Chapter 2 – Contemplations
The eerie creak of the decaying wooden door announced Eponine's return to the Gorbeau tenement. She entered the unlit building with rapid huffs, lifting her blouse back up to her shoulders. A few hours previous, after leaving Montparnasse's company, her father had handed her the letters to be distributed that day, an enormous stack of ten. Those letters had directed her to the utmost regions of Paris, requiring much stamina to journey from one recipient to the next. As she finally arrived home, exhausted, bedraggled, sweaty, malnourished, and fatigued, the fickle sun had already vanished, bathing Paris in a starless night. After she had managed to heave herself up the decrepit staircase, she entered her family's one-room apartment.
Once in the open doorway, her father's tyrannical eye fell upon her. "Took you long enough," he reproved, furrowing his brow. "Fooling around with that dandy again?"
As she fell breathlessly against the shabby wall, Eponine shook her head. "No." No more encounters with Montparnasse had occurred since noon.
"Are the letters delivered?" Monsieur Thenardier demanded.
"Yes. All of them," Eponine responded, trying to catch her breath. At length her breathing regulated. "Have Azelma play postman next time." Her limbs, no longer numb from the evening chill, suddenly trembled with pain, inducing her to fall seated where she had stood.
"Stop your whining!" Thenardier exclaimed in irritation. "Them modern doctors say exercise is beneficial. Besides, what do you ever do anyway? Frolic around worthlessly like a little whore! It's about time you started pulling your own weight!"
Eponine, who in fact had been assisting in her father's schemes since the inn had fallen into bankruptcy, figured it best to not respond, deeming the crumbling bricks in the wall more fascinating. As she traced the innumerous cracks with her bony forefinger, a detail about their abode occurred to her – her sister and mother were absent. "Where are Azelma and mama?"
During Eponine's silence, Thenardier had forgotten her, seating himself at his makeshift desk to create more fraudulent pleas. At her inquiry, he neither lifted his eyes nor his pen. "Out."
Registering that such was his final answer, Eponine spoke no more. Instead she let her eyes wander around their shabby apartment room with both admiration and revulsion. It had been their first true residence since leaving Montfermeil, only recently obtained. While it was certainly pleasant having a roof and four walls surround them again, Eponine couldn't expel all memories of her childhood home. Remembering soft beds, feathery pillows, papered walls, multiple rooms, warm fire, and ample illumination impelled her to scowl at tattered brick walls, straw cots, thin abrasive blankets, meager grey furniture, and a melted candle. And then there was the matter of clothing. Never would a hint of glorious color grace her attire again. When her eyes fell back down to the rags that clothed her, a little puncture in her blouse caught her attention. Her thoughts drifted back to earlier that day, to the white rose pinned on her tatters. How out of place it was - something beautiful stemming from something wretched. What a contrast that must have been. With an inaudible chuckle, Eponine tried to imagine how others might have responded to beholding something so preposterous. Gorgeous and hideous so proximate.
At that moment a vision flashed before Eponine's eyes. She viewed herself on Montparnasse's arm, boisterously chattering as they strolled down the boulevard. She had realized the difference between her and Montparnasse's appearances many a time, but only now did she comprehend the extent of such a difference. She, a dreadfully deformed guttersnipe, beside a luxurious gentleman with an impeccable complexion. It made no difference that they were in the same class of society – there was an undeniably enormous dissimilarity. She had seen her reflection in rivers and shop windows before; she knew she was homely. But seeing herself compared to Montparnasse made her appear monstrous.
In an instant the vision departed, leaving Eponine to ponder. "If I really am that disgusting, why does he spend time with me?" she questioned herself, dejectedly resting her head upon her knobby knees. Suddenly another memory drifted into her mind, prompting her to raise her head and grin. An indescribable warmth fell upon her as she reflected. The kiss from earlier had penetrated her perplexed mind, providing a momentary distraction. She closed her eyes blissfully, feeling again the lightness of her lips against Montparnasse's. "If only he had kissed back that way…what a dream that would have been." But no, he had deemed it not a kiss at all. In addition, it seemed to aggravate him. Nevertheless, it was not something Eponine was liable to forget for quite some time.
"Don't just sit there like dust, you useless slut!" Her father's offense delivered Eponine's mind back into the black depth of the earth.
