He loved to saunter through fields of wild oats and corn-flowers, and busied himself with clouds nearly as much as with events. His mind had two attitudes, one on the side towards man, the other on that towards God; he studied or he contemplated. All day long, he buried himself in social questions, salary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of thought, education, penal servitude, poverty, association, property, production and sharing, the enigma of this lower world which covers the human ant-hill with darkness; and at night, he gazed upon the planets, those enormous beings. Like Enjolras, he was wealthy and an only son. He spoke softly, bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with embarrassment, dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere nothing, and was very timid. Yet he was intrepid.
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo, 3.4.1
Face Claim: Willy Cartier
(Thanks @thecoffeetragedy, for planting the idea in my mind of him as a fc for Jehan! GOOD CALL.)
It takes them a while to get their garden started, between moving and
Feuilly starting her new job – but Bahorel, in a slower moment, decides
to try out some things – he has time, and he remembers that kind of
stuff from growing up in the country – looks simple enough, right?
Flowers, herbs, that kind of stuff.
Feuilly doesn’t notice right away, but when she does she’s delighted. And promises to help him, as soon as she’s done grading these tests, she promises.
morning, Bahorel wakes up in their bed, and Feuilly’s side is empty.
Not too worrying, as she’s pretty much always up before him. But she’s
not in the kitchen either, and when Bahorel looks in the window, he sees
her, wearing sweats and an old college tshirt and the largest straw hat
they own, making a little corner for tomatos.
Later, lettuce joins the tomatoes. Then potatoes. Carrots. Cabbage… it ends up pretty huge after a few years of this.) (via @thecoffeetragedy from this post)
He possessed knowledge and wit, but all he did miscarried. Everything failed him and everybody deceived him; what he was building tumbled down on top of him. If he were splitting wood, he cut off a finger. If he had a mistress, he speedily discovered that he had a friend also. Some misfortune happened to him every moment, hence his joviality. He said: “I live under falling tiles.” He was not easily astonished, because, for him, an accident was what he had foreseen, he took his bad luck serenely, and smiled at the teasing of fate, like a person who is listening to pleasantries. He was poor, but his fund of good humor was inexhaustible. He soon reached his last sou, never his last burst of laughter.
He was the gayest of them all. All these young, maniacal, puny, merry incoherences lived in harmony together, and the result was an eccentric and agreeable being whom his comrades, who were prodigal of winged consonants, called Jolllly. “You may fly away on the four L’s,” Jean Prouvaire said to him.
Bahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous cafes; the others had habits, he had none. He sauntered. To stray is human. To saunter is Parisian. In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to view.
Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one thought, to deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation, to educate himself; he called this also, delivering himself. He had taught himself to read and write; everything that he knew, he had learned by himself. Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples.