A Little in Love

by Susan E. Fletcher

  As she came closer, I heard her: “England? Oh, God! Marius, where are you?”

  I knew what to do. I breathed in, and out …

  I stepped forward and took hold of the railings so that I stood in full view.

  “Cosette?”

  She’d heard me but couldn’t see me. Her eyes ran the length of the railings until they found me—and she gasped.

  “Cosette?” I reached out to her.

  She came toward me very slowly. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost and couldn’t believe it. She turned her head from left to right, as if trying to capture all sides of my face. “Eponine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eponine? From Montfermeil?”

  “The same.”

  “No! How can it be?” She was very close to me now. “Is it really you? How long has it been?”

  “Nine years. It’ll be ten years this Christmas.”

  She gave a frail smile. I recognized it—the smile she’d given when she first arrived, or as we fed Gavroche. She shook her head. “I can’t believe it … Eponine.”

  I flushed. “The last time you saw me I was in satin, I think. Not now …” I pressed my whole body against the bars, and I pressed my face between them too so that my eyes and nose and mouth fit between two bars. They would leave their mark upon my cheeks later. “Cosette … I’m so sorry. I’m sorry with my whole heart.”

  She frowned. “Sorry?”

  “For every single thing that I ever did to hurt you. For all the cruelty and the mean words … Oh, I was horrible to you and for so long! And Cosette, I’ve never forgotten or forgiven myself for it. Every day, I’ve felt so ashamed …” I started to cry through the bars.

  But Cosette didn’t cry. In fact, her small, frail smile grew into a wider one and she murmured, “Eponine … Listen. I can’t say they were easy days because they weren’t. They were hard, and I was cold and lonely and afraid in them. I can’t describe how happy I was to leave Montfermeil! I felt like I was being saved. I felt like he—dear Papa—was a miracle, in a way. But, Eponine, we were children … We didn’t understand the world or know what was right and wrong.”

  “I knew! I knew that kicking you and spitting at you was wrong but I still did it …” I sobbed.

  “But you were told to! I knew you were! I’d hear her—your mother—telling you to be unkind. What choice did you have?” She reached through the bars, took my hand. “You’ve nothing to say sorry for.”

  I cried even more. I’d hoped she’d curse me because I’d known curses in my life and I could bear them. But she was Cosette. She had no curses, only generosity and goodness and a beauty inside her that matched her outer kind.

  No wonder he loves her.

  She said, “Don’t cry … There were times when I wished to be your friend for your sake, more than for my own. I felt so sorry for you!”

  “Sorry? For me?”

  “My mother was far away but at least she loved me. I’d lie on the floor at night and feel her love as if she was beside me, holding my hand.” She didn’t have to say anymore.

  Cosette put her hand into her pocket and took out a handkerchief. It was perfectly white. “Here”—she pressed it through the railings—“no more crying. There are enough tears in the world.”

  “But I used to call you names! I struck you once, and—”

  “You did but you were made to. You were never shown any other way! And anyway—those aren’t the things I remember. You filled my bucket for me from the trough, remember? And we cared for the baby …”

  “Gavroche.”

  “Yes, Gavroche.”

  I blew my nose. She watched me.

  “How did you come to be like this? So thin and pale? You used to wear fur collars …”

  I smiled through the tears. “You have those fur collars now.”

  She looked at me so tenderly. “What happened to you all?”

  “After you left? Papa gambled all the money away. Then he killed a man—a bishop.”

  “Killed? Really?”

  I nodded. “We ran away. For years we lived in ditches and caves, hiding from the police. Kept stealing. Came to Paris in the end. I’ve played my part in some awful crimes, Cosette, and I hate what I have done, but I’ve changed now. I made a vow last winter—to never do another bad thing in all my life.” I blew my nose.

  “Are you alone?”

  I felt too tired to tell her much more. “Yes. Alone.”

  Cosette strengthened her grip on my hands. “Eponine. Let me give you some clothes, a little money.”