Eponine's eyes rose to meet her father's. "I already delivered your letters. What more do you want?" she grumbled.
Thenardier scratched his stubbly chin for a moment, devising a method of deporting Eponine. Her mere presence was prohibiting his concentration. "Go to your Montparnasse fellow," he commanded, eyes lighting up from his idea.
Eponine visibly hesitated. Montparnasse's earlier remarks implied a possible irritation with her; perhaps he would not simply welcome her into his quarters with open arms.
"Go on!" Thenardier compelled impatiently, tapping his quill pen on the desk.
Words ran dry on her tongue. She dared not defy her father, but she truthfully wasn't in the mood for visiting Montparnasse. The dandy didn't demand her presence every night, which she was incredibly thankful for; she did desire her sleep after all, albeit it was uncomfortable on her straw. Montparnasse owned a genuine mattress, but she was rarely permitted an adequate amount of slumber. At length, she voiced her protest. "I'd rather not, father…"
The quill pen fell from the man's hand. The unthinkable had just occurred to him. "What did you do?" he gasped, a ferocious volcano about to erupt.
Eponine, understanding her father's misconception, hastily responded, "Nothing!" After the words flew out, she realized how guilty her tone sounded.
Thenardier perceived the undue guilt and rose from his chair, his face turning a violent crimson. "If you did something, anything, to damage my standing with Patron-Minette, you will eternally regret it, hussy!" Selfishness was incredibly characteristic of Monsieur Thenardier. The sole reason he endorsed his daughter's relationship with Montparnasse was to secure himself a position in that infamous gang of criminals.
Eponine rose to her feet as well, fearing to be caught in such a vulnerable position. "I swear to you that nothing went wrong! I just don't feel like sleeping with him tonight…"
Thenardier balled his tiny red hands into fists. "Creatures like you can't be particular!" he snapped, bearing his decaying yellow teeth. The veins on his furrowed forehead protruded immensely, a sign of vast animosity. He trembled where he stood, threatening to cross the distance between them and belt her for insolence. At that moment an empty bottle of liquor lying on the desk caught Eponine's eye. "You're fortunate to be in his favor!" the intoxicated man continued. "You, such an ugly beast! He only endures you because you're free!"
Eponine's gaze fell to the rotting floorboards. She was accustomed to her father's callous insults and learned after many years to disregard them, especially when Thenardier was drunk. This one, however, penetrated her heart. She knew what he implied by the term "free" – and it wasn't freedom. "Perhaps that's why 'Parnasse stands me…"
In the absence of a response from Eponine, Thenardier's ruthless tirade ensued. "He has a million and one whores and doesn't care about the likes of you! You're nothing to him! Dirt, filth, grime! A pesky little maggot! He would gladly push you into the dust where you belong and let you rot there! You're no use to nobody! So don't press your luck! He -"
"Okay, you can stop!" Eponine cried, unable to suffer anymore lies about Montparnasse. They were lies…weren't they? "I'm going!" Feeling more capable of facing the wrath of Montparnasse's knife than the ferocity of her inebriated father, she submitted. With the velocity of a fugitive, she bolted out the door, slamming it roughly behind her. The entire building quivered.
Nothing but a dim candle illuminated the small apartment room of Montparnasse. Although somewhat cramped and shabby, it was a palace compared to the disrepair of the Gorbeau house. The aged walls were clothed in discolored floral wallpaper, beginning to rip in some areas. While his room was sparsely furnished, the furniture he did possess was highly refined. One could only have assumed he obtained such during a mansion robbery. The small polished bureau displayed a stranger's monogram. Altogether his necessary furnishings consisted of a mahogany desk with a complementing chair, a wall mirror embellished with ornate carvings, a relatively large bed with a white wooden headboard, and the monogrammed bureau. Withered rose petals served as the only decoration, scattered haphazardly atop the bureau and windowsill. While the dandy would have indubitably preferred to dwell in a more luxurious residence, that dream was unattainable. An ostentatious mansion didn't exactly conform to the inconspicuous life a man of his occupation required to remain out of prison. Thus he adapted to this confined apartment room, obscurely lodged at the far end of a narrow cul-de-sac between two lofty ominous buildings.
