Part IV: The Power and The Glory
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "Be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of moonlight by music, and stain it with my own heart's blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
...
"And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life blood ebbed away from her."
(Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose).
Despite her cynicism, Éponine is curious, and on the day of the funeral she finds herself side by side with Courfeyrac as the masses gather noisily behind them.
The people have been arriving since dawn, in hopes to secure a good view of the cortege as it passes by, that they may bid a respectful farewell to the man who had inspired them, spoken for them and dedicated his life to their welfare.
Éponine knows little of politics, save for her father's business transactions and days spent haggling for loaves of bread. Her knuckles brush against Courfeyrac's wrist as the funeral drums sound low in the distance, and such an uneasy tension ripples through the crowd that for a moment she thinks, yes, perhaps you can pull this off.
Having guaranteed her a spot at the front of the crowds, Gavroche now sits atop his makeshift abode, high above the rooftops and grinning down at the swarms of people below him.
Hats off to old Bonaparte, he thinks, swinging his legs freely through the air.
The elephant stands tall, majestic and imposing.
Gavroche offers a happy wave to his sister.
She had not had long to admire her brother's sweet courage, nor to pretend her heart was not warmed by Enjolras' apparent affection for the boy; for the night before the funeral Marius had pulled her aside and requested she lead him to the residence of the girl and the old gentleman. Rebellion had instilled in him a fierce wave of courage, and he had vowed to find Cosette before battle began and all chance may be lost. Unable to deny him, Éponine had led him with a heavy heart to the Rue Plumet, and watched them fall in love.
Afterwards, she had found a letter placed carefully between the railings of the garden, addressed to Marius and in neat little handwriting that could only be hers.
She had pocketed it.
They are lined up, and Combeferre thinks fondly of the toy soldiers that once stood along the windowsill of his childhood nursery, painted uniforms shining brightly in the hazy sunshine. Today, even in the shadow of the elephant in the square, Enjolras shines brighter than them all, his golden locks curled in a halo above the striking red jacket and polished boots. He stands tall and proud, and so still that to passers-by he may well seem a statue, an illustration from a child's storybook, inanimate but for the strange light in his eye that speaks of events to come.
'Ferre straightens a little and catches the eye of one of the women lined up opposite, offering her an encouraging smile.
Pretty maids all in a row, indeed.
As the cortege advances solemnly towards where they stand, Éponine can feel the stirrings of the crowd, and when at last Enjolras raises the flag and all hell breaks loose, she fancies she can hear birdsong rising above the thundering din of war drums, higher than the angry voices raised in a chorus of revolutionary song. She stumbles alongside the coffin and lifts her eyes skyward to where he is, standing defiant and so, so sure beside Enjolras. Never once letting her eye leave Marius, the gamine clutches the letter tightly inside the pocket of her coat, that she might squeeze the very ink from its pages. May as well try taking blood from a stone.
And then they are running, in all directions it seems, and Éponine lets her legs carry her where they will. Eyes searching desperately for her brother amid the commotion, she catches a glimpse of shocking red and follows the rabble down the frenzied cobbled street, dodging chairs and bullets, chests and mattresses that tumble and crash from overhead.
(Look, look, the sky is falling! I saw it with my eyes, I heard it with my ears. We will run, run and tell the King!)
The storm clouds gather and the rampart rises, and it isn't long before the bullets rain once more, as the barricade faces its first attack from the National Guard. The world is in chaos, and the students are scattering in terror. Amongst a few others, only Enjolras and Marius remain obstinate, fixed to their spot and oblivious to the slender figure picking her way across the rampart, cap pulled down low across her eyes and oversized coat billowing as she runs.
Marius lunges across the barricade, arms reaching desperately for a barrel of gunpowder that teeters on the edge of a large wooden chest.
There is a glint of light in the corner of her eye, and she sees a musket raised with only one purpose.
She jumps, for what is and what was, and what could have been.
The pain is not so bad, and she is half aware of concerned voices filling the air around her.
She feels herself lifted from the stony ground by a pair of strong arms, and the world darkens once more.
