“We can’t leave him on the floor,” I whispered.
“Yes, we can.” Maman stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
“But he’s hungry, Maman! And he’s so little …”
“He’s a boy, Eponine. I didn’t want one of them.”
I didn’t understand her so I said, “Papa? Are you there? What shall we do with the baby?”
He came out of the shadows and shrugged. “I reckon we leave him. One less mouth to feed.”
As for Azelma, she was seven years old and as hard as a fist. “A boy? I agree—I don’t like boys.”
With that, they all went upstairs, leaving the baby and me.
“Poor, poor baby …” I lifted him. He was smaller than our cat and smaller than the rabbits that used to hang on hooks. I rocked him a little. I said, “Don’t cry, little man.” But he wouldn’t soothe.
Then I saw her.
Cosette stepped out of the darkness, as pale as a ghost. “He needs milk,” she whispered. “And to be warm.”
I thought of being cruel, of saying, And what would you know? You’re stupid and ugly … But I didn’t want to. The baby was so tiny and helpless, and I didn’t know how to help him. “Milk? Here, will you take him?” I passed him to Cosette. “I’ll look in the cellar.”
That’s where we kept milk because it was so cold. I felt in the darkness. There was one pail of milk and I filled a cup from it.
Cosette was singing, under her breath, when I came back up.
“I have milk.”
“How cold is it? Maybe we should warm it—until it’s as warm as a person is?”
So we placed it in the embers of the fire, for a while. We sat with the baby, singing to him. Cosette had a voice like a songbird—a thrush or a lark.
“Why doesn’t Madame Thenardier want him?” she asked. “Why did she want a girl, not a boy?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But she’s always hated boys. I know she had two brothers and they used to beat her. Her father beat her too.”
Cosette sniffed. “That makes me sad.”
“It does?” She was sorry for Maman? The little prisoner felt sorry for the big prison guard? In the fire’s glow, Cosette looked very pretty.
We fed him together. We dipped our fingers in the warm milk and popped our fingers in the baby’s mouth and he sucked like a fish—suck-suck. He kept moving his arms too, and I wondered if he might be a fighter when he was older—a strong little man.
Upstairs, we found a crib. Because Maman had hoped for a girl she’d put a lace-edged blanket on it. We tucked him under this laciness and put kisses on his forehead, and Cosette padded down to her own bed.
We didn’t talk about it again. In the morning, Azelma yawned and asked if there was any bread to eat; Cosette was told to mop the floor where the baby had been born—“and do it properly! Understand?”
Nobody mentioned him. He only survived in those first few months because we chose to help him—Cosette and me. When nobody was looking, we dipped our fingers into milk. We took turns to wash him and made sure he was warm.
After a few weeks, Maman looked up from her latest romance novel. The baby was crying and the noise was annoying her. “Have we named him?” she asked.
Papa said, “Who?”
In her book, there was a character called Gavroche. “That’ll do,” she said.
So when I went up to see my brother that night I tickled his belly and whispered, “Hello, little Gavroche.”
His first Christmas on this earth was very hard. The dead autumn leaves and sleet blew under the doors and the inn shook. The cat refused to go out.
I don’t know if it was the sleet that killed her or her old heart but one December morning Madame Cou was found on the bench in the churchyard, as cold as stone. Her skin was yellow, her eyes frozen open, and a tiny icicle hung from the tip of her nose. Azelma tapped Madame Cou’s hand to make sure: “Yep, she’s dead.” Then she whipped off the brooch and gold cross that the old lady wore, and skipped home.
“Dead?” said Papa, picking his teeth. “No loss. Strange woman. What did you get?”
* * *
The brooch and gold cross meant a little more money that Christmas. We had customers again, because people were drawn to our big fire and sweetened wine. A fistful of coins bought a turkey; Azelma stole a pudding. We gathered pinecones to make the room smell earthy and festive and dark.
On Christmas Eve itself, travelers came to Montfermeil. There was a band of them—a juggling man and an acrobat, a fortune-teller, a woman whose arms were covered in ink.