  “No, I can’t take—”

  “You can! We’re going away and leaving lots of clothes behind us; surely you have need of them?”

  “The driver of the carriage says you are going to England.”

  “We are. Last winter, Papa was injured by some villains and he thinks they’re coming back for him.” Her smile was gone now. “But, oh, it breaks my heart to go! I have no wish to leave here. My whole world is in Paris …”

  “Because of Marius?”

  She flinched. “What? You know him? How do you know him?”

  “He lived where we lived, for a time. In the same building. Then I saw him in Les Jardins du Luxembourg and I knew that he loved you.”

  “You saw him there? And me?”

  “Yes. Both reading books, or pretending to … I wanted to approach you, to say sorry for the things I did in Montfermeil, but I felt afraid—”

  “Afraid? Of me?”

  “I’d treated you so badly! I thought you might resent me …” I looked down. I could hardly bear to think of having handed Papa’s letter to them—Cosette and her father. But how could I not mention it? “I did approach you, once.”

  “You did? I don’t recall it.”

  “The girl with the bleeding face? A letter? She was hiding behind her hair …”

  Cosette gasped. “That was you? You were that poor creature!”

  “And the letter … It had lies in it. It led your father to—”

  “To the Gorbeau …” She dropped her gaze. She did not let go of my hands but her grip loosened; I could tell she was thinking, remembering. “Papa was cut with a knife in that place …”

  “Not by me! The knife wasn’t my knife! I wasn’t in that room! But, Cosette, that was the worst mistake of my life—that letter, that trick … I was desperate. I was a fool. I’m so sorry and I will be sorry all my life—all of it.”

  She turned back to me. Her face was calm—not a child’s. She breathed out very slowly. “You’ve lived a very different life from mine. You’ve struggled to eat and stay warm, I can see that.”

  My voice was tiny, surprised. “You forgive me?”

  She gave a small smile. “Forgiveness isn’t easy—not always. But you are being honest, Eponine. And Papa survived that night, and is well—and he’d forgive you, I’m certain. So I shall forgive you too, poor thing. And in truth, I am scared to imagine the life you must have had, the things you’ve been forced to do …”

  I began to tremble. I thought of all the bad things. “I tried to make amends, Cosette.”

  Her eyes were gentle. “You did? How, Eponine?”

  I swallowed. “I found Marius. I led him to you.”

  “What?” With that, she stepped back. She put her hands to her cheeks, disbelieving.

  “I heard a rumor that this house might be robbed and I’d made my vow—to be good, always—and so I came here to protect it. And I saw you …”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Marius spoke of a girl who helped him! He told me! That was you?”

  I nodded. “I wanted to help him … you.”

  “Oh!” A tear fell. “How can I ever thank you? Oh, Eponine! He’s changed the world for me. How I feel is …”

  I used a softer voice. “He doesn’t know about England, does he?”

  She shook her head. More tears fell so I passed the handkerchief back to her. “No. He didn’t come here last night because since Lamarque’s death his friends h
ave been upset. He’s been with them, trying to stop them from risking their lives … He promised me that he’d come to me this morning, after Lamarque’s funeral procession had passed by—but I’ll be gone by then! Gone! See the coach? We are leaving within minutes, Eponine! What if I never see him again? Oh, my heart! My heart breaks to think of it!”

  I knew how much a heart could ache and ache. “Cosette? I will find him for you.”

  She looked up from the handkerchief. “You will?”

  “I’m sure of it. I know where he goes—the cafés, the streets he favors. There’s an old man in Austerlitz who knows him very well. Do you have an address in England? I could pass it on to him so perhaps, in time, he may join you there …”

  Gratitude shone out of her face. “Oh, would you do that for me? Truly? Eponine, that would mean the world to me! I couldn’t bear losing him! I’d never be happy again, if I did …”

  “Of course I’ll do it,” I said. I owed it to them. I owed it to all the people I’d ever hurt or stolen from. I’d do it for both of them.

