The Enchantment of the Night
André laid down his head on Oscar's chest, kissing her beloved body. She caressed his head absent-mindely, staring at the stars through the window.
She shivered, as if when dawn would have hide these stars, her last dream would also disappear, and the sun would steal her Shadow... The one she loved
Oscar held André tigh, seeking refuge in his comforting warmth.
This night would be her night of eternity, the night when each second would last a thousand years. Nobody could tear from her heart and memory this night of the 12th July 1789.
Oscar closed her eyes and fell asleep...
Stars are strange and powerful beings. They whisper far, far away in universe. But if no one tries to hear them, they listen to every human thought.
And they were watching over these two child, sadness overwhelming them as they knew it would be the last time they would sleep together in that way. This moment of tenderness was too precious to be torn by the folly of war.
The more they looked at them, the more their light became melancholy. They had not have time enought to love each other.
So in the dark immensity, they began to sing. Slowly. Desperately.
The notes of this song, sliding in the wind, crept into Oscar and André's breaths and calmed it down. They entered their imagination to erect in it the chimeric walls of an endless dream. This dream would last a hundred years, a hundred years during which they would be safe from the crual flames that would soon reduce so many lifes to ashes.
And when their enchantment had taken shape, the stars fell silent.
A Hundred Years
From this night, no one could penetrate Oscar's room. It had become a treasure box locked over the two sleepers.
In the first times, there was not a day that a member of the Jarjayes 's house did not try, in vain, to open the door. But it remained immovable. Keys broke in the lock, unable to reveal this mystery.
Then every one avoided it, as if the room was haunted. Not because of renouncement, but because of fear, fear, the fear that maybe they would find the corpse of these beloved ones in there.
So it became their grave.
A few years later, the General de Jarjayes and his wife had to flee from the Revolution, and they were quite relieved to leave for ever this house and its painful secret.
The residence suffered in silence and towered up to protect Oscar and André while time slowly destroyed it. Thorns grew up in dense bushes, blocking every entry. Even the sun could barely enter for the windows were covered with dust.
The two lovers had remained still since the moment they had closed their eyes, naked in each other's arms. No wrinkle other than that caused by a faint smile appeared on their faces, as dust settled on them like a shroud, flying slightly under their breaths.
Everything was quiet in their refuge, unconcerned with the storms that darkened the sky. Only laught and innocence rained on their dreams. It was an endless somersault in a whirl of grasshoppers and dandelions; a round dance in puddles following again and again the choreography of the planets; a poem which verses blossomed in immortal arabesques.
But how quick a century went by!
Here came dawn, with its red light entering the wild garden and climbing the fissured walls to break the enchantment. It filtered throught the grey windows and landed on Oscar's lips like the kiss of a tactless prince charming daring to awake his beauty from a so peaceful sleep.
And like the gentle flapping of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, Oscar lifted her eyelids again.
Oscar was like a doll, forgotten for years and years in an attic, which suddenly came to life. Her mind was still confused, bond to some reminiscences of that bewitched dream that had just freed her, and her first thoughts were only for André, who was yet sleeping besides her. Her pale hand ran on his neck, and slode on his throat slightly twitching at the rhythm of his respiration. Then Oscar's fingers ventured on his cheek, and, just as the shy wave that carried the shipwrecked to the shore, this gentle caress brought André back to reality. He raised his head, fanning out a silvery aureole of dust, and caught Oscar's lips in his. He kissed her a long time, quite desperatly, both two fearing the separation that would see them go to the fight.
But despite her heart's cries, Oscar withdrew from André's warmth, avoiding his gaze. Now she had to become again this broken soldier, this fallen angel standing in the fury of rifles. She clenched her fists so tight that her nails ran into her flesh and some dropplets of blood flew on the floor, drawing purple craters in the dirt.
It was only then that she became aware of the state of the room that had seen her grow. Her bed's curtains had been worm-eaten and hung ragged on the baldaquin; marks of dampness on the mirror distorted her reflection; the roof disappeared behind cobwebs; and everywhere this coat of dust, as if someone had upset a giant sandglass in here.
Overcome by vertigo, Oscar stepped back to return in his arms. Her voice betrayed a childish fear.
"What happened here?"
André could not make out anything in the shadowy light. But maybe because he could not see them, he seemed to hear the comforting whispers of the stars. And he understood.
But he stil felt Oscar's anguish in each of her shiverings. So he rose up and walked to the window...
Yet she held him back.
"What are you doing?
Nothing... I am just wondering how it is outside.
He froze. Oscar was huddled on the bed.
"Please, stay with me. I do not want to know.
Do not fear, I am here to protect you."
André knew that too many shouts of hatred, too many streams of dark blood haunted Oscar's soul. He hold out his hand to her.
"Come with me."
Oscar hesitated. She had faced so many things, so why could not she braved this anonym dread, this so distant morrow? If she did not break the chains that immobilised her heart to follow the one she loved, she would remained for ever imprisonned in this chimera while André would dissapeared in the void.
A frail and trembling butterfly awoke in her and flew slowly to touch André's hand. This smile... this smile was her star, the one she looked at when the world around her was grey and crual.
He took her to the window, fragments of light dancing on their way. It reminded Oscar the time, far, far away in her memories, when André and her went in secret in the disused attic of the Jarjayes' residence to play hide-and-seek behind the chests full of screwed dreams and the furniture which sheets over them gave them a solemn and severe appearance. The sky appeared shattered through a lone and dirty dormer window.
Lost in the inner labyrinth of her remembrance, she had not been aware that André had turned the unmanageable lock of the window and opened it until she felt herself dragged in a chasm of white light.
In the Heart of Innocence
For a moment, Oscar was dazzled by an immaculate world. Then appeared slowly the pale pink tint of the sky, interlaced with long, grey clouds and the dark claws of the trees and thorns surrounding the house erected.
In the new-born day echoed shy chirpings, and the wind awoke, spreading a scent of blueberry in this haven of forgetfulness.
Oscar came to the balustrade. She wanted to look closer, just to be sure this was not a mirage that would disappear. But when she felt the cold contact of the stone on her palm, she knew she was not dreaming.
She was free. Free from the bitterness that burn in the veins of mankind. Free to be once again this child that had grown too fast.
André nested his head on her shoulder, and she smiled. As if answering to an irresistble call, she took him in the bedroom. She took their clothes, which were now rags where mothes had drawn arabesques, and that were flying around their bodies like foam. Then they ran after each other un the corridor, the floor creaking under their steps like the rusty notes of an old lullaby, and slid on the trembling banister.
Oscar thought she had lost for ever this innocence that had not rung in her laughts for so long.
But she was here, her twin heart beating near her, under these embraced trees that would protect them from the sharp reefs of hatred.
She let herself fall in the tall grass. André picked up some of the poppies that spangle the garden and wove a crown for Oscar with them.
A new star dawned in their eyes, another childhood that was reflected in every single corner of their refuge. In the middle of bushes of hawthorn and eglantine, water danced ballet with frogs in the fountain. The terrace had become an elf's nest, with its carpet of soft moss covering the floor and stair, and the bindweeds hung in arch around the ruined columns. They ate some wild raspberries and cherries, comfortably settled in a hazel tree, balancing their naked legs and exchanging sweet kisses.
On the horizon, a tit flew away in a flash of blue feathers. And it seemed that this day was like a fairy tale. A fairy tale nobody nobody ever told.