Currently Montparnasse was seated at his mahogany desk with his elbows propped up supporting his head. An open bottle of brandy sat before him on the desk. Any observer of such a scene would determine him drunk, but he had not taken more than a sip of that alcohol. He had acquired it from the market square shortly after Eponine's departure, and had opened it, anticipating a boisterous night. Eponine would assuredly prefer his bed over her bale of hay, he presumed. However, his mind soon fell into contemplation, dispelling all thoughts of revelry.
His humiliation from those ladies degrading him still throbbed like a freshly stabbed wound. It was his first indication that people actually heeded him and Eponine. When striding alone down the boulevard, he perceived all envious eyes on him; but with Eponine, he never gave it extreme consideration. They didn't excessively appear publicly; much of their time was spent where Montparnasse directed them – deserted alleys and isolated passageways. However, he had occasionally allowed Eponine her pleasure, casting them into vastly populated areas. Thus the odd pair had been observed.
A radically distorted picture of squalid Eponine flashed before Montparnasse, amplifying all her horrendous qualities. Her face suddenly appeared immeasurably caked with filth, her voice as hoarse as Gueulemer's, her eyes positively miserable and void of light, her hair matted like a nest of rats, her body's stench unendurably malodorous, and her body as emaciated as a skeleton. Thus was the Eponine he now saw: an exaggerated Eponine. He shuddered at the repulsive image and began to question his intellect. "How could I, undoubtedly the best-dressed in Paris, consort with such a foul creature?" he asked his bottle of brandy. In an instant the image of Eponine returned, this time focusing on the ghastly apparel. It seemed as though her chemise, of an atrocious color and repugnant style, fitting her no better than a coarse sack, was literally disintegrating before his very eyes. Her tarnished olive-colored skirt, already exposing chafed bony ankles, was full of so many rents that a prostitute would think it immodest. (He never paused to consider that he was the cause of many of those rips.) When her feet were in shoes, the shoes were of crude wood, making Montparnasse prefer her feet bare.
Incapable of enduring the sight any longer, the dandy shut his eyes. Montparnasse, being a man of impeccable taste, found her garments unbearably appalling. "How can she walk around so dreadfully clothed? She may not have her pride, but I certainly do."
Thus it was decided. He could not continue to blemish his reputation with that ragamuffin on his arm. An urgent course of action was demanded.
A faint rap on the door, almost hesitant, was perceived by Montparnasse, interrupting his rumination. Rising up, he moved to answer it, internally pleading that it could be a Patron-Minette member requesting assistance and not Eponine requesting company. He seized the knob anxiously and swung the door back, revealing the visitor. A brisk gust of wind breezed past the visitor, fluttering her olive-colored skirt. Eponine.
"'Parnasse…" she hesitated, uncertain of his current mood. By his gaze it appeared he considered her a specter. His pupils were dilated, his eyebrows were knitted, and his lips were slightly parted, producing a frightening effect of suppressed impetuosity. A fire temporarily smothered, just to combust into seething flames moments later.
Not a sound escaped Montparnasse's lips as he stood before the door. The only motion of his body was the twitching of his dark eyebrows as his daunting eyes remained locked on hers. This creature dared to appear when enormous amounts of disgust had been directed at her? Dreading to behold his mental of image of her, he had shut his eyes. Now the tangible Eponine had arrived like an unrelenting apparition, determined to perpetually haunt him to the brink of insanity. Although not exaggerated as in his mental image, her filthy features stood truly before him. He had been tormented enough by her for one day. After another moment of horror, he turned his face away as one would shun a pile of manure.
Eponine, unaware of both the ridiculing ladies in the garden and the deliberation she had interrupted, was puzzled by his present countenance. She of all people was aware of his bizarre mood swings, but nothing like this had ever occurred before. Because he was a very sensual person, his rage was always released physically through bruising or exploiting her. Being greatly accustomed to that, a greeting such as thrusting her against the wall or threatening her with a knife wouldn't have alarmed her. This greeting of remaining inert and impenetrable was disconcerting her. "'Parnasse, is something wrong?" she ventured to ask, tentatively entering the room. Her fingers faltered slightly as she reached behind herself to shut the door. "Perhaps I shouldn't. Perhaps I should leave." Her eyes, which had been wandering about the room in search for evidence, fell back on Montparnasse. His demeanor was unaltered. "But if he doesn't want me to, our next meeting will be chaotic." A sudden gust of wind embraced her bony limbs with its clammy grasp, persuading her to shut the door. With the wailing of the wind muffled, silence blanketed the room. Eponine examined the statue, perplexed.
