* * *
The idea came to me as I walked back from the Café Musain. I’d made vows in my prison cell—to Marius and Cosette. But hadn’t I vowed to help other people too, back in the church in Montfermeil? All those years ago? I thought of the peaches. How good it felt to be kind—and I hadn’t been kind for so long.
That house on the rue Plumet … I stopped walking. Wouldn’t the kindest thing be to warn the people in it? To find the house and protect it? Yes, I thought, but I didn’t know where the rue Plumet was. I cracked my knuckles anxiously. Paris had boulevards and alleyways and staircases and corners and rivers and parks and buildings so large that streets ran straight through them. It had whole towns within its city walls: Montmartre with its hill, the area called Montparnasse (had he been named after it? I’d never cared to ask) where the cemetery creaked with too many bones. It had more streets than I could ever count, or name. I’d never find the rue Plumet by chance.
Who could I ask? I didn’t have any family now.
I tried a priest as he hurried to his prayers. “Excusez-moi, mon Père? Do you know the rue Plumet?” But he shook his head and moved on.
I passed a crowd of people who’d all gathered to praise Lamarque. They cheered and I pulled on a sleeve: “Monsieur? I am looking for a street named rue Plumet?” But he didn’t know either.
In the end I sat down at a crossroads. From here, I could see where the Bastille prison had stood before I was born. There were lots of urchins here. They skittered between market stalls and hollered to each other and leapt over open sewers as if they had wings. I watched them for a while. Then I sighed and rubbed my eyes.
I heard, “Don’t be sad, lady! At least you’ve still got a head on your shoulders! Many aren’t so lucky … !” It was a child’s voice—bright and bold.
I looked up.
I couldn’t believe it. “Gavroche!” I cried. “Is it really you?”
Without waiting for an answer I pulled him against me and kissed into his hair and I said his name over and over. My little brother—who I’d found milk for and sung lullabies to! Who’d called me Pony and gurgled and sang!
“I thought I’d never see you again! Oh, Gavroche! Let me see you …” Like me, he was impossibly thin. He had scabbed knees and elbows, and his clothes were rags. His freckles were brighter against his pale skin.
He stared in disbelief. “Pony? Is it really you?”
“Yes! Yes! It’s me! Oh, Gavroche … I’ve thought of you so often. You know that I never wanted to leave you on that riverbank, don’t you? I tried to leap off the boat, to—”
He shrugged. “It’s all right. Worse things happen.”
“It isn’t all right! It isn’t at all! I don’t know why our parents did it …”
“Because they didn’t love me. She only wanted girls, didn’t she? But that’s life … No point being miserable!”
I couldn’t believe I was looking at him. “How old are you now?”
“I’ll be eight and a half next week.” He seemed cheerful despite the squalor and the years that had passed between us. He glanced about. “Where are the others?”
“I’m on my own.”
“They’re dead?”
“Maman is. We went to prison and she died in there. She caught the disease that turns your insides to water so that it runs out of you.”
“Lots of people are dying that way. It’s called cholera”—he said the word very solemnly, like he was teaching me—“and it’s getting worse. They reckon it’ll kill you if you don’t starve first! What about Papa and Azelma?”
“I don’t know. Azelma said she was going to help Papa escape from prison and I didn’t want to help.”
“They were always close.”
“They were.” I smiled at him. Little Gavroche. He was eight and a half but in some ways he was like a tiny old man. “How do you live? Are you all alone?”
He grinned to show his crooked teeth. “Alone? Don’t be silly! I’m not alone, Pony! Look!” And he threw his arm wide to show all the other boys who were running under carriages and sitting on walls and laughing. “See them? We’re the urchins! We live together and eat together … It’s like a family. Don’t look sad! I’d rather be living with the boys on the streets than living with our parents again.”
I gave a small smile. Neither he nor I were Thenardiers anymore. We were just ourselves. “You don’t steal, do you?”
