Two noble gentlemen walked along the dirty and dank streets of Paris on a particularly dreary day. The sun almost refused to shine through the dark clouds that hung overhead. One of these men were dressed in a large, heavy black coat that covered his skinny body. His cheeks appeared a bit bony, yet he was indeed handsome. His companion was an older man with deep eyes that seemed to seek out detail in everything and a large white beard that covered his friendly features.

"Well, you can hardly plan on staying away from your writings for long; what do you plan on doing next?" asked the young man as he thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

The older man frowned as he shook his head and answered in a deep and gruff voice. "I am not certain yet. 'Notre Dame de Paris' took up quite a terrible bit of my energy, Jacques."

Jacques gave a light laugh as he shook his head. "Victor, you have much more energy in you left. You simply need to look for the right kind of inspiration."

Victor Hugo frowned lightly, yet nodded in agreement. He was about to ask Jacques' ideas on a new story idea he had actually been contemplating when a young woman stepped in their path. "Please, good messieurs, a little money for my starving children!"

Hugo quickly looked over the woman's clothing. For this kind of cold and unforgiving weather, she hardly appearred to have the suitable attire. Her chemise was far too small, with dirt and stains of blood smeared across it. Her skirt was ripped and torn, revealing hints of flesh that appeared blue from the cold. Her lips trembled as her deep eyes looked pleadingly to both of them, and he almost swore he saw tears within their depths.

"Step aside, madame." Jacques ordered a bit roughly. "We have no money to spare you today. Now be gone before I call the police!"

Hugo did not speak. He simply watched in a brooding silence as the woman took a few fearful steps back, then turned and fled from them quickly. He realized that no shoes adorned her tiny feet, and that many cuts and scrapes had been inflicted upon them.

The two men continued their walk, and to Victor Hugo things appeared to grow a bit darker all about him. In dark alleyways he would catch glimpses of young teenage prostitutes and he would have to turn his eyes away. What kind of life was this when one so young was forced into such a profession in order to support both herself and whatever family she had?

"Victor, did you hear me?"

The old writer blinked and turned back to his friend. "I am sorry, what did you say?"

Jacques laughed. "I was simply commenting upon the weather. Perhaps we should go to one of the cafes and seek shelter. Rain will be coming soon and I'd hardly wish to be caught in a storm in this part of the neighborhood."

Hugo, who had allowed his eyes to drift to a man labouring at a small form of a plow, struggling as sweat beaded on his face, gave a slow distant nod. "Yes... Yes, indeed."

The cafe Jacques led them to was a bit crowded, and Hugo no longer felt himself quite so distracted within. What was it about these common people that had caught his attention? He had passed by them every day without so much as a thought. What then was different about today?

"It appears that the students are already out of school," Jacques commented dryly as he perceived a few young men enter the cafe. He took a dismissive sip of his ale as he carelessly looked away again.

Hugo frowned as he watched the solemn and serene students go through a door and into what he assumed was another room of the establishment. "Tell me. What do they do back there, these students of ours?"

"Hm?" Jacques followed his gaze. "Oh, them. Nobody knows... nobody cares. Simple boys playing a game of their own pride."

Time passed and the men spoke of their life and family. Jacques' youngest girl had fallen ill, and received a visit from the doctor who had diagnosed her with pneumonia. She was supposed to be well soon, but Jacques feared she grew worse by the moment. He told his friend of sitting by her bedside and watching over her as she slept.

"It is the only time she has any peace whatsoever... in her sleep," Jacques stated softly.

Finally both men decided to take their leave and retire home. Jacques offered to walk Victor Hugo home since it was easily on his way. Though he wished some time alone to perceive this new depth of darkness that came over him, the gentleman agreed to his company.

As they walked Hugo felt the sad brooding energy in him grow, and he became almost fearful. Suddenly, everywhere he looked, he could only see the ugly and morbid side of life... or, rather, the sad excuse for life that these people lived. The colors of brightness were now a contrast of brown, greys, and blacks. The passersby who had once seemed to smile vividly now carried expressions of hatred, anger, and, above all, hopelessness.

As they approached his house, the old man was startled out of his reverie as Jacques cried out, "Hey there, boy! Stop!" Victor Hugo turned just in time to see Jacques run a few paces after a young gamin and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

"Give me back my money, thief!" he shouted, shaking the boy enough to jostle his head.

"Please, monsieur," the boy all but screamed in fear. "M'sister is very ill! She needs help now or she'll die!"

Jacques snatched back the money from the child's trembling hands and drew back his hand to strike a hard cuff across his face... but a suddenly strong hand stopped him. He blinked out of his rage to see Victor Hugo standing there, his eyes narrowed darkly. The two men stared at each other, one in fear and confusion, the other in anger, until the writer released the young man. Jacques in turn released the boy, pocketed his money, then slowly turned and walked away.

"Please monsieur." The orphan wept as he wrung his hands. "Please don't call the police, I only wanted some money to help my--"

Hugo stopped him with a gentle hand to his shoulder, which the child instinctively drew away from, fearing a fierce blow.

The old man's expression softened as he slowly knelt before the boy, and gently brushed a tear from his cheek. "Don't be afraid, child. Your sister will be fine." So saying he reached into his pocket and withdrew a sum of money that would easily pay for a doctor and perhaps some food for the gamin and his sister.

The boy's eyes widened in wonder as he slowly outstretched his hand to take it... then hesitated. He stood still, his hand outstretched in longing for a frightful moment of indecision as Victor Hugo watched with wondering curiosity. Finally the boy's hand shot out; he snatched the money, and was immediately running back through the street.

Hugo's eyes almost bristled with tears, which he quickly shook away. He turned and entered back into his large house. The colors seemed to be shifting back to their normal tones, as the sun began to peek through the window. Yet he paid this no mind and went to sit at his desk. Wasting no time he picked up his feather pen, dipped it into some ink, and quickly scratch a few words onto the paper...

Les Miserables
by: Victor Hugo

It is said that the great man had to rewrite these simple words for the ink was terribly smeared. Tears always tend to smear the ink on our canvas of life...

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