While Montparnasse appeared as lifeless as a statue, internally he was very much animated. Thoughts were pounding against the inside of his brain, producing a throbbing in his head. "She is an uncouth and dingy whore! Why is she here? I didn't invite her!" The memory of an invitation he had once extended her, saying "Stop by my place any time you're lonesome," with a wink, had clearly withdrawn from his mind. "I should throw her out! Such a rat belongs in the streets! She has no right to my pristine sheets!" This resolved, he finally made an effort to speak. "Why are you here?" It was delivered hostile and callous through gritted teeth.
Eponine cast a glance at her bruised feet, unwilling to meet his glare. "Papa forced me. Sorry…" Although uncertain as to why she apologized, she felt it best in this situation.
A reluctance to expel the girl cascaded over Montparnasse. If she didn't sleep here it would mean the streets. "And that concerns me how?" he wrestled with himself. He dared not consider it his conscience that emitted the hesitance. "She's slept on the street before. It's not winter. It doesn't matter." His eyes rested on her apparel as he scrutinized it once more.
"Are you certain you're fine?" Eponine inquired, slightly encouraged that he had yet to produce his knife. "Did a scheme of yours fail? Or was it something I did? Because you're looking at me like Papa once did to Mama when she put on a hessian sack to look pretty."
Montparnasse remained silent, the battle within still waging. His scornful eyes targeted a particularly great splotch of grime on her blouse from an unknown source. A shiver coursed through his body was he envisioned that filth contacting him. As his brow furrowed ever the more, his expression of ferocity intensified.
Eponine, perceiving this, sensed that his eruption point was drawing near. Soon he would become violent. While still confused at the origin of such rage, she detected it and decided how to counteract it. The key was distraction; she performed it in the only method she knew. Leaping forward suddenly, she latched onto him with her arms around his neck, kissing him in his preferred manner: passionately.
Every last thought and notion deserted Montparnasse's mind at this unforeseen action. As was always during these times, thought was forsaken and instinct prevailed. The dandy no longer perceived Eponine's filth or how it was rapidly tainting his flawless attire. His entire deliberation was forgotten in an instant. Perhaps any woman held such power over him; or perhaps that power solely belonged to Eponine. No more did Montparnasse consider the girl revolting as he hungrily returned the kiss. Not a memory of the giggling ladies or the humiliation he felt contaminated him. Perhaps he was blinded by lust, or perhaps he was liberated by...?
Whatever the vindication, Montparnasse's inhibitions of touching the unwashed waif were quelled. With fervid movements he grasped Eponine relentlessly, pressing her as close to him as humanly feasible. He bit at her lips as they kissed, ignoring her faint whimpers of pain when his teeth sank in too deep. Soon he became restless and proceeded to slamming her against the wall and hovering over her like a ferocious hunter. The assault began anew, penetrating deep into her mouth and nearly choking her.
Eponine silently cursed whoever invented implementing the tongue in kisses. Her eyes fell shut as she struggled to enjoy what she had instigated, somewhat wishing she had departed when presented with the opportunity. While she sometimes adored intimacy with Montparnasse, he frequently made it too rough to find pleasant. And such was one of those nights. As he introduced even more lasciviousness, Eponine squeezed her eyelids further, attempting to bear it. "There's that plummeting feeling again," she thought as her mind spiraled.
If such encounters were so unpleasant for Eponine, why did she tolerate them? Was she intimidated? Was she desperate? No. While such was Montparnasse's desired part of their encounters, Eponine relished the mornings. To awake in a warm cottony bed in the tender arms of her lover was what she truly fancied. When drowsy, Montparnasse was uncharacteristically mellow; his kisses were sweeter and his caresses were gentler. Sporadically a lethargic mumble would escape his lips, which Eponine found quite adorable. The ardent assassin was a lamb in his sleep. Eponine loved to see him so vulnerable.
The night dragged on endlessly, prolonging Montparnasse's indulgence. Eventually, however, it tapered down, terminating with a number of milder kisses bereft of teeth or tongue, pleasing Eponine immensely. Under the velvety sheets with Eponine in his arms, Montparnasse soon drifted off into slumber, quite exhausted. Eponine remained awake for a stretch of time, listening to the lullaby of his heartbeat.
