“I hate this weather,” said Azelma. “It makes everything harder …”
I was tired of it too, but I could imagine Cosette in it. No sackcloth anymore. She would be wearing goatskin boots and a velvet cape and maybe a white fur muff like the one I used to have. Now it was me wearing rags.
* * *
“A new year,” declared Papa, “needs a new plan. And I’ve got one.” His eyes flashed excitedly. “We shall write letters!”
“Letters? What?” Maman didn’t understand either.
“To the rich, Josephine! I’ll write begging letters—the best that have ever been written! I’ll say my children are dying and we need money to save them, or I’ll say I’m a great artist in need of coins in order to finish my greatest piece—which I will dedicate to my benefactor, of course … Or I’ll say we’re good religious people who will bless any man who spares a franc or two …”
Maman started to smile. She liked this idea. “Or give the letter to those who love Lamarque, saying that we are collecting money for his campaign …”
“Or,” chirped Azelma, “that we wish to help the poor, fatherless urchins of this city and need pennies to do so!”
“Yes! Yes! Très bien, Azelma!”
I tilted my head. “So … tell lies?”
Maman snapped. “Of course we’ll tell lies. Don’t be so prissy! There’s no use in being kind, remember? Kindness gets you nowhere in this world.”
So Papa wrote letters. And Azelma and I took those letters out into the richer parts of Paris like the rue de Rivoli and boulevard Saint-Germain. “Look poor and pitiful,” Papa hissed, so we dirtied our faces and widened our eyes.
Near Saint-Sulpice, Azelma said, “That gentleman? Let’s try him. Look how well groomed his whiskers are. He must have money. Also, he wears a crucifix so he is godly …” I watched my sister as she scuttled to him and tugged his sleeves. He read the letter she gave him. She even pretended to cry very daintily and I saw the whiskered man reach into his coat …
“Easy,” she sang afterward, jangling with coins. “Your turn, Eponine. You’ve got the letters?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you later—back at the Gorbeau.”
Maybe I was still warm from the fiery hearts in the Café Musain or by the chestnut-seller’s kindness but I didn’t want to lie, or dupe, or steal. Instead, I went to the rue de Rivoli, tucked myself against some railings, and just watched them all to-ing and fro-ing. I saw how a grand dame descended from her carriage holding the coachman’s wrist with her elegant, white-gloved hand.
Beauty … Love … Two things I didn’t have. I closed my eyes, wanting them.
Anything could happen. That’s how it felt, in Paris.
At that very moment someone touched me. A hand took hold of my shoulder. My eyes sprang open because I thought, It is a gendarme! He knows about these letters! and I screeched, “Get off!” and tried to free myself.
“Hey … Ssh, now.” It was a man’s voice, trying to calm me. “Don’t fight, Eponine.”
He knew me? I turned around, saw the flower in the buttonhole and the slicked dark hair. “Montparnasse.”
He came closer. “Don’t say it too loudly. I’m a wanted man …”
I’d have preferred a gendarme to him. I pushed his hand away. “For thieving and murdering?”
“You disapprove? I think you do: You’ve got piercing eyes, Eponine … And yet I know what you’re doing here on the rue de Rivoli. Those letters in your pocket? You and your sister are tricking these well-dressed folk into parting with their pennies, aren’t you? Which means you’re no better than me …”
I resented this. “I am better than you! I’ve never murdered and I never would.”
“Ah … I said the same thing once, but life is hard and people change. It becomes easier, Eponine. If they’re very old, then what harm have you done? They’d have died soon anyway.”
I wished he wasn’t standing there. He was like a shadow with a musky smell, strong hands, and a knife in his belt. I felt tired suddenly. “Don’t you wish for better?”
“Better? Of course. It’s because I wish for better that I steal at all.”
“You don’t understand me, Montparnasse. I don’t mean richer, I mean …” I paused. How could I explain it? “Don’t you ever want to live a kinder life?”
I didn’t think it was a hard question, but he flinched at it like it was an unknown bug, flying at him. “Kinder? What? Ha! How can you be a Thenardier? Do you know what your father would do if he heard such talk from his daughter’s mouth?”