"Men command the world that they know," she says, "Everything that men know they make their own. Everything that they learn, they claim for themselves. They are like the alchemists who look for the laws that govern the world, and then want to own them and keep them secret. Everything they discover, they hug to themselves, they shape knowledge into their own selfish image. What is left to us women, but the realms of the unknown?"
(Philippa Gregory, The Lady of the Rivers).
Part V: The Rocks Remain
"We each of us have many lives, so many that truly there is but one life that we are all a part of. We are all one. I am the fly upon my own cheek, and in another life I watch myself through his eye. Wherever we look we see only ourselves. You will see me again, and I you."
(Steve Augarde, Winter Wood).
She opens her eyes to the harsh light of day.
Above her head, a cool breeze flows in through the open window and caresses Éponine's cheek, sending wisps of hair fluttering across her eyes, tangling in her eyelashes.
A heavy coat is draped across her slight form, hanging loosely off the bony shoulders that protrude from her all-too-visible collarbone. She hastily reaches into the pocket and lets out a low groan of pain which quickly turns to a sigh of relief as she finds the letter still there, tucked neatly and safely out of sight.
Sinking back against the thin pillows behind her, Éponine closes her eyes – they fly open again when she hears a soft rustle near the foot of her bed.
She looks up to see a figure standing at the bookcase, his back turned to her, book open in hand and flicking lightly through its pages. For a moment she feels nothing but anger as she stares at the back of his head, curls just touching the top of his collar, and her fingernails claw the bedsheets in a vicelike grip.
He who made you bitter made you wise.
The young man stays absorbed in his book, unaware of the eyes scrutinising him, growing narrower with every passing moment.
She had watched him on many nights, huddled in a shadowy corner of the Café Musain, her hair swept beneath a hat in a desperate attempt to go unnoticed. The candlelight glowed invitingly through the rain-washed windows, beyond which all of Paris lay engulfed by the dark night.
They were almost laughable, as they organised and cheered and planned a new world in that crowded little room. Still, it was warm in the cafe, and beat having to drain her boots of muddy rainwater at bedtime.
The gamine had confronted the red-coated leader after one of the particularly intense meetings, when his naive words had become too much to ignore and his arrogance had struck a chord. Marching straight up to him in the dim hallway and jabbing her finger into the centre of his chest, he had flinched in astonishment, and she'd almost laughed outright but for the proud rage swelling in her chest.
"We don't need your pity, or your help," she had snapped.
"So how exactly do you plan to make a living?"
"I have my ways."
He'd raised an eyebrow at the insinuation and given her a stern look.
"I simply wish to help your situation to the benefit of all citizens-"
"That's not your concern."
The normally composed leader had stared at her, his cheeks reddening beneath her glower.
"Your arrogance suits you monsieur," she'd spat at him, "and you're a fool if you think you can change anything."
As she had turned to walk away, he'd caught her elbow firmly and hauled her back to face him.
"No, mademoiselle."
She had flinched at the emphasis, cursing the transparency of her disguise.
"I have as much right to my beliefs as you do to your misery. Resist my help if you must, accept Marius' money if you choose, but don't let pride be the plight of your people."
And he'd left her there, the ghost of his touch burning through her sleeve to her skin.
Suddenly, silence will not do.
"What are you reading?" She says, loudly and lightly.
He starts, and spins around, closing the book with a snap.
"You are awake, mademoiselle."
"Either that or I make a better orator in sleep than you do awake."
His jaw clenches at the jape.
"Are you feeling any better?" he asks through tightly clamped teeth.
"Fit as a fiddle."
His eyes narrow. "Joly says you're to stay abed until you're strong enough to leave. He's offered to escort you home and provide further treatment for your wounds once you're there."
Biting back an angry retort, she folds her arms, resolved to let an icy silence do her talking.
"Fine," he shrugs, turning to leave.
"Wait!"
"Mademoiselle?"
The shock of yesterday's events finally hits her, and Éponine's eyes brim with tears as she reaches once more into the overcoat.
"Please. Give this to him, to Marius," she says quietly, holding the letter aloft for him to take. "It belongs to him."
An odd expression smooths the lines of his face, and Enjolras draws away as he did before, closing the door softly behind him.
To Be Continued.