The lucid light of morning permeated through the dusty window panes of Montparnasse's room, illuminating the slumbering lovers. Resting in each other's lax grasp, they lay sprawled about the bed, intertwined in the tousled sheets. A disarray of garments were scattered around the room, Eponine's blouse the centerpiece as it hung over Montparnasse's mirror. Neither person would have been able to elucidate its means of arriving there.
Because of the apartment's convenient desolation, the room was enveloped in utter silence. Neither pedestrian nor bird dared to venture through the dismal alleys that winded up towards that dubious building; thus, there was no outside clatter. In spite of this fact, Montparnasse found himself awakened by a sound. Once he regained his vision he was able to deduce its source. It was the light snores of Eponine.
Although delivered from slumber, Montparnasse was not alert. He yearned deeply to just shut his eyes and return to his dream about robbing a luxurious clothing boutique, but the glimpse of sleeping Eponine prevented him. After a moment of fruitlessly closing his eyes, they gradually reopened.
Through his disheveled black locks he peered down at Eponine. With her head resting against him, her nose burrowed into the hollow of his neck, she dosed tranquilly, a contented smile upon her lips. Acknowledging her repose, he resolved to remain in his current position, placing his chin atop her head. Upon doing so, he realized that her hair didn't feel nearly as matted as it appeared. Actually it was relatively soft.
At that moment the thoughts and recollections that had previously been displaced returned, sending a shudder through Montparnasse's body and prompting him to sit up. With some affection lost, yet with the same amount of tenderness, the dandy gently pried Eponine loose from him, placing her a considerable distance away from him. While a serene sigh escaped the girl, she did not stir.
With Eponine at a more reasonable distance, Montparnasse gained a full view of the sleeping waif. However, much to his astonishment, he did not examine her with contempt like the previous evening. It was impossible; she no longer resembled a mound of dung in his eyes. In fact, as bizarre as it was to admit, Eponine almost seemed normal. With intense curiosity and puzzlement, he inclined his body closer towards her, desiring a better view.
No longer shadowed by Montparnasse's form, Eponine's face was entirely exposed to the radiant sunlight streaming into the room. This celestial light did more than illumine her face, however. Sunbeams frolicked gently about her skin, granting radiance to her misery-worn features. Instead of sporting a mask of grime, her face was now bedecked in glorious fair skin.
Thus is the magic of morning light; it possesses beautifying qualities. The sun's influence cannot be expelled; even the coldest of hearts can be warmed.
Eponine's enchanting face captivated Montparnasse. Here lay a face seen through many emotions of life: miserable, ecstatic, distraught, irritated, alarmed. Yet never had such a face as unpleasant as this appeared resplendent. Raising a hand to his face, he rubbed both eyes to ensure his alertness. The blindfold of reverie had indeed departed; this was truly Eponine. For a moment Montparnasse mentally compared the revolting vision he had received last night to the one that now lay before him. A tremendous disparity was manifest. Only a slight trace of dirt could be detected on Eponine's cheek, which was lightly erased by Montparnasse's finger. Inhaling a whiff of the air, he perceived but a light odor emitted by her, not nearly as rancid as he had anticipated.
Leaning over her, Montparnasse spent more than a few minutes in astounded examination. Although only her face was visible above the sheets, he could locate not one repulsive quality that justified the detestation he had previously felt. It needn't be said that he now saw her in a different light. An incalculable amount of time elapsed while he contemplated his emotions of the night before, currently comprehending how effortlessly Eponine had distracted him. That was predictable, however, in light of his disposition. At length a sound escaped this hushed being. A soft chuckle broke the tomblike silence of the room. "Eponine, how strange you are. You force me to think. I seldom contemplated anything before you emerged from the grimy gutters." This was voiced in an odd tone, not at all bereft of a little affection.
Although addressed, Eponine remained blissfully unaware of the assessment occurring, lost in a utopia of white horses and French pastries.
Now conscience of the deep sleep that was blanketing Eponine, Montparnasse felt more solitude and deemed it harmless to voice more of his undisclosed ponderings. "Perhaps I judged you too severely, 'Ponine. You're not always exceedingly hideous." The finger that had wiped away the dirt smear was now delicately tracing the outline of her profile. Suddenly an unfamiliar tinge besieged him, relentlessly initiating an assault in his gut. Deep in the pit of his stomach he sensed it, momentarily overwhelmed. What was this unidentified force? Guilt? Preposterous! Assassins never experienced such a cowardly emotion. Denying it seemed to alleviate the pang temporarily, for the tinge waned.
