I stuttered. “I-I’ll tell them. Thank you.”
He did give me a coin—a franc. “That is for you. On your way home, stop in the market or on a street corner and find a little food for yourself because no creature can stay as thin as you are.”
I nodded and turned, and as I did, I heard Cosette say, “Oh, how can she bear it? The poor dear thing!”
* * *
I ran, thinking, He’s coming to Gorbeau! But I also ran with an ache in my belly, deep down. It wasn’t hunger: It was the ache I’d had when I heard of the bishop being stabbed and when I saw Babet’s eye through the hole in the wall. It came when I felt unsafe and frightened.
Trouble is on its way. I was sure of it.
The streets grew dark and cold.
I threw open the door.
“He’s coming!”
Papa sprang from the chair. Maman and Azelma were both crouching by the fire, blowing on their hands.
“What? Who?”
“The rich man!”
“Coming here?” Papa’s eyes flashed.
“Yes. I gave him the letter and he read it”—I was puffing—“and he said he’d come here to see how poor we are. To see how he could help us.”
“By giving us money! That’s how he can help us!” Maman spat into the fire. “Why the hell is he coming here?”
But Papa stroked his bristly chin. In a thoughtful voice he said, “When?”
“This evening, he said.”
“On his own?”
“I think so. He’s got a daughter but I don’t think he’ll bring her. He seems protective.” Like a papa should be, I thought.
Papa started to smile. He paced the room, said, “Perfect … This is perfect! Let me think … Oh, yes! What a wonderful plan this is …”
“A plan?” Azelma didn’t understand. None of us did.
“Give me that bucket.” He seized it from Maman and threw water on the fire.
Maman screeched. “What the hell are you doing? That fire is the only heat we’ve got! It’s bitter outside and they say sleet is coming—and how are we going to keep warm, now? Or cook? You stupid …”
Papa ignored her. He took the wooden chair and broke it. “The poorer we look, the better. Azelma? Break the windowpane.”
“What?” She straightened. She tended to do as she was told but now she frowned at him. “Break it? But it’s so cold, Papa! The fire is gone and if it starts to sleet as Maman says …”
“Don’t talk back to me! Just break it!”
“Papa …”
“We want him to feel sorry for us, girl! We want him to think we’re the most wretched and miserable creatures in Paris—cold and perishing and thin! So break that window! Do it!”
She crept to the window. She looked unsure. “How should I break it?”
“With your fist!”
I should’ve said no, because I knew that she’d hurt herself that way. But Azelma did it anyway. She punched the glass and two sounds followed: the tinkling of glass falling on the street below and Azelma screaming, “Oh! Oh! The blood! Oh, it hurts, Maman!”
A sharp wind rushed into the room.
Maman hobbled to Azelma, snapping at Papa, “Oh, well done, Luc! One daughter with a swollen face and the other with a bleeding arm! A fine job! Azelma, stop wailing.”
“The worse they look the better! Don’t you understand?” He reached for his coat, said, “Now I must tell the others …”
I looked up. “What others?”
“Ha! A rich man? Coming here? And all on his own … ? It’s like a lamb coming to a butcher’s shop, don’t you think? With the others we’ll be able to get every penny from him, every button, every silk thread … We’ll tie him up if we have to! And if he tries to struggle … Well, Babet and Claquesous know a trick or two.”
The Patron Minette. My heart turned to stone. I couldn’t speak.
He went to the door and called back. “Azelma? When he comes, you’ve got to act like you’re dying. Don’t stanch the blood or clean yourself up. Josephine? Hide your stick and say you can’t walk at all. And Eponine? You’ll be our lookout. Stand beneath the dead white tree by the cemetery, and if you see a gendarme or any nosy soul, run back and tell us … Understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He just rubbed his hands and left the room, saying, “A fortune is coming, I can feel it!”
We listened to his footsteps as he hurried away.
A butcher’s shop? A lamb? Oh, what have I done? I trembled. As Azelma stared at her bleeding arm and as Maman shivered by the damp hearth, I just thought of Montfermeil. I thought of the kitchen there. Rabbits slung on hooks. Plucked hens. Meat.