  * * *

  She ran inside and returned a moment later with a note. “Here. This is the address. You’ll give it to him, Eponine? So that he may find me again?”

  “I promise I will.” I tucked the note inside my pocket, patted it. “It’s safe in there.”

  We were quiet for a moment. We were both a little breathless, both so full of thoughts that words weren’t enough for them. In the end, Cosette said, “We could have been good friends in Montfermeil, couldn’t we? But we could be good friends now.”

  “Friends? You and me? But you are a beautiful lady with pearls in your ears and satin dresses … I sleep in a tree. I wear rags. I’ve got knots in my hair … How can we be friends?”

  “Because such things don’t matter! Not to me. Pearls? Satin? They’re worthless in the end. It doesn’t matter how much money might be in our pockets or whether we are thin or well fed: what matters is our hearts, and what is in them. Do you care for me?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do. You’re so kind and loving.”

  “And I care for you. Because you’re kind and loving, Eponine. You’re honest! You’ve been so very honest with me … And you’re very beautiful—inside and out. I wish you knew that you were.”

  I wept again. I shook my head once, as if to say, No, no, I’m not these things. But she grasped my wrists then.

  “You are! How, how you are! You mustn’t think that what you did nine years ago defines you, or that by giving us that letter you can’t be forgiven or loved. We all make mistakes! We’ve all done things we wish we hadn’t. But what matters is now, and what happens in the future. I forgive you fully for anything you ever did to me. And I would have done so even if you hadn’t brought Marius to me. But you have … And for that, I will be indebted to you for all my life.”

  We held hands again. “We’re friends? Despite everything?”

  “Despite everything.”

  Then she reached through the bars and embraced me. Her arms wrapped round my shoulders and mine went forward and wrapped around hers. It was a long, tight hold. I could smell her perfume and feel her warmth. I imagined who else she had held in such a way.

  I knew this: I would always feel a pain, when I thought of their love. I would always wish that he loved me instead. But her words made the pain a little less.

  I sniffed, nodded. “I’ll go now. I’ll find him and tell him you are leaving for England and I will give him this address. You’ll see him again—I know it.”

  “Thank you. With all my heart, thank you …” Then she reached into her pocket, held out her hand. “This is for you.”

  It was a Louis d’or. A shining star. I’d only ever seen one Louis d’or before—one Christmas Eve, inside a wooden shoe.

  “It’s from my father, Jean Valjean. He told me to tell you that all things can be forgiven. He said he knows who you are and what you have done, but he wishes you well, Eponine.”

  And then I looked up. He was standing in the highest window of the house on rue Plumet. He was looking down at us and his face was the same kind and knowing face that I’d seen in our inn so many years ago. How he’d looked at Cosette then was how he was looking at me now.

  He held up a single hand, as if waving.

  I took the coin. I held my hand up too, waving back.

  “Go,” Cosette whispered. “Find Marius.”

  I ran. I hurried down the rue Plumet but I paused before I turned out of sight. There she was, still watching me.

  * * *

  All those different kinds of love … My love for my siblings, my love for Marius … But now this love too—my love for a friend. That word was a new word for me. Was she a friend? Truly? I was hurting, as I ran. I would always hurt and miss him; I would always feel sad that Marius wanted her arms around him, not mine, and that he loved Cosette instead of loving me—and so maybe we could never be true, proper friends. But I liked that she’d believed it. I liked that she’d not minded my dark deeds, and that she’d called me beautiful. That she’d smiled and forgiven me.

  She is good. She was, I knew, worthy of him.

  It hurt, it hurt—but I liked the word friend and I ran, whispering it.

  They say the heart’s a muscle—so can it grow stronger, over time? My arms were never very strong. The muscles inside them have always been little, as if hardly there at all, but I’ve seen men in the fields—plowing or bringing in the hay—whose arms were so big they could lift the big bales straight into the air and carry them over their heads. With hard work, muscles grow stronger.