Banishing the inexplicable incident from his thoughts, Montparnasse directed his attention back to Eponine. Gradually he found himself lying back down beside her, unsatisfied with the distance he had created between them. Enveloping the slumbering creature in his arms, he embraced her amorously. "If Babet ever saw me fondle her…" At this he cringed. Before him lay the vast obscure wasteland of uncertainty. He himself understood none of his actions. Just a few hours before he was entirely repulsed by the sight of her; but now he was experiencing a foreign sensation. What perplexed him enormously was that despite the absurdity of their entire relationship, presently he felt a hint of peace. Not a soul was near who could report such behavior to the Patron-Minette; Eponine herself was ignorant. This permitted him a little more audacity than he would have initially thought.
In an instant a recollection seeped into his puzzled mind. During his brooding the night prior, he had considered deserting her for the sake of his reputation. His fingers curled around her emaciated bare arms as he deemed it futile. Much to his bewilderment, he could not find it feasible to relinquish Eponine, regardless of how unkempt she was. Something unknown within him repressed this normally ruthless cut-throat. This little street rat had somehow penetrated his callous heart and was clutching with an adamant grasp. He internally admitted that he savored her presence. While he still detested her choice of attire, the abhorrence he had directed towards her had evaporated. "I wasn't thinking intelligibly. I cannot abandon you, you little wretch, even though your appearance is so foul." Although he was confessing such to a sleeping Eponine, he resolved never to do so to a conscious Eponine. Not a soul should obtain such knowledge.
However, the dilemma of public presentation still existed. As his brain set to tackling this complication, a movement interrupted him. At last Eponine was stirring.
With slow, lethargic movements common to the art of awakening, Eponine's body gradually began to reactivate. Squirming slightly, her legs became even more entangled with Montparnasse's as she blindly determined her position. Discerning the proximity of his body to hers, she lightly kissed where her lips met his chest. While more roused than customarily in the morning, Montparnasse allowed her this privilege. Once she had adequately demonstrated her semi-consciousness, the charming criminal determined that if he remained silent, she may never awaken fully enough to stop her slobbering. "You snore 'Ponine," he mumbled, lifting his chin from its nest in her hair.
A giggle escaped Eponine's lips as she ceased her affectionate display. While she wriggled away from Montparnasse to gain some stretching room, her drowsy lids opened languidly. Her first sight of the morn was the handsome face of the most dapper young man in Paris, gazing with fondness upon the most wretched girl in Paris. "Well that's a fine 'good morning'," she muttered, scratching her scalp lackadaisically. In attempt to shake off sleep, she rubbed her eyes with her sallow little fists and noisily smacked her lips. Though perhaps more awake, her eyes were still partially closed. All at once she became cognizant of her undress and shivered, the sheets no longer providing sufficient warmth.
Noticing this, Montparnasse draped his arms around her, caressing the cold flesh of her back. "Cold?" he asked.
Eponine, growing slightly more aware with every passing second, was slightly surprised by his actions and tone of voice. Recollections of the affair last night drifted back into her mind, kindling images of Montparnasse's livid features. Yet now his manner seemed temperate and moderately less apathetic than was typical. "Ah, must be his drowsiness," she determined, her eyelids closing in contentment. Her favored moment had commenced. Montparnasse had received his delight last night; her time had arrived.
Brushing his fingertips lightly against her bony spine, Montparnasse felt his body falling back into a state of relaxation. He found something about such a position quite comfortable, despite the fact that her unwashed body lay up against him. "Rueful 'Ponine, what would you ever do without your blanket Montparnasse?" Such was meant as a rhetorical question, spoken in a humorous tone. "Freeze I suppose."
"I'm not always this cold," Eponine informed with a hint of pride, nestling her nose back into the hollow of his neck. "My clothes, wherever the poor things may be, provide some…"
"Those scraps?" Montparnasse cut her off. "You might as well wear nothing! Your rags are as thin as batiste and as horrid as hessian cloth!" Even though he was yet again criticizing her apparel, there was something of an amused and good-natured quality in his tone.