Whatever happened to the girl who’d tried to be kind? Who’d polished the church’s brass knocker and lifted insects from the old nag’s drinking trough?
I’d never felt worse than I did at that moment.
They’re going to kill Valjean tonight.
I found the dead white tree by the cemetery and pressed myself against its bark.
What can I do? How can I stop this?
I couldn’t run to the gendarmerie because where might I find them? And they’d probably only get to the Gorbeau too late. I couldn’t call out, Help! Help! because the Patron Minette would be lurking nearby now and might kill me to make me be quiet. All I could hope for was that Valjean might walk past me; I could warn him then.
It began to sleet. It came through the leafless branches and stung my swollen cheek. It made it hard to see but I keep watching the street in case Valjean should come. I imagined him—his scarf, his hat, the graying parts of his hair …
Don’t come here, I’d tell him. Stay away.
The sleet grew worse and worse. In the cemetery, I heard noises—a twig snapping and the scuttle of a rat. I’m alone in the cold and dark, I thought. There weren’t even any stars.
But I wasn’t alone.
I smelled tobacco. Then I heard the slow, careful tread of boots on wet ground. A man’s footsteps.
I stepped out from the tree. “Who’s there?”
It was Montparnasse. He was completely in shadow but I knew it was him. I could smell the oil he put in his hair and see the red tip of his cigarette.
“Well, well …” He exhaled, blowing smoke above me. “Mademoiselle Eponine. What can you be doing on the corner of a cemetery, on such an unpleasant night?” He stepped forward so that I could see him better. “It’ll be snowing,” he went on, “before long. I’d sooner find a fireside … Wouldn’t you?”
I said nothing.
“I’m confused, Mademoiselle … you see, this is the hour for dark deeds, I think? For theft and trickery? No honest person would be out in this weather and so late … But you? A thief? Surely not. Because the last time we met, on the rue de Rivoli, you told me that you believed in love …”
He was mocking me. “You know why I’m here,” I muttered.
“Yes, I do. A rich horse is being unsaddled in Salpêtrière tonight … Babet told me.”
“Babet is close by?”
“Oh, yes. He’s hiding in the shadows too. They’re waiting for their moment to sneak into the Gorbeau.”
“You’ll sneak in too? Surely you’d never miss the chance to rob a man.”
His smile widened. “True, I never do. But I hear your room’s small and you’ve seen the size of Gueulemer … No, I’m staying outside. I’ll make sure the gentleman doesn’t escape his chains …”
“Chains?”
“Or ropes.”
“They’ll bind him?”
“It’s easier, that way.”
“To steal?”
“To take everything.” He inhaled, held the smoke in his mouth as he looked at me. “Your face …” He exhaled. His voice was softer. “What’s happened to it?”
“Someone hit me.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Why should it matter? What’s a wounded face to you? You hurt people all the time.”
; “But,” he murmured, “I would never hurt you.”
The sleet was growing thicker now, turning to snow. It was settling on the ground. Snow seemed to make Paris look so beautiful because it covered up the dirt and it made the city look new again and I thought, Make it better. Hide my lies. Save Valjean.
Montparnasse came closer. “Snow … It must look very pretty to a girl who believes in goodness.” He dropped the cigarette on to the ground, stepped on it. “It was … endearing,” he said.
“Endearing? What was?”
“How fiery you were. When you spoke of love.”
Love. We both looked out at the falling snow. I thought of Marius, holding my hand very briefly. In the Gorbeau, I could see a few candles. I said, “Will they kill this man?”
Montparnasse was quiet for a while. “They’d rather not. A body is difficult to deal with—how will they carry it, or hide it? No, they’d prefer him to live. Perhaps they could hold him to ransom … He has a daughter, hasn’t he?” I heard him smile—the click of lips against gums. “I can’t imagine there’s a single thing that a daughter wouldn’t do to save her father’s life …”
I closed my eyes. It was never meant to be like this. It was only ever meant to be a coin or two. “Montparnasse?”
