At the River
The moon was nearly full, reflected shakily on the surface of the river.
Azelma sat under the bridge, clutching her thin chemise close about her, shivering.
The trouble with this damn revolution, she thought bitterly, throwing a pebble in the Seine, was that 'Vroche was taking part in it. Damn the excitement, didn't he know that he could die? 'Ponine had voiced the same thought when Papa came back telling them there was fighting outside.
Inevitably, the shooting would end. It was already ending, 'Ponine told her. That's why she, Azelma, had been sent to see if 'Vroche was all right. "He knows where to find you," she was told. Azelma was willing to go- after all, 'Vroche was her brother, too- but she wondered why 'Ponine wouldn't go herself.
"Ask her, it's not my business," was all Montparnasse had said. He had shrugged and sent her away, and Azelma had fought the urge to go and kick him.
"'Ponine, why don't you go?" she had asked. "It's about to rain."
"That's precisely why I'm not going," 'Ponine had hissed, and bundled her out the door.
"Then you don't care!" yelled Azelma, slightly wildly. "I'm scared, 'Ponine!"
"It's not that I don't care, it's that I can't go," 'Ponine had snapped, "'Parnasse is coming around, and Papa would kill me if I left."
Azelma wondered privately, with some small measure of disgust, if that was the only reason 'Ponine wouldn't go. Montparnasse looked rather like a dandy and could be quite charming when he pleased. Not that he noticed her- not 12 year-old Azelma who looked like a starved nine-year old left on the streets too long.
The clouds rolled above her, and Azelma laid her head on her hunched up knees, rocking quietly. Such horrible weather now! And it was such a beautiful day before news of the fighting had started.
The rain started falling, then. Slowly and lightly at first, then at a faster rate, until it seemed the entire sky were weeping. That didn't signify anything though, did it? 'Vroche might still be safe. He was with the people who were fighting for something to do with Charles X, wasn't he?
She hoped inside that he mightn't be fighting with them.
The wind roared around her. Azelma huddled herself against the corner of the bridge. It was dark and murky, cold and smelly, but it was safe.
"Combien je regrette
Mon bras si dodu,
Ma jambe bien faite
Et le temps perdu," she sang to herself, and waited until the morning came.
---
"'Zelma!" cried a familiar voice. "Zelma, we did it! We kicked him out!"
Azelma opened an eye, sleepily. Her brother, the gamin, was standing in front of her, waving something in his hand. She squinted slightly.
"We kicked him out and I got a musket!"
Now she sat up fully.
"Gavroche! A musket!" she cried, reproachfully. "At your age!"
The gamin shrugged cheerfully as he sat next to her. "Don't see why you're so afraid," he said, kicking his legs from beneath him. "Muskets are handy things- brought down a few of the National Guards with mine. Got rid of Charles, didn't we?"
Azelma shuddered. She hated to think of killing anyone.
"You're safe, though," she said, as though to reassure herself that something good had come out of the fighting.
He chatted at her for a while, but Azelma did not comprehend what he was saying.
He had killed.
She knew Montparnasse and Babet and Brujon and even Papa killed people, but they were different, they were in the Patron-Minette. They weren't her littlebrother.
He was younger than she was.
All the same, she thought, looking at the still waters, she would have something to tell 'Ponine.