"They provide the illusion that I'm wearing something then," Eponine decided. "They usually don't ward off the cold. Oh, and they're horrid in the rain! So damp and soggy and weighing me down! But I have no choice I suppose…" As she spoke, her breathe against Montparnasse's skin produced a tickling sensation.
If Montparnasse was susceptible to the unpleasant tingles of tickling, perhaps he would have laughed or shoved Eponine away. However, he simply ignored it. "Hm," was his grunt of a reply.
This silence allowed Eponine adequate time to reflect. The man beside her didn't appear exceptionally drowsy, yet the antagonism he previously bore seemed to be completely dissolved. Whatever had kindled the fuming fire in his soul must have departed his mind. "Perhaps my distraction works remarkably well," she thought with satisfaction, smiling to herself.
The quietude lingered for a lengthy amount of time, pouring bliss into Eponine's heart. She reveled in moments such as these when the brutal world in which she dwelled faded into vibrant shades of ecstasy. Montparnasse was far from being the perfect lover, occasionally bearing a slightly abusive side, but such moments like the present were undoubtedly worth tolerating the harshness. She had never received such pleasing treatment before meeting the noxious fashion-plate. When in his arms she experienced a feeling of significance. Her father regarded her as worse than sewage and all other men scorned her. Montparnasse was the only one willing to endure her company and to hold her in such a way that perhaps signified care. That was a feeling that distributed pleasant tingles throughout her body, very dissimilar to the wrenching lightheaded sensation a different contact induced. Her ridiculously wide grin expanded when she felt a light kiss press against her forehead. "'Parnasse, you can be so sweet sometimes," she purred, her voice unfortunately low and hoarse.
"Nonsense," Montparnasse denied. His hands ceased caressing her back, resting comfortably above her conspicuous hipbones. "Charming, yes, but sweet, definitely not. I'm not a kitten."
Eponine released a giggle, memories of her childhood flooding her mind. "That's very fortunate for you, monsieur. Azelma and I were the finest kitten-clothers in Montfermeil," she boasted.
"Goodness," the dandy gasped. "Seeing how you dress yourself, I feel deep sympathy for that poor defenseless creature."
Quite amused with Montparnasse's banter, Eponine laughed gleefully. Once the laughter had subsided, restlessness settled over her, causing her to fidget. Immediately she regretted her movements, an unpleasant ache coursing through her muscles. Hoping to receive relief, she reluctantly maneuvered out of Montparnasse's inviting grasp and sat up, the blankets slipping off her and falling to her waist. Afflicted with a sudden rush of chill, she hastily raised them back up to her chin. These three successive motions, performed with little care for the soreness she was nursing, induced a painful surge. "Ow," she winced.
Observing all this, Montparnasse was soon sitting up as well. While his muscles weren't exceptionally pleased with this, they didn't throb as intensely as Eponine's. In his line of business he was quite accustomed to discomfort. "Sore?" he asked with a chuckle.
"Slightly," Eponine admitted, longing to release the blanket and straighten out her throbbing arms. The frosty air and her lack of attire prevented her.
"Ah, I see we've been slacking off then," Montparnasse murmured pensively, eyeing the waif. Then, leaning forward, his lips at her ear, he spoke in a low voice, "We need to get you back in shape."
While Montparnasse began gently nibbling at her ear, Eponine experienced both anxiety and excitement. At least more encounters ensured more morning cuddles. At that moment, the blouse draped across the mirror caught her eye. "Ah, so that's where you've gotten off to! How'd you get up there?"
Lifting his head, Montparnasse recognized what Eponine was referring to. "I haven't the foggiest notion," he lied, well aware of his oddities when intoxicated by Eponine.
In a startling instant Eponine sprang off the bed, ignoring the ache in her limbs, and started towards the mirror. However, forgetting about the blankets in her grasp, she began dragging them along with her. Montparnasse, who was now fully exposed to the bitter air, protested. "Hey!"
By some means Eponine managed to reach the mirror without stumbling over the tangled cluster of sheets. "It's time to get up, sleepyhead!" she teased, snagging her rumpled blouse. With the mirror uncovered, she began to examine her appearance. It was not every day that she beheld a genuine mirror.
Releasing a grouchy groan, Montparnasse left his stripped bed. Thus the tedious task of locating the countless layers of his fashionable apparel commenced. As he investigated the floor near the bed, he amusedly listened to Eponine's prattle.