His smile was impish. “I try not to … I like to run an errand for a sou or two if I can, and there are shoes to shine and horses to brush. But I’ve got to steal sometimes … I try to be nice about it, though! I always thank them as I run away! And I don’t gamble and I don’t swear. I’m quite the gentleman …” And he doffed an imaginary cap.
I felt so full of tenderness that I felt like crying. “Gavroche … there hasn’t been a day that’s passed where I haven’t hoped you’re alive and well. I’m so sorry I wasn’t a better sister to you.”
He swatted my words away as if they were flies that bothered him. “You weren’t a bad sister. We picked blackberries together and you carried me on your back and you read stories to me—I remember that. You did what you could, didn’t you? I’ve seen worse in this city, that’s for sure, and so what’s there to complain about?” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Anyway, I’m a rich fellow these days. There’s pickings to be had at all these gatherings …”
“Gatherings?”
“Political.” He pronounced it like plittick-al. “All these rallies against the king or in favor of Lamarque or whoever … I don’t care! But people pressed together means lots of pockets to pick … In my gentlemanly way.”
I wanted to scoop him up and keep him safe, to whisper, Come with me; live with me. I will take care of you. But I knew he didn’t want that. He was happy as he was.
“Well, I must be off. Nice to see you, Pony.” The imaginary cap was lifted again.
“Can I do anything?” I called out. “To help you? Find you food, perhaps?”
He laughed. “Food? We’re roasting a whole pig over there! Stole it from the butcher’s two streets away! Fancy a bit of pork in your belly?”
I laughed and shook my head. One meal for me would be one less meal for Gavroche or another urchin—and I wanted them to eat.
“Suit yourself!”
“One thing,” I said, “before you go. Rue Plumet.”
“Rue Plumet?”
“I’m looking for it …”
He didn’t hesitate. “Boulevard des Invalides. Know it? Walk east along it and when you see a brick wall with ivy growing on it, turn left and that’s the street you want. It goes uphill. Nice houses up there.” He looked impressed. “Don’t get caught …”
I smiled. The little brother giving out advice.
With that, he was gone. He raced among the passing cartwheels and crowds and I felt so happy that I’d seen him. He’s alive! He doesn’t hate me! With a heart full of love for his little freckled face, I made my way toward boulevard des Invalides just as he’d told me to.
I came to the rue Plumet at dusk.
It was a lovely part of Paris. There weren’t any stalls or theaters. It was just a place full of rich people’s homes and they were like no houses I’d ever seen before, with fancy curtains and decorative gates. They had dark green hedges and high gates. Inside these homes were lanterns and moving shadows—butlers or maids? Did they carry fine food on silver dishes? I could only imagine such things.
I didn’t feel envious or angry anymore. My mother’s order—Always take what you can! When others are richer, make them less so—had died with her and anyway, it hadn’t ever really been what I believed.
The houses had white marble columns by their doors, like the Palais du Luxembourg. I could smell perfume and flowers. Briefly, I pretended that perfume was mine and that I was a lady with rustling skirts … But it felt childish now. It felt like too much had happened, and I was too old and wise to have such daydreams. Jewels and riches did not mat
ter. Other things mattered more.
Like being kind. Like keeping people safe.
One’s got a brass knocker on its door … Worth a fair penny on its own. That’s what Azelma had said, so I eyed each door as I passed it. I found the brass knocker on the very last door of the street. It surprised me because this house was a little smaller than the others. It was half hidden from the street by an elm tree whose tiny, early buds were showing themselves, and iron railings ran all around the house.
I stepped forward.
I took hold of the railings.
This was the house they were going to plunder … But was I too late? Had it already been robbed? I didn’t think so because a lantern burned in its doorway and the house looked peaceful: It hadn’t been disturbed yet.
I must warn them. I felt nervous but I’d keep my promise. I pushed at the gate; it was locked and the railings were too high to climb. How could I get in, to tell them?
