Penser à Moi

It has been twenty years.

I put my album to the side; it is a pointless keepsake. Yet my hand lingers over a newspaper article. When I first read it, I had Pépinot cut it out and hang it on the wall for many months.

He told me then to find Pierre Morhange, the boy I watched transform from troublemaker to- well, none of that matters. I didn't want to- he wouldn't remember me. I'll just be another person at his concerts, just another member of the crowd. Anyway, he is not a singer; he is one of the world's greatest conductors.

I helped him.

He would not remember me now. Pépinot still urges me to find him- "He will remember," I am told, but I know that it is not for me to meet him again. Not in this lifetime.

The others still come. Pépinot helped me find them- Corbin, Le Querrec, Boniface- they have come to me; I did not have to go to them. Chabert has come, and old Maxence kept in touch until his death. They told me about Rachin and his fate at Fond De L'étang, which no longer exists. It is a comfort to know that they, at least, remember me.

Pierre Morhange.

Pierre and his mother, Violette.


No, do not think of her. She is probably happy with the engineer from Lyon. If they have not married, she would still be with him. She wouldn't have noticed me.

You have brought me luck.

Luck! I wish I hadn't brought any. But it doesn't matter. If they are happy- if she is happy, that is all.


No, it is in the past.

Last night, I took out my manuscripts once more. The titles leapt out at me.

Cerf-volant. Voir sur ton chemin. Caresse Sur L'océan. Lueur D'été.

Sometimes I can still hear Morhange singing his solo from O Nuit. The voice of a genius, a gift not yet discovered. I awoke his talent, I, a nobody, a failed musician, I, Clement Mathieu, I helped him.

The thought alone is enough. He need not remember me.

Still, I hope each day when I wake up that there will be a call, a knock on the door, something. There never is anything.

I hear a knock at the door. My heart leaps, but as I stand, I know it is Pépinot, not Pierre, who has come to call. Still, his visits warm my heart. He calls me Papa sometimes. He greets me with a song, each time.

I will teach you songs, I had said. He learned them.

Slowly, I rise from where I have been sitting. Old age is catching up with me, too quickly for my liking.

The album.

Oh yes, the album, I must put that away. Pépinot must be cold; it would not do to make him wait outside too long.

But before I put the album away, I take out a faded paper plane, with music notes scrawled over it. As I crease it, I hear a strain of music float by; a lone solo, sung by a voice come from heaven itself.

Au revoir, Pierre Morhange.

Now that you are famous, please try and remember me.


A/N: Another 'Les Choristes' fic! Again, unbeta-d, and again, inspired by the gorgeous soundtrack. Or maybe just Jean-Baptiste Maunier. Ok, I should really stop obsessing.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Please, if you could be so kind as to leave a review…