Chapter Text
A figure shrouded by mist; dainty, slim, tall, and always appearing only as a silhouette. This peculiar humanoid wanders the Parisian slums on rainy days, and the Parisian streets by night.
Who could this be?
A monster? Perhaps. A shadow? Likely. A man? We shall see.
The women called this figure M. Célestin, enchanted by the phantom's silhouette, how, like a star, it shines under dark and dreary skies.
The men, less generous, called it a criminal. Un hors-la-loi.
Were they correct?
Somewhat.
It was Montparnasse.
This Montparnasse, in 1824, was one of those young boys littering around the streets of Paris, heckling at strangers and muttering strange sounds to himself which only he knows the meaning of. No one knew his name. No one knew his mother or his father, nor did anyone know where he lived.
He often frequented the area Montparnasse, giving him the nickname "enfant de Montparnasse", which shifted into "M. de Montparnasse" when he'd grown into adolescence, and eventually, simply "Montparnasse."
Many writers of the time will remember Montparnasse's rosy cheeks, pinkish lips, wide blue eyes, and chestnut hair when he was a boy, often muttering poetics and philosophies to himself and earning the name of the mount where the muses resided. His eyes held a semblance of mischief in them, but on the whole he was a gracious, polite, almost kind, young boy of ten. His most mischievous act was taking an unread newspaper from a vacant table at one of the cafés and selling it for a sou, which he kept in his trouser's pocket.
John Locke, were he alive in Paris then, would have found this boy a perfect example of his theories a la tabula rasa.
The children of the homes and the children of the streets rarely intermingle. Why? Because of pride. Of whom? Mothers and fathers.
Children, be they street scamps or homely rascals, only have one objective in their day-to-day; that is, play. So long as there is play, no child would ever refuse another the prospect of partaking in it. The child with the golden spoon would choose to play with the child in the ragged trousers rather than listen to the grown-up with a million gold.
But pride is hereditary. Pride is inherited in the faubourgs, in the boulevards, in the inns, garrets, bedrooms; where the father is, there is pride. Where the mother is, there is pride.
Children torment children because of the pride of their ancestors.
In the same year, 1824, Montparnasse (though he was really known as l'enfant de Montparnasse in those years) was taking a stroll at the Luxembourg Gardens, along the side of the Rue de l'Ouest. He was very careful not to trample over flowers, flipping his sou as he did so. A little hummingbird flew past him just as the sound of a giggling child was fast approaching from behind. The two boys fell on the Luxembourg soil, and Montparnasse's sou piece had fallen somewhere in the flowerbed.
"Oh, how wretched! Watch where you're goin', clumsy child!" cried out Montparnasse, quickly getting up and searching the patches for his sou.
"I'm so sorry, monsieur!" the other child said between his giggles, "That little birdie's too quick!"
"Quick! So you think it's justified that you made me drop my sou!"
"Don't be so aggrieved! Here, you can have a franc!"
"But I don't want a franc, I want my sou!"
"Very well. Then, I'll help you."
The two boys had set off to look for the sou piece that fell. The stranger was a chatterbox, who kept talking even as soil and dirt dusted over them. This annoyed Montparnasse, but only slightly — he appreciated the company. And evidently, this was reciprocated by the other boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, who, unlike Montparnasse, wore tailor-made clothing.
The beauty of youth is in its stubbornness to keep a blind eye towards society's confines. It mimics the wisdom of the elderly, but mocks, jeers, and laughs at their superficiality. Youth is beautiful because the only thing it can be is authentic.
So Montparnasse and the other boy had become friends that afternoon at the Luxembourg, without so much as knowing each other's name. Their effort to search for the sou had come up fruitless, though Montparnasse still refused the other boy's offer of a franc.
"Truly sorry, monsieur!" again proclaimed the boy with the silk clothes.
"Ah, dear, what happened? Your clothes are all filthy now! And who are you with?"
"Mamma, I've made a friend!"
"A friend? That's silly. Your little friend dirtied your clothes!" she said, casting a suspicious glance at Montparnasse. "Come, let us go home."
This mother wore a silk yellow dress and had a well-powdered face. Plump, pretty, bejeweled throughout, and had received Montparnasse's admiration.
Upon leaving, Montparnasse heard her say to her son:
"What did I tell you about talking to dirty rascals on the streets? They could have stolen your pocket money!"
To which the little boy responded,
"But I had tried to give him money and he wouldn't take it!"
That afternoon, having lost a sou and refused to accept a franc, Montparnasse left the Luxembourg and went to skip along the Rue de Vaugirard.
For six months they did not see each other.
In these six months Montparnasse was seen loitering near bistros, running along the roads of Rue d'Orleans, Rue de Buffon, and almost falling off of Pont d'Austerlitz. Actually, he had fallen off the bridge twice. It was on the first that he had learned how to swim.
Montparnasse is a nomad. But he is a nomad of Paris. His entire world is Paris. His adobes are in Paris, so are the dangers, the fruits, the forages, the tents, the soil, the grass. The rest of the world is nothing but ocean. He spots Gentilly, and recognizes it as boundless tides. All of Paris is his, and Paris cherishes and loves him. He puts to rest all worries whenever he sleeps on her ground, and she provides him that sublime warmth of home. The bourgeois merely owns his house. Montparnasse worships Paris.
It was mentioned that nobody knew who Montparnasse's parents were, nor his residence. Montparnasse did not know, either.
He did not have a mother or father, though he was very captivated at the idea of somehow finding one or the other. He did not have a home, he was indifferent to that.
That is why Montparnasse travels. It is why he watches the dawn approach, why he watches the twilight's shadow. He longed to know who were the two beings in the world — by world he means to say, Paris — had once adored him so. He had had no other companion in his life than the Paris on which he treads and the clothes which he wears.
Indeed, he'd have never thought to find a third that day in the Luxembourg Gardens.
It was October, 1824, that Montparnasse had seen the young boy again. Autumn was in full spring.
Let us then take a closer look at these two boys.