I hauled myself into the elm tree. From its higher branches I could see into their front garden and despite the late hour, it seemed full of life. Shoots were pushing up and flowers were showing themselves. A moth flittered past me and a thrush sang its evening song from the highest bough of an apple tree and I could see droplets on stalks and leaves from the afternoon’s rain so that, in places, the garden shone. It was huge. And it was beautiful. A path led from the gate toward the house, past lavender bushes. The branches meant I couldn’t see the front door anymore.
I sighed.
At that moment I heard a second, softer sigh. I thought it was just my echo—but there was movement. Beneath me in the garden a figure moved into view. It was a girl in a long dress and she trailed her hand over the tops of the flowers as she walked. Her pace was slow; she was in some kind of daydream of her own.
Still sighing, she walked through the garden’s shadiest part away from me. I waited in my elm tree—and before long she came back, walking toward me, still in the shade, holding a single bloom of honeysuckle—smelling it and turning it between her thumb and forefinger.
I wonder if I knew already. I’ve heard people talk of intuition, an inner voice that whispers the truth to you before you’re shown it. Some people think it’s the voice of God—but what about the people who say there isn’t a God at all? And what of animals? Because I’ve seen birds take cover in the moments before a hawk flies by, and the old gray nag seemed to know when I carried an apple in my pocket. There’s a knowing with the heart, I think—just as much as there’s a knowing with the head.
My heart knew. Even before she stepped into the lantern’s light I knew this girl was Cosette.
I also knew who she was thinking of. I knew why she sighed and why she was holding the honeysuckle like it was made of silver or gold.
She was in love with Marius, just like I was. The only difference was that he loved her back.
Her dress was taffeta and it trailed on the ground. Her hair was unpinned. It was longer than it ever was in Montfermeil, reaching down to her waist.
Cosette lives here. In a house that matched her beauty. And Valjean … ? Was he still alive? He must have been wounded very badly at the Gorbeau; what if he’d died afterward? I leaned forward and peered through the branches of the elm tree, seeking a man’s silhouette. I scanned the windows of the house—all dark except one where a candle was shining.
I thought of the Louis d’or, placed in her shoe. His face as he’d read the letter in Les Jardins du Luxembourg and the concern on it.
It will be my fault if he’s dead.
I closed my eyes. I could hear the soft pad … pad … of Cosette’s feet as she walked. With all my heart I hoped that Valjean was still alive and I whispered to myself, “Let him be, let him be …”
Then I saw him.
I nearly called out in relief! It was Jean Valjean, standing by the window with the candle. I knew his silhouette, his hair and shape. But he seemed to be standing awkwardly, as if leaning on a stick, like Maman used to do. With his spare hand, he rapped on the glass.
Cosette looked up.
“I’m coming, Papa!” she called, and she hurried back through the garden past the apple tree, dropping the honeysuckle as she went.
Their house. It was where the two people I’d hurt the most in my life lived. If I wanted to make up for my past mistakes, my past choices, this was the time.
I will not let them be robbed. I’d do whatever it took it protect them because I was the new, free, kind Eponine who wasn’t being told to steal anymore. And I knew that Marius’s heart would break if she, Cosette, was hurt at all. I would protect them.
* * *
So I no longer slept beneath the bridge with the reflections and the rats. I chose the elm tree, instead. There was a fork in its branches that I’d wedge myself into so that I couldn’t fall out, and I slept among its new, growing leaves. This way, I could guard them. If Azelma and Papa were going to burgle this house they’d do it at night. They’d creep up the dark side of the street with a finger pressed to their lips—Shh …—and I could drop down from the branches and say, Stop!
In my new leafy bedroom, there were moth wings and insects and sometimes a bird would perch, clean its wings. How could this be Paris? Where sewage ran down streets and people fought and the disease called cholera was leaving bodies in the gutters or lying outside hospitals. It was peaceful up here, like a different world.