A man cried out, “Who would like a story? A sou for a tale of magic and wonder …”
We leaned out the window, amazed.
“Look, Zel!” I called to my sister. “Can you see it?”
A man had a monkey on a chain and we’d never seen a monkey before.
She giggled. Briefly, she was my sister again, all soft and girlish. “Will they make it dance, Ponine?”
“Let’s go outside and see!”
The monkey danced for a sou and the inked lady could breathe fire, making everyone gasp. In the ruelle du Boulanger they set up wooden tables selling pottery and sugared cakes and fruit in syrup. On one stall, there was a doll.
“Look at that … !” Azelma breathed. “Oh, she is the prettiest doll I’ve ever seen!”
“What must she be worth?”
Azelma snorted. “Don’t be silly. I am not going to buy her, Eponine …”
She spent the afternoon wondering how she might steal this perfect, blue-eyed doll. It was too large for a pocket and its seller was never far from its side—so how? Azelma thought hard.
In the evening, it started to snow. It felt like tiny cold kisses falling onto my face. I turned very slowly to watch the snow coming down.
From the bright lights and warmth of the stalls, I saw Cosette. She was hobbling away from the inn. She didn’t look at the color or laughter or music around her; she just trudged, head down, with the bucket in one hand. She was heading for the woods.
“Brat,” Azelma said, following my gaze.
“Yes. Useless thing.” But I wouldn’t want to be going to the woods on a night like this and I felt sorry for her. It was Christmas Eve, a night for families. I thought, She must be feeling so sad. Her mother, we all knew, was dead.
“I hope she gets lost and freezes to death,” said Azelma, meaning it.
* * *
The bar was full when we got back. It steamed with drunk men, singing bawdy songs, and I knew Boulatruelle was sipping in the darkness.
Maman grabbed us as we came inside. “Where have you been? Go upstairs! Put on your finest dresses and tie ribbons in your hair. I want you to look pretty tonight …”
“Are we stealing?”
“Of course you’re stealing! But you must be charming … Sweet-natured and dainty! Because it’s Christmas Eve and you might be given money as a gift, if you’re pretty enough.”
We did as we were told. In our room we preened and hurried, stepping over the sleeping Gavroche.
“I’ll steal from the whole sorry lot of them.” Azelma grinned. “Will you tie my sash, Eponine?”
As I tied it, I thought of Cosette in the woods: she’d been gone a very long time. The night was drawing in and the snow was very thick. What if she’d fallen or frozen to death? Her eyes open, like Madame Cou’s?
I glanced out the window.
She hadn’t fallen. She was in the street, walking back to the inn. Yet she wasn’t alone. A tall man was with her, wearing a top hat and a coat of dark yellow wool, black breeches, and buckled shoes. I looked for his face but couldn’t see it because the brim of his hat shadowed it.
In his left hand, he was carrying her bucket.
In his right hand, he was holding hers.
I stopped tying the sash and cried, “Oh!”
“What is it?” Azelma looked out the window too. She screeched, “Who is that? Who is helping that nasty little rat? She is mea
nt to carry that bucket—no one else! Wait till I tell Maman …” And she raced out of the room.
* * *
I sat by Gavroche for a while. He’d stirred at Azelma’s screech, but I said, “Hush now” to him, and he soon found sleep again. I wondered why I felt so strange—was I scared? And if so, why? I wanted to stay upstairs but knew that Maman wouldn’t let me.
Downstairs she seized me. “Well. A fine thing has happened. That nasty little bug has brought a man here! A stranger!” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought he was poor when I saw him because his breeches are threadbare and his coat is made of a dirty yellow wool, but he’s asked for a room for the night—and is paying forty sous for it! Forty! So maybe he has money after all …”
“Where is he, Maman?”
“In the corner. He isn’t talking to anyone. I think you should charm him, Eponine.”
“Charm him?”
“Go and talk to him. Smile! Play divinely! Be dainty and winsome and charm the pennies out of him …” She paused. “You are a Thenardier, aren’t you?”
I went into the main room. Azelma was already there, swinging her skirts and humming to herself. She tapped a man’s wrists, said, “May I have a coin, Monsieur? For my Christmas shoe?”