"We mustn't sleep all day, no matter how lovely it is," she said, watching her reflection as she attempted to arrange her knotted hair. "We'll miss all the fancy bourgeois and their vulnerable pockets. Another day of work! If Papa doesn't hand me a colossal stack of letters to throw at people, perhaps we can work together. That's always so nice! You're very pretty, you distract everyone so easily. It takes me more effort. Oh! That reminds me…"
Amidst the jovial chattering of the girl, Montparnasse had succeeded in locating his cotton shirt. Much to his dismay, it bore an appalling little smudge of dirt. He immediately determined the origin.
Concluding her ineffective attempt at beautifying herself, Eponine proceeded to dressing. When she took hold of her skirt, which had been abandoned somewhere by the mahogany desk, she discovered that another rip had been created. "Playing dead is a great tactic for earning a living, did you know that? I discovered so last winter! I was collapsed on the sidewalk, utterly frozen, when a careless man tripped over me. A few moments later I noticed a wallet lying near me! A little jolt is usually what it takes to dislodge a wallet from its previous owner. Those bourgeois are so absent-minded." The steady process of dressing himself continued as Montparnasse endured her infinite rambling. As for Eponine, because of her preoccupation of educating the most proficient thief in Paris, she would occasionally blunder in her donning, delaying her progress. Lighthearted Eponine was unconcerned. "Or I might just possibly avoid my father today," she continued. "Have Azelma run errands for a change! I want my own life. Then I can spend the whole day with you, 'Parnasse! Oh, how pleasant that would be! We could stroll down the boulevard like yesterday! I enjoyed that, did you? Or how's about we invade an elegant gala and feast on real food! Food without mold! Oh! I know! Let's ruin an exclusive opera! How I've longed to burst in during a melancholy aria and scream 'You're under arrest!' and watch the chaos! C'mon, let's do that tonight, all right, 'Parnasse?"
At last there was a cessation. Montparnasse now stood before the half-dressed creature, entirely bedecked in a ravishing suit. Although he had collected all of his misplaced garments, he stored them away, repulsed by the notion of wearing bedraggled clothes. Such was too Eponine-style. "Impossible. I have a meeting to attend, 'Ponine," he stated, his tone lacking disappointment. "Directly." Glancing in the mirror behind her, he adjusted his silk cravat. "And tonight there will certainly be a job to do." He commenced towards the door.
"Great!" Eponine exclaimed, stumbling over her skirt as she pursued him. The light of an idea was kindled in her eyes. "Your little Eponine will accompany you, 'Parnasse! And tonight we can do lookout duty! Papa always makes me watch for the law so I'm a regular expert now!"
Montparnasse cringed, remembering the last time he had allowed Eponine to attend a Patron-Minette meeting. The other men had grown rapidly impatient with her idiotic interjections. "You're too distracting," was his excuse, ignoring the pleading eyes of his lover. A glance at them would have instantly conquered him, but he was too shrewd to fall prey. While the dandy was no longer infuriated with Eponine, he preferred not to be seen in public with her for the time being. Another episode of humiliation was what he truly dreaded. In addition, the other members of the Patron-Minette were even blunter with their insults than he. Their jeering was already too excessive. He had suffered enough humiliation for one week at the least.
Eponine was not vanquished yet. "Please, Montparnasse," she implored, struggling to get into his line of sight. "I promise I'll behave! I won't call Gueulemer a dainty princess this time!" Her scrawny fingers clutched at his velvet overcoat.
Montparnasse heaved a sigh. His unexplainable addiction to the girl deemed it difficult to roughly cast her aside, but he simply could not afford anymore mockeries. He brushed her hand off his flawless coat, avoiding her eyes. "I must leave now. Be here tonight. After the job we'll do some…reveling." Grabbing her blouse and pulling her close, he planted quick kiss on her lips. Though it was still forceful, it lacked the roughness of the previous night, pleasing Eponine considerably. The prompt termination of the kiss was dissatisfying to her, but forcibly prolonging it would surely bring it to an undesired intensity. "Oh, and breakfast is over there," Montparnasse added, pointing to his desk. Atop the multipurpose surface sat a brown sack full of bread he had acquired the day before. While Eponine was considering it thoughtful that he would occasionally provide her meals, he stealthily slipped out the door.