* * *
My elm-tree nights. I half slept, half listened for my sister’s light tread on the ground. But by day I still looked for Marius. I just wanted to see his face again and so I returned, over and over, to the Café Musain. I trailed my fingers along the railings of the Jardins du Luxembourg, looking through them. I peered down every alleyway and went to rallies in the hope that he might be the man chanting, “Vive Lamarque! Bring in a republic!” I hoped for his soapy scent or a glimpse of his woolen coat but I only found strangers jostling and cursing and standing on chairs. I covered my nose because I didn’t want to catch the disease that killed Maman and lots of others.
Sometimes in my elm tree, I thought he might come here. Because if he knew that Cosette lived on the rue Plumet, surely he’d come every day? But he never did. Which means, I soon realized, that he doesn’t know. He’s got no idea that she lives here at all. But I could tell him. When I find him … And I liked this idea because it would make him happy. I could make him smile.
Spring bloomed on. The garden beneath me unfurled its petals and leaves, and as I was looking down at it—at all its flowers like tiny faces—I spotted a strange flower. It was dark red, almost purple. It was like a rose but not a rose. Where had I seen it before?
In a cottage garden. In Austerlitz. The garden of an old man called Mabeuf. He’d had white bristles and a hunched back. I’d forgotten all about him!
He’ll know where Marius is.
* * *
I ran there. It was a warm afternoon. I remembered the way—running past the tanneries and on to an earthy lane. I only paused to drink from a fountain and wash my face in it.
The cottage was the same and its garden was still overgrown, full of beetles and vines and bright flowers. Mabeuf was there. He was dozing on a bench in the late-afternoon sun. His mouth was open and I could hear him snoring.
Part of me wanted to shake him awake and say, Where is Marius? But he was old and looked very peaceful. I wanted to let him sleep.
I trod down the garden path, through the greenery. The sun was dipping slowly. Soon, the first chill of evening would creep into the garden and the flowers would creak shut. A watering can sat by the house, filled up. Perhaps he had been too tired to tend to his garden, too sore in his bones?
I make people’s lives better these days. So as Monsieur Mabeuf slept, I watered every plant he had. Who knew what was happening elsewhere in the world, at that moment? Fires and sickness and loss? In the middle of Paris, people would be shaking their fists at the word king and saying, “Fight, fight!” But I was just watering an old man’s garden
, tending to his daisies and his strawberry plants. I hummed happily. There’s such a peace in small, kind things. I imagined the earth drinking and saying, Thank you, Eponine.
After a while, he woke. He yawned and stretched, and through half-closed eyes he spied me.
“What … ? Who are you?”
“Monsieur,” I said. “Excuse me for intruding but I’m looking for Marius? I know you’re friends so maybe you can help me?”
“Marius?”
“The young gentleman? It’s very important.”
The man shifted. “Yes. He comes here often. But mostly Marius spends his days in a field near Les Invalides—a meadow. He goes there to think, for he has plenty on his mind.” Mabeuf blinked around him. “My flowers. You watered them?”
With that, I was gone. I thanked him and hurried away so that all I left behind me was damp soil and sucking plants. I wondered later if Mabeuf might think he had imagined me—a little thing in rags who’d hummed and watered his garden before slipping away (she was like a sprite, or a ghost of some kind!) into the gathering dusk.
Night fell before I could find this field. I returned to the elm tree and nestled in, thinking, Tomorrow I’ll see him. It’d been nearly half a year since I last had. Autumn leaves had been blowing. He’d been looking over the top of his book at a girl who wasn’t me.
Marius.
I felt afraid as I sat in the darkness. I longed to see him but I also knew that the past few months had changed me. What if they’d changed him too? Or what if he’d learned that the trouble in Gorbeau that night had all been my idea? He’d hate me. He’d turn his back on me.
I didn’t sleep at all. When the sky started to lighten I made my way toward the field that Mabeuf had told me about. It wasn’t very far from the rue Plumet. I looked across the rooftops of Paris as I went. The distant hill of Montmartre was lit by morning sun.
I’d seen far nicer meadows. During my running days, I’d seen fields filled with poppies and anemones and woodbine, with butterflies flitting through them. But, I thought, this is Paris. It was a dirty, crowded city with no butterflies in it at all.
A Little in Love Page 13