“Azelma is the better thief,” I said quietly. “They say I’m too soft.”
“I’m sure they’re right. Kindness is a foolish word.”
“That’s what Maman says too.”
I felt sour then. All these lanterns and carriages and soft rabbit fur and men with top hats and romance: Montparnasse was ruining all of it. All I wanted was to believe in better, just a bit. A little light and love and hope. I wanted to shake Montparnasse, to shout out that his heart might be missing but mine was still beating, and my conscience was beating too and I wouldn’t let him make me feel hollow and useless and sad. How could he ever be happy, murdering? But I didn’t do or say any of these things. I just whispered, “There are other ways to live.”
“Other ways?”
“Moral ways. Other people survive without thieving, so why can’t we?”
He laughed so loudly that people looked over. “Moral? Look around you, Eponine! How much morality do you see here? This lot have got their wealth from beating their servants and from their wicked business deals—and most won’t give a single sou to the poor, I promise you that. See the shopkeepers? They’ll take any coin they can, selling meat that’s flyblown or fruit that’s bruised—they don’t care! As for the priests, they talk about helping the poor but have you seen the wealth they’ve got in their churches? The silver and gold?” He tutted, shook his head. “If you think this is a good world, you’re mistaken. Being kind won’t make a single bit of difference. It’ll only make you poorer still.”
I felt like telling him he was so wrong: that there were good people in the world and their goodness could fill a room. There was a better way—because I’d seen it in Montfermeil, all those years ago.
In a softer voice he said, “You believe in love too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
I felt like crying, then. “Yes,” I answered. “I believe in it.”
His smile was like a cat’s smile to a mouse. “Love? It’s a myth. But there’s money in it. You’re not ugly, Eponine: You could sell a kiss or two …”
My eyes brimmed with tears. I was done with him.
I ran away, over the river, and on toward Salpêtrière. I cried as I went. I can’t steal. I can’t find a job. I can’t find love or be beautiful. There’s no point in anything.
I ran all the way home and slipped on ice. My hands and knees were bleeding.
I’d never felt so hopeless or alone. Who could have imagined that this would be the moment?
I pushed open the door. I ran up the stairs without looking and I ran straight into someone. A boy. No one I knew.
He was walking down the stairs as I was running up them. He held my shoulders gently to stop me crashing into him, and looked right into my eyes.
“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle.”
His hair was thick and dark and he was brown-eyed like me but his were darker, a sort of golden brown. They had little flecks in them as if sunshine had been stirred in. Freckles on his nose. A dimple in his left cheek as he smiled at me.
He didn’t belong in the Gorbeau tenement at all, at all.
He let go of my shoulders. “You’re crying,” he said, frowning then. “Are you all right?”
I wasn’t but I couldn’t say so. I just nodded.
“Are you sure? I can’t help you?”
I managed, “Non, Monsieur. Merci.”
He gave a second smile, slipped past me, and made his wa
y downstairs.
I stood very still. I just looked at the space where he’d been.
* * *
That night, I couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t live in the Gorbeau. He must be a visitor. I smiled at the stars through the window and thought, Please let him visit again.
* * *
In the morning, I went to Madame Bourgon. When she opened her door, she raised an eyebrow at me. “Ah. The elder Jondrette girl. What are you bothering me for?”
“Madame, I’m seeking a person who was here yesterday, a young gentleman. I think he’s a visitor? He left a button and I’ve got to return it.”
“A button?” She wasn’t a fool. She knew that the Jondrettes would snatch a button and sell it, not give it back.
“Yes. A button. He was older than me—twenty, maybe? He wore a dark wool coat and his hair was a sort of chestnut color …”
Her mouth cracked into a gummy smile. “Aha! Him. I know the one … Pretty, isn’t he? Four.”
“Four?”
“Room Four.”
“He visits the people who live in Room Four?”
She spat a brownish phlegm, wiped her mouth with her hand. “Visits? He doesn’t visit. He rents Room Four.”