“Ma belle?”
“All of this is so wrong …”
“Wrong? Says the girl who arranged every bit of it? You found this man and you gave him the letter. I tell you, I was impressed when I heard that, Eponine. Shall I tell you something? I was good-hearted once. Like you, I wanted to live an honest life. But then I was orphaned and Babet took care of me and he taught me all he knew … I owe my life to him. I think,” he said, “I was born to steal. I’m made for it—as you are.”
I shook my head. “I’m not made for it. I’m not.”
“Don’t pretend, Eponine. You’re a Thenardier! A dishonest life is all you’ve ever known.”
“We’re Jondrettes here! That’s our name!”
“You think that changes anything? Jondrette is just paint on rotten wood or”—he held out his hand—“snow on filthy streets. You’re still a Thenardier, beneath it all …”
I couldn’t answer him. He was right. I could never change my parentage or the name I was born with.
“As for your face …” He laid a single finger upon my swollen cheek. “There may be dirt and blood upon it but I know that underneath it … Well, you’re beautiful.”
I felt like crying then. I let his finger stay on me. Was he mocking me? Surely he’d seen Cosette or ladies like her, and knew what proper beauty was? Maybe he was mocking me—but it didn’t really matter. Marius had made me feel beautiful but no one had called me beautiful in my whole life. In a tiny voice I said, “I am?”
“Oh, yes. So very beautiful …” He held my face with both his hands. “We’d make a fine team, Mademoiselle …”
“A team?”
“You and I. What couldn’t be ours if we worked together? Stealing and plotting as two people, not one? I’d find diamonds for you. I’d put pearls in your ears …” He stroked me, almost tenderly. “I’d steal the queen’s gown for my own bright queen …”
I closed my eyes. I had never been touched like this, like I was precious.
When I opened my eyes again, Montparnasse was looking at me in a way I recognized. It was how Marius had looked at Cosette, in Les Jardins. His eyes were bright and his lips were parted.
He took my wrist. “Come with me.”
I followed him, because he’d called me beautiful and because I wanted Marius and because I was tired. I was so tired. He was looking at me like I’d always hoped someone would.
We went deeper into the cemetery, tripping over tree roots and broken stones. He said, “What a life we could live, you and I … What a world I could show you!”
Then he kissed me. But it was not a gentle kiss. Montparnasse pressed his lips against mine and clutched at my dress and he pushed me against a gravestone very roughly and his tongue filled my mouth so I couldn’t breathe.
I closed my eyes and pretended this was not Montparnasse.
Pretend this is Marius, whose friends cheer when he walks into a room. But I couldn’t make myself believe it. This wasn’t Marius. Marius would never, ever, ever kiss someone like this.
“Get off! No!” I squirmed and broke free. I didn’t want Montparnasse’s mouth and hands upon me anymore, and it didn’t matter that he’d called me beautiful. He didn’t make me feel beautiful at all—just unsafe and foolish, and more alone than ever.
He didn’t let me go so I kicked him.
He said, “Why, you little …”
Then I stamped on his foot and ran away. I leapt over the graves and stumbled through the snow and I kept running because I wanted to be free of him and my family and the name Thenardier.
Where was the happy life? The stars? The wayside flowers? Where was goodness? It was in other people, not in me. It was in Marius. In the man who’d bought Cosette a beautiful doll one Christmas Eve and said to my parents, I’ll take her to a better life.
* * *
I’ll run to the Gorbeau tenement. I’ll set Valjean free. I’ll shout for help—even if the Patron Minette are there. I’ll fight with my father if I have to.
But I didn’t get the chance because an arm caught me. It wrapped itself around my neck and pulled me to my knees and I thought, It’s Montparnasse wanting more than a kiss, so I flailed and I bit at the arm and I shouted, “Get off!” But it wasn’t Montparnasse. It was a stronger arm.
“Got you.” A man’s voice I didn’t know.