  My heart loved my family and bits of Montfermeil. But then I met Marius—and my heart loved him so much that I think it actually became a bigger heart, and it loved so many more things.

  I loved Cosette’s note in my pocket, the sound of my feet as I ran. I loved the evening sky and my breathing and the word friend and I loved the silhouette of Montmartre’s hill and the Louis d’or, which I’d tucked into my underclothes so I wouldn’t lose it. I loved the way that Jean Valjean had waved at me from the window, and I’d waved back.

  This was a hard world, I knew that. It was dangerous; it had its knives and lies and cruelties, and Paris felt on the edge of such trouble. But there were small wonders too—everywhere. And I loved that I was living when so many others weren’t.

  Find Marius! Give him this note.

  I had a future. Suddenly, I saw that—a future! Had I really had one before? I had never thought about the days to come. I was poor, so I thought of each meal and where I might spend the night and no further. But a Louis d’or? And forgiveness?

  Everything was possible now.

  * * *

  Find him. Find the funeral procession of Lamarque. That was where he’d be. I ran fast, but the day was so hot that I paused in the shade of Les Jardins du Luxembourg to catch my breath and wipe my brow. I could feel the sweat from my body soaking into my dress and the cloth was damp to the touch. What about the note? What if my sweat makes the ink run, and the note can’t be read at all? All would be lost, and useless. So I sat on a bench (his bench) and, taking a deep breath, I read the note myself:

  My dearest Marius,

  Papa has insisted that we leave Paris today—him and I. He fears for our safety. I don’t want to go! How can I leave when we’ve just found each other and you’re here? I can’t bear it. I just want to be where you are.

  Below, I’ve written the address that we’re heading for. It’s in the north of Paris—we’re staying there for a few weeks until Papa can secure our passage by sea to England. Marius, could you live an English life?

  The good and gentle Eponine is bringing this note to you. We owe our happiness to her, sweet thing.

  Stay safe and be careful—and remember that I love you, I love you, and I will never stop.

  Find me, Marius? I’ll pray that you do.

  Your loving Cosette x

  I touched the word love wherever it was written down. Then I took my fing
er to my written name, those seven letters: Eponine … I’d never seen it written in such a dainty hand.

  The good and gentle Eponine. Sweet thing.

  I folded the letter and tucked it away. He’d be following the coffin of his hero, walking very solemnly with his hand across his heart and saying good-bye to the man he’d called our only hope. He’d be saying good-bye to his younger self too, maybe, because he was in love now—and it was Cosette he’d follow, for always.

  Find him. Promise me?

  I pocketed the note and ran on and on.

  * * *

  I’d never seen the streets like this. There was shouting and screaming and crying out. Stones were thrown and men were fighting—fists were smashing into cheekbones and jawbones and bellies and ribs. I winced. It made me think of Babet because he could make a fist. Montparnasse too.

  Houses were on fire. The streets were filled with black smoke so that I couldn’t see clearly. I grabbed the wrist of a man. “Monsieur?”

  His face was bloody. “What?”

  “What’s happening here? Why is Paris on fire and so angry?” It was meant to be a mournful day.

  “The funeral procession? People climbed onto the carriage and shouted for freedom, and Vive la république! And soldiers opened fire on it and killed some, and now everyone is fighting. Now is the time!”

  “Now?”

  “To change France, and free it! Just as Lamarque wanted to!”

  People were killed?

  He turned and said, “Keep away from here—understand me? It’s no place for women. This is man’s work and more men will die before the day is over. Find safety, do you hear?”

  He ran down the smoky street.

  But I’d never been safe in all my life and wouldn’t look for it now. All that mattered was finding Marius.

  I hurried on and didn’t care for the shouting and rage, or the smoke.

  Take them all down!

  Down with the king! Fight for Lamarque!

  I ran down alleyways where the sun never reached. I needed to get to rue de la Chanvrerie and the place Saint-Michel and the Café Musain because that’s where he’d be, now. If he’s still alive—and my heart clenched with fear at that thought.