In memory of Éponine Elizabeth. Who got me to do a lot of things, including getting me to watch Titanic, and fall in love with Jean Prouvaire. Who was the best pen friend I could have asked for, and who I'm so glad I met on my holiday to Wales. Who told me to upload this when she first saw it, but I never did, but now she's not here anymore, and I realise life's too short to hold back. So, here it is.
There better be Broadway in heaven, girl.
He came to watch her everyday. Not because she was beautiful (she was far from it, in fact. Her eyes were that tiny bit too small, and her nose jutted at an awkward angle) or because she was flirtatious (like so many of the other girls he had met before), but because her voice was as gentle and as clear as a crystal lake on a warm Summer's day. Because the innocence of her youth shone out every time she opened her mouth. She realised he was watching her after only a week, but it was in no sense a romantic gesture, far from it, in fact, simply admiring, for her music more than anything else. When she did realise, she just smiled at him, and left it at that.
There was never anymore interaction than that, not for a long time, but when one day she sat and sang with a large gash running from her eyebrow to the corner of her mouth, he was concerned. Maybe he shouldn't have been. She was still singing, after all, with an empty hat that was begging for any loose change the rich had about them. It did not look as if it hurt her, as such, but he - being the man that he was - was worried for her. Casting his notebook (which he had been writing diligently in all morning) aside, he slowly stood up and walked over to her. It would have been a lie to say he was not slightly apprehensive, but, he thought to himself, he was a gentleman. Kneeling down to her level, he gulped and then opened his mouth to speak. She gasped and pushed him away, and he recoiled from the shock.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head to a steady rhythm that wasn't quite there.
"Who... are you?" she said, "You come here everyday, silently, always watching, and yes, sometimes you give me a coin, sometimes two - and I'm grateful Monsieur, I really am - but you always just sit there. Watching."
With that, she let out a small cry, and her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened and she placed her palms over her ears, breathing heavily.
"Mademoiselle!" he cried, "Mademoiselle, are you alright?"
She groaned slightly. The gash was clearly paining her. She'd ignored it for far too long, and now it was enraged and fighting back with a vengeance.
"It hurts." she murmured, raising her hand to touch it.
"Mademoiselle... What happened?"
"Money..." she gulped, "Didn't... bring home... enough... money."
He did not know what to do. That was the blunt truth. Tentatively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a five franc piece.
"For you, Mademoiselle," he said, "I expect you'll spend it better than I ever could."
He pressed it into her palm, which was ice-cold, and her eyes lit up in disbelief.
"Oh!" she smiled, "We shall feast like kings to-night! And there is nothing... nothing at all you want from me in return?"
"Nothing."
She tried to smile again, but winced in pain before the smile had time to be contagious.
"Dieu." she muttered, "But, thank you, Monsieur... Thank you."
"Jehan." he said. She held an expression of confusion for a moment.
"My name," he continued, "is Jean Prouvaire. But you, Mademoiselle, may call me Jehan."
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. A ghost of a smile crept across her face, but it quickly retracted.
"Azelma," she whispered, "and if anyone asks... I had nothing to do with it."
"With what?"
But she was gone.