I stopped biting and looked up. I saw a neat mustache. Two beady eyes. He was baring his teeth, and not blinking. It was a face of resentment, anger, and purpose. He wore a policeman’s hat.
He lifted me from the ground by my dress so my feet pedaled the air. “You’d bite me, would you? Fight like a cat? You can’t escape from me …”
“I thought you were … someone … else,” I wheezed.
“I know who you are. You’re the lookout—and a failed lookout too.”
“A lookout? Monsieur, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Liar! I’ve seen you in the Gorbeau tenement with Monsieur Jondrette—if that’s his proper name, which I doubt it is …”
“Lookout? I don’t know—”
“Yes, you do! Do you think I’m stupid? Me, Javert? I know,” he tapped his nose with his spare hand, “that you were told to stand here and keep a lookout for gendarmes like me …”
I couldn’t keep lying. I was done with lies, so I said, “What’s happened there tonight? Please tell me. Yes, I was the lookout, but I don’t know anything else.”
He lowered me so that my feet touched the ground but kept hold of me. “Theft. Murder. In the Gorbeau tenement.”
“What? Murder? A person has died?” I wailed. “Not the man with the yellow waistcoat, Monsieur le gendarme? Please, not him!”
He frowned. “A yellow waistcoat? No one was wearing such a thing.”
“I mean the gentleman with the kind face! The one we lured—”
“We? Who we lured?” He half smiled. “I’ve got my confession, it seems. No, he didn’t die—although he was badly wounded. He broke from his ties and jumped from the window.”
I exhaled, relieved. Not him. “So who? Who is dead?”
“Another.”
“Which other?”
“Not a Jondrette. They’ve all been caught, like you. It’s off to prison for your whole family now.”
“Prison?”
“Oui—prison. I know this little trick was your idea, Mademoiselle. Your father told me so. He blames you, and your mother and sister do too.”
“They blame me?”
“All your fault, they said. Said you’re the worst of them.” He hauled my wrists behind me and I felt handcuffs snapping on.
I gave up. I didn’t fight. I was strangely calm. It’s done, I thought. For so long we’d hidden from the gendarmerie—
we’d slept in caves and moved by night and been scared of shadows. But now, it was all over. Prison had always been waiting, in the end.
The snow had never looked more beautiful than it did as we walked through it. I thought of the people I loved …
Gavroche, freckled and bright. Had he been lucky, after all, escaping the Thenardiers on that riverbank?
Valjean, who’d deserved so much better. Please let him mend. I imagined him lying by candlelight with Cosette tending to his wounds with a cloth and a basin of water.
And of course Marius. These handcuffs, his love for Cosette had changed nothing: I still loved him more than anyone else I’d ever met, even though he didn’t love me, I knew that. And so I thought of him most of all as I was led away from the tenement—away from him—through the falling snow.
The prison stood between the rue Volta and the rue du Vertbois, north of the river. It was made from the darkest stone I had ever seen—a sort of soot-black. It looked even darker in the snow.
Madelonnettes. It used to be a convent but I couldn’t imagine nuns here. Now it was where all the worst women were taken and left, for months or years.
We went inside. A man was sitting at a table and the gendarme said, “This one’s Eponine. I doubt Jondrette is her surname but write that down as well.” I watched the ink write Eponine and I thought, Yes, that’s my name.
They took me through the prison yard. I looked up but it was too snowy for stars. I thought of Old Auguste, at that moment. Once I’d asked him how old he was and he’d said, “Old, very old …”
“As old as the stars?”
“Ah, no—the stars are older than everything.”
I remember thinking, They must have seen so many sad things. Those stars would have seen every single sin since human beings existed and yet they weren’t shining above me the night I went to prison. It was as if they’d turned away from me, as if my cruelty against Valjean and Cosette had been the worst of all.
* * *
At the cell door, the policeman took off my handcuffs. A single lantern flickered on the wall. He shook his head as though all the world’s problems were caused by me and said, “If you’re not cured of your wickedness here, you’ll never be cured.”
A Little in Love Page 11