“What?” I flinched. “He lives here? In the tenement?”
“You’re surprised? You think he’s too good for this place, do you? At least he pays on time, unlike your lot. Anyway, he’s Room Four—I’m sure you could slide his button under his door …”
With that, she went.
Room Four? How long had he lived there? How come I hadn’t seen him before? I couldn’t believe it: the family called Jondrette lived in Room Five, next door.
I began to go back upstairs but then a thought struck me. I rushed back, knocked on Madame Bourgon’s door a second time.
She was annoyed. “What now?”
“His name, Madame! Do you know his name?”
She sighed, fed up. “Marius. Marius Pontmercy.”
I smiled as I left her. It’s a myth, Montparnasse had said.
No, I thought. It’s real. I knew that now.
I couldn’t knock on his door—because what would I say? What would he think of my torn skirts and my knotted hair?
I’ll wait, I thought. I’ll just wait and hope I might see him again. But this was impossible to do: I was sent out to thieve every day. If I stayed behind, Maman would yell, “What are you doing? Get out! Find things! Shoo!” or Papa would raise his fist and call me a lazy beast … At night, even though I listened very hard for the sound of his key in the door of Room Four, I never did. There were too many other noises—barking dogs and crying babies and slamming doors. Papa’s snores. Maman’s curses about our poor thieving. I’d think, I hope he can’t hear her through the walls.
* * *
Slowly, the dirtied snow melted away. In its place I saw the first small shoots of green. “My hands aren’t numb anymore … ,” said Azelma one day, amazed. She’d returned from her wanderings with coins and tobacco and a bottle of gin for Maman. “How nice it’s spring now …”
February, then March. April came.
I just imagined him. He isn’t real. Stupid Eponine …
But I knew he was real. Every time I went up or down stairs I’d practice what I might say to him—a little comment on the weather or a belated Happy New Year—and each time I heard someone else’s footsteps I’d think, This time …
I did see him in the end, but it wasn’t on the stairs.
It was early in the morning. Sun came through our grimy window so I dressed and crept out of the tenement before anyone else was awake. I found a water trough meant for horses. It was freshly filled and the water was clear, ungreened. I plunged my hands into it and washed myself—face, feet, between my legs and under my arms. I also washed my hair and threw it back so that it sent a spray of water out and a passing woman shouted, “Hey! Stop that! I’m soaked now!”
But it felt good to get the winter’s dirt off me. I wandered back home wondering how long it would take for my hair to dry in the weak sunshine. For once I wasn’t thinking about him.
Then, at the crossroads by the tenement, I looked up. My heart leapt. It’s him! It had been months since I’d seen him, but I still recognized his coat and his thick hair, and I didn’t care that my dress was sticking to me. I’m going to follow him, I thought. I’ll see where he goes and what he does … I knew how I looked—scruffy, with scabs on my knees; I knew he wouldn’t want to know me at all. But at least by watching him, I could get to know him.
He walked through the streets of Salpêtrière and I followed. My heart was racing but I was smiling too because I was happy just to see him again.
I made notes, in my head. He is tall—taller than me, but not so tall that he had to duck under doorways. His shoulders are broad—like he’d worked hard in his youth and still had the strength. His skin is unlined. I thought I heard him humming as he went.
He walked steadily, like he had a purpose. I thought maybe he was going to the rue de Rivoli, but he didn’t go across the river. He walked east, away from the city. I’d never gone this way before and I saw that the street became earthy and some hedges appeared. It was a strange place, neither city nor countryside—it was called Austerlitz.
What’s he doing out here?
We’d been walking for perhaps an hour when he stopped. I slipped into the shadow of a hazelnut tree.
There was a cottage. It was a small, ramshackle place and yet its garden was overgrowing with spring flowers. It had a pear tree and a lavender bush. There were flowers of such a deep, soft red that I wanted to reach out and touch them. Marius was smiling, looking at it all.
It had been ages since I’d seen a garden. I thought, It’s like Montfermeil with its wayside flowers.
