here alone in the cold, Jehan, don't go.
"Oh, mother."
O my child.
| J'avais des si jolis défauts j'étais rêveuse, j'étais coquette un peu naïve, mais pas trop pour ne jamais perdre la tête et je me faisais fête d'un chant d'oiseau, d'un jour nouveau. |
I had some pretty faults I dreamed all the time, I was coquettish A bit naive, but not too much To never lose my head And I would take pleasure in a birdsong, in a new day. |
She throws the glass again and again at Morien's face, watches it explode against the wall instead, in a shower of glass splinters and drops of brandy.
"Damned hysterical girl... get you a husband..."
I hate you. I hate you!
"Get to your room, gods! If father could see you now..."
I hate father, I hate mother, and I hate you. You and your ice-bride, you and your marriage contracts, you and your cold eyes, you hate me and I hate you.
There are a jumble of voices in her head, overlaid on one another. Morien's inimitable sneer; her mother's clipped tones with their trilling accent of far Southcoast; Geoffrey, swearing magnificently; the silver-bell voice of Christina; the smooth detested voice of the highlander; Jehan's voice, mocking her with deference; Ariane, in icy sarcasm; Kate, in shrill bad temper.
Gods, gods damn you all, will you leave me in peace!
She watches the petals fall from the flower in Foxx's hand.
You know I am very fond of you... please, don't look like that...
Splinters of light flashing off the great showy diamond as it falls to the floor, again and again.
Take that to your light-of-love and make an honest woman of him!
"Easy, milady, easy. Hush now..."
Suzette's hands are cool and steady, smoothing her damp hair back from her face. She must do something for Suzette, she must give Suzette a holiday, something. She tries to say so, but she does not hear the words.
| Deux anges qui se découvrent N'ont rien à expliquer. Deux âmes qui se retrouvent Ont tout dit sans parler.... |
Two angels who discover each other Have nothing to explain. Two souls who find each other again Have said everything without speaking. |
| Les bleuets sont bleus, les roses sont roses, Les bleuets sont bleus, j'aime mes amours. | |
The scent of roses enfolds her, achingly sweet. Firelight flickers on the polished wood, the glass, the gold. Snow swirls outside, but the parlor of Bellefleur is warm and safe. She has never been more in need of warmth and safety.
"What shall I do?" she asks desperately. "What shall I do?"
"Oh, little one." Her aunt looks at her in tender sympathy. "Oh, Daisy chérie, if I could answer you that--"
"I love him so. I love him--"
"Daisy." Aunt Margot sets down her knitting, and reaches over to lay a slender hand on her wrist. "Little one, you must not torment yourself so.... Listen, dear heart. Listen to me carefully. I will tell you what I have learned, and that is: never let love matter more to you than your strength in yourself."
She weeps. "I have no strength in myself."
"But you do." The old woman's voice is gentle. "You are pretty and accomplished, you are thoughtful and sweet and kind, my Daisy. You will never be unwanted, and you must never shed tears for one who does not want you...."
"But I love him." She is not crying for Jaden any longer. I love him, I love my son, my foster daughter... and they love me. Aunt, they love me, as no one but you ever loved me, and how can I lose them?
Aunt, I do not want to lose them. I do not want to lose my friends, my flowers, my sewing, my home, the light through my window, the wind in my hair...
"Oh, my Daisy."
I do not want to go...
"Oh, my Mari. Mari, can you hear me?"
"Geoffrey...."
I do not want to die.
"You see, she can hear me."
"Milord--"
"Damn it-- stand back there, give milady some air, for the love of all the gods-- Mari, my dear--"
"Geoffrey." It is so hard to speak, to exist enough to be able to speak, to be able to see him. "Love. Please..."
"Hush. It's all right."
"My love. I am... so sorry..." She feels his hand against her forehead, remembers to breathe. "Tell Kate I am-- sorry-- tell Jehan..."
"It's all right, dear."
His hand against her hair. He thought her pretty, she, poor pallid thing; he came back to her in spite of everything. He calls her dear, honey, love; he makes her laugh; he gave her a child. She would give anything to come back to him, in gratitude for all that he has done for her. The light frays, scatters, dissolves; she cannot keep hold of it.
"Mari?"
"It's all right," she says, or tries to say. "My love."
| Ce n'est rien, non, ce n'est rien
qu'un peu de sang qui pleure, dernier chagrin de pluie aux couleurs de la nuit qui va bientot enfin nous reunir; dernier chagrin de pluie, dernier élan de vie, d'un coeur qui n'a servi à personne. |
It's nothing, no, it's nothing, Only a bit of blood that weeps; Last sorrow of rain in colours of the night Which goes soon, to reunite us at last. Last sorrow of rain, last burst of life, Of a heart that has never served anyone. |