“Your Christmas shoe?” It was Monsieur Venard, who had no children left. All his sons had died at Waterloo. I thought, Clever Azelma, to pick him.
“Yes, Monsieur. We put a shoe by the fireside on Christmas Eve. We hope that a little gift might be left in it … I love Christmas,” she sighed. “I love my doll too, even though she is raggedy …”
Monsieur Venard’s eyes shimmered and he filled her hands with coins.
I had no doll of my own but I saw the cat, in the corner. Be winsome … And so I lifted up the cat and petted her. “Little kitty,” I whispered. “Little furry thing. You’re better than a doll because you’re warm and squirmy …”
Was I dainty and sweet? Was Maman watching?
At that very moment the drinkers parted and I saw the gentleman sitting there. His top hat was next to him. He had his back to the wall.
He was half-lit by candlelight and he was looking right at me.
Three people changed my life.
Cosette was the first. Here was the second.
His eyes were black, like hot coals, and they looked far, far older than the rest of him, like they’d seen many troubles. But they were kind eyes too. And I felt safe, for the first time in my life, just looking at him. Isn’t it strange? I didn’t know him at all and yet I trusted him.
I felt like kneeling down in front of him and saying, Sorry for all the bad things I’ve done. For stealing from Blind Roland and all the other things.
* * *
But then he looked away from me, toward Cosette. She was crouching on the floor under the table, trying to darn our stockings with a needle and thread—but she shivered too much to do it. He smiled very tenderly at her.
“Well?” Maman pushed me. “Don’t just stand there like a fool! Go and get his money!”
But I couldn’t really speak or move. I definitely couldn’t steal from a man with such eyes.
“Go on!”
Still, I didn’t move. Maman didn’t like this at all and muttered, “Eponine … ?” She raised her hand to hit me.
“Look! Look!” I cried out. “Over there! See? Cosette has got Azelma’s doll!”
Maman spun round and shrieked. Cosette had put down the sewing and was cradling Azelma’s small rag doll, singing to it like she’d sung to Gavroche.
“That,” roared Maman, “is not your doll!”
The whole room fell silent.
Cosette trembled. Azelma charged across the room and tore the doll away, shouting, “Get away from her! She is mine, not yours!” She yanked Cosette’s hair and Cosette wailed.
There was clattering and screaming and the table was knocked over and suddenly he was standing there, the yellow-coated man.
“Enough.” He didn’t say it angrily. “Does it matter so much,” he asked, “if she should play with the doll?”
“It does!” said Maman. “She’s meant to be sewing, not playing! And the doll is not hers, Monsieur—it is my youngest daughter’s and that urchin touched it with her grubby hands …”
“But she’s a child, Madame. She must be allowed to play.”
“Play? Not her! She’s a worker! She must work! She must darn my daughters’ stockings. See how pretty my girls are?”
He stared at Maman for a moment. Then the stranger picked up his hat, put it on his head, and walked out into the snow.
* * *
The room hummed. Did you see that … ? Who was he? Papa smoked, scowled.
When the yellow-coated man came back he was carrying a large parcel, wrapped in brown paper.
“A gift?” asked my mother. “Is this an apology? For your interference in my family’s affairs? I accept it, and forgive you …” She held out her arms.
“It isn’t for you. I’ve nothing to apologize for, Madame.” He knelt down to Cosette. “It’s for you, little one.”
Her eyes widened. “For me?”
“Yes. It’s a gift. Open it.”
Slowly Cosette peeled the paper back …
Azelma shrieked. “No! No! Maman, look! It’s the doll from the stall! With the porcelain face! No, she can’t have it! I want it! I do!” She stamped her foot and roared with rage.
“It’s Cosette’s,” said the man. “And the doll is not the only thing that I will be buying tonight.”
Maman folded her arms. “There’s more? Ale? Food? A bed? Are you buying the whole of Montfermeil as a present for that brat?”
“I’ll be spending the night here, yes. And tomorrow, I shall be buying that brat, as you call her.”
“What?”