Then he opened the gate and walked through it, calling out, “Monsieur Mabeuf? Are you there?” I imagined him calling my name like that one day—Eponine! Where are you? I liked thinking it.
* * *
Marius came to this cottage a lot. On this first occasion, when my hair was still wet from the drinking trough, he stayed with the man called Mabeuf for an hour or more. Mabeuf was old—whiskery and hunched. His uncle? A relative? I didn’t know. But they strolled slowly through the garden like friends, and I saw Mabeuf pointing at the flowers and the blossoms in his trees. Later they shook hands and I followed Marius home.
Now I knew he woke early, I began to do the same. While Maman and Papa and Azelma were still snoring, I crept out to follow him … And I was a fine follower. After all, I knew how to be quiet and stealthy. I could creep like a mouse so he’d never know I was there.
Once he bought a flask of milk from the dairy on rue Moustaffe and took it to Austerlitz as a gift. Another time, I moved the branches of the hazelnut tree aside and watched them sitting in the sunshine side by side, looking happy. And no matter what the weather was, they always trod around the garden. Marius would smell the dark red flowers or touch the lavender.
He didn’t even really know I existed, and yet I already knew what his footsteps sounded like and what his shadow looked like as it passed beneath our door, and I knew how he tilted his head up when he looked at something beautiful—a flying bird or the French flag blowing in the wind. I followed him into the city sometimes, and if he stopped to listen to a speaker in the crowd—fiery talk of God, or the king, or a brave soul who cried, “Get rid of the guillotine! It is bloody and unjust!”—I’d watch him. He bit his bottom lip when he was thinking. A little crease appeared between his eyes.
I learned that he liked Les Halles with its vendors crying out, “Monsieur, Monsieur! Fresh figs from Toulouse! Or, “Honey from Avignon! Monsieur!” It was here that I saw a lady spill her figs to the floor. Marius knelt and helped her, picking them up one by one.
He’s kind. He listens to people, and he thinks about things.
I liked everything I learned about him.
One day, he made his way along the rue de la Chanvrerie. It
led to the place Saint-Michel. I gasped because he knew the Café Musain! Of all the cafés in Paris he chose this one, the one where I’d pressed my nose against the glass in the winter months. That man with the blond curls and those men who’d raised their glasses in a toast—To Lamarque! Vive la république!—must’ve been his friends because they cheered as he entered the café. Through the window I saw him in there, drinking. His cheeks were flushed with warmth.
* * *
My list grew longer and longer.
He’s got nice friends. He looks up at cathedrals as he walks past them. People cheer when he walks into a room. He’s kind to an old man in Austerlitz. When he passes a stray dog, he always pats it. He’s got dimples. When he’s very tired, he rubs his knuckles into the corners of his eyes.
If I were his, I’d take his hands and say, Rest. I’ll take care of you.
Spring turned into summer. Paris had never looked more beautiful. I thought, Speak to him, Eponine. So I was brave, and I did.
There were changes in me.
I didn’t know, but Maman saw them first. I’d come back from a day’s walking with a smile, or I’d be singing, and this puzzled her.
“Why are you singing? Stop it, it’s annoying.” She saw me brushing the knots out of my hair with a thistle head and said, “Vain, Eponine … ? You’ve not been that before.”
Maman noticed too that I was stealing less than I ever had. One day she looked up from her sewing and said, “You’re bringing back nothing these days—nothing! What’s wrong with you? Are you actually giving those letters to people? Those letters that Papa wrote so well?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to lie.
“Well, do it! For heaven’s sake! Azelma’s stealing well, so why can’t you? The weather might be warmer, but we still need to eat!” Maman returned to her sewing, tugged the needle fiercely. “You seem … distracted. And I don’t like it, Eponine. Do you hear?”
Azelma was always stealing well. She returned with her pockets jangling, and our parents rubbed their hands and kissed her. She came back with all sorts of food—a haunch of goat or a basket of eggs. In late summer she rushed home and untied her bodice and skirts in the middle of the room and dozens of plums fell down around her.
A Little in Love Page 8