“I’ll buy the child—Cosette is her name, I believe?—and I’ll take her to a better life. It was her dying mother’s wish that I do so; she asked me to raise the child as my own, as if I were her father. I have a letter from poor Fantine, saying so.” He held up a piece of paper. “And so tonight is the last night she’ll spend in this”—he looked around—“soulless place.”
I thought, Buying her?
Papa stepped forward, took his pipe from his mouth. “Might I ask for the pleasure of your name, Monsieur?”
“Jean Valjean. Now please show me to my room.”
* * *
I’d never seen my parents look so shocked before or for the drinkers to leave in silence, one by one. Azelma cried herself to sleep. When Gavroche woke, I cleaned him and sang a lullaby until he was sleeping too. But I couldn’t sleep. I sat upon the window seat and watched the snow come down.
He was buying her. Taking her away to a better life, he’d said. Now I knew the pebble in my heart was envy. I was just a thief in a village with mean-hearted parents, but Cosette’s whole world was changing.
Then I heard a sound.
It was the creak of floorboards. Someone is on the stairs.
I padded to my door and peeped out. Jean Valjean was crouching by the fire where we’d left our shoes for a Christmas coin.
A third shoe was there. It was a small, splintered wooden clog and he lifted this clog, placed something in it. Then, like a breath of air, he slipped back into the night.
I could see it from here. It was a Louis d’or—a gold coin, worth twenty francs or more. They were so rare that I’d never seen one before. It glinted in the darkness like a star.
Take it, I thought. Steal it. Give it to Maman and she’ll love you and praise you forever and ever. And I nearly did. But it wasn’t my coin. It was Cosette’s.
The bells rang for Christmas morning. The world was sparkling-white and the air was so cold that my eyes watered and my nose hurt.
Cosette didn’t really say good-bye. Perhaps she was too filled with other things—shock, hope, disbelief, gratitude, fear—to speak. She just stood, clutching her new doll.
For the first time in years she was weari
ng proper clothes. Valjean had brought her a simple black woolen smock, black stockings, laced boots, and a little black hat.
“Fifteen hundred francs,” said my mother. “That’s what she’ll cost you. We’re losing a worker and you must compensate us.”
“Fifteen hundred.” He passed the money over in a drawstring bag. To Cosette he asked, “Are you ready?”
She looked across at me for a moment. I felt ashamed for all the times I’d called her ugly or stupid girl and kicked her. I’d so much to say but I couldn’t speak either. We just looked at each other and that was our good-bye.
* * *
I watched them leave. The others went inside but I stayed to see them walk along the ruelle du Boulanger, past the blacksmith’s and the church.
They grew smaller and smaller. For a moment they were just two dark shapes on the brow of the hill, holding hands.
That was the last I’d see of Cosette and Jean Valjean for years. But I didn’t forget how they looked—two silhouettes against the snow—and I didn’t forget how I ached inside.
I wished I was kinder and I wished I was prettier, and I wished he’d taken me too.
I thought about her a lot. I looked at the hearth and the yard and the kitchen floor and remembered her being there. As for the man, I only really knew his name but I thought how safe and peaceful he’d made me feel, and I missed that too.
Nobody mentioned them. Papa counted his money; Maman cursed the unswept floor. I whispered to Azelma, “I wonder if she’s in Paris now?” And she just frowned and said, “Who?”
* * *
The months rolled by. Spring came. Buds grew greener and birds sang. The fifteen hundred francs meant we didn’t have to steal so we could spend time outside in the sunshine. Sometimes Maman and Azelma took a carriage to Livry’s shops and cafés.
“Are you coming with us, Eponine?”
But I always said no: “I’d rather stay here, Maman.” I’d take Gavroche into the meadows instead where he’d crawl and gurgle and play.
They’d come back from Livry with pearl earrings and ribbons, or slices of the finest beef wrapped in brown paper. “We’ll eat well tonight!” Maman would cry, and for a time we were plump again. But it didn’t last. Spring became summer, and my parents argued and threw things at each other. There was less milk in the cellar, fewer candles at night.
A Little in Love Page 4