Marie had always been very good at telling herself not to care. She cared when caring meant something. She had not tried to block out her emotions on the day of her father's funeral—it would have been a disgrace to his memory to hold back her tears. He should have had the masses crying over his death, and it was infinitely unfair that all he got were a few people who loved him deeply. So she did her part in honoring him.
But there were plenty of instances where it did no good to be upset. She had not shed a tear when her father told her, at ten, that girls did not attend school, and he couldn't teach her everything from books. So she would not know everything—it was nothing to be upset about. (Though she passed the university at every chance afterward, and wondered miserably whether the library could be seen from the road.)
She had not cried at fifteen, when she let a barber cut her hair to sell (though her mother had). They had been desperate for money, and desperation does not allow for misery. (Though now she was quite vain about her hair, and never wore a bonnet to cover it.)
She stared stoically ahead when her disgruntled mother told her, at sixteen, that the butcher, a man thirty years her senior, had been eyeing her much like the meat he was used to selling (though she never went to the butcher by herself after that).
She put her head down when men on the street whistled at her, avoided shops that sold beautiful clothes, and refused to look at girls her own age, who were not poor and did not have to find ways to trick their stomachs into thinking they were full everyday. She was glad that she was no longer desperate, though she knew, of course that she was poor. And she promised herself that it didn't bother her.
So she told herself strictly, It is alright that I banned the Amis. It is for the best that I never see Enjolras again. I never even realized what he truly was—he is no good for me. I don't need his revolution. I don't need him. It is for the best.
She opened her eyes, awake but not out of bed, and watched the sunlight stream in through the split in the curtains. The sun had gotten up without Enjolras. So should she.
Her feet hit the floor, her hands pulled on her clothes, and her legs carried her into the kitchen to start the morning shift. She was a perfect statue, alive only to what was happening around her. In some distant part of her brain, her thoughts were scrambled and broken, but her conscious mind was set on not caring. And besides, it was the outward display of caring, not the inward, that mattered to her.
It wasn't until lunchtime, however, that her heart flared up long enough to betray her.
"So, is there another meeting tonight?" Brigitte asked casually. They were scrubbing tables after the breakfast crowd had gone.
"No," Marie answered simply, keeping her face down.
"Huh. They have gotten so lazy since Combeferre got hurt. Courfeyrac was telling me that Enjolras is at his wit's end without his friend. It'll be nice to have him back, won't it?"
"They aren't coming back," she whispered, traces of bitterness seeping into her words.
Brigitte stopped and looked up. "What?"
"I threw Enjolras out. They won't be back here."
There was a beat of silence, and Marie glanced up. Brigitte was panic-stricken.
"But, but…why would you do that?"
Marie raised an eyebrow. "Why does it matter to you?"
"You—you can't just do that. You can't just throw away the only good thing that's happened to us since before papa died. You can't!"
"They are not good for us. Do you have any idea what they were planning?"
"Of course!" Brigitte roared. "They're planning to help us! They're the only people who have ever tried to do that. And you think you can just shun them?"
The blood rushed to Marie's cheeks. "Brigitte, you have no idea. They aren't trying to help us, they're trying to use us! We won't be pawns in their little game. They'll get us all killed!"
"No, you have no idea! You're just afraid to have anything good in your life! You can't see that—"
"That what they're asking to do is dangerous? That they're just arrogant schoolboys who have never known what it's like to be uncared for? Why should we risk everything for them?"
Brigitte threw her hands up. "Arrogant? Two days ago you would have said they were your closest friends!"
Marie looked away. "I'm not friends with any of them. And you're stupid if you think they only want our friendship."
Brigitte shook her head slowly. "Don't you dare imply something like that. They're good men. It's not my fault if you don't know what a good man is like."
"Oh, and you do?" she laughed cruelly. "You know nothing! All they want is someplace to come and drink and talk about lofty things that could get us all in trouble. Maybe they fooled me for a while, but at least I understand now. But you…how could you be so blind?"
"You're the one that's blind! Courfeyrac said—"
"Is that what this is all about? Trust me, I'm doing what's best for you. You don't need a man like him. You'll just get into trouble."
Brigitte's mouth dropped open, but she faltered for words. Marie was taken back at the genuine hurt that filled her eyes, but her sister's face hardened quickly. She took a few steps closer to Marie, and aimed her next words exactly where they hurt the most.
"Papa would be so disappointed in you."
Before she even realized what she was doing, Marie raised her hand and slapped her sister straight in the face. After an instant, they both stared at each other in horror, Marie's hand still in the air, the imprint of it glowing red across Brigitte's cheek.
"No, Brigitte, I—" Marie gasped, but Brigitte stumbled a few steps backward, clutching her cheek. Their mother burst through the kitchen door.
"Girls, what's happened? Did you drop something?" she asked, but froze when she took in the scene. Before she could say anything, Brigitte dashed through the kitchen and slammed the door.
All was quiet for a moment, before Madame Musain glared at her eldest daughter. "Marie Elizabeth Musain…"
"Mama, I didn't mean to…I couldn't have! I—I'm so sorry—"
"You can stay here and work the rest of the day by yourself," she said levelly, and stalked out to find Brigitte.
Marie covered her mouth with a shaky hand and closed her eyes. She had never raised a hand to her sister. They fought, sure, maybe even threw things, but always aimed to miss. What could have possessed her to do something so base, so awful…?
But she didn't have time to do anything more, for the widow Lorraine arrived with her baby son to work in the kitchen. Marie reopened the café for lunch, and waited on tables by herself for the rest of the day. There wasn't so much traffic, since Enjolras had honored her command and stayed away, but she was only worried about her sister and mother, who both also failed to reappear. She sent Lorraine home early, wanting to do at least something good, and spent the rest of the night tending to the bar.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice a familiar face until he called for her.
"Dear miss, I think I need another drink."
She looked up. "Grantaire? How long have you been here?"
He shrugged. "Just got thrown out of the pub down the street. Figured I could find some kindness here."
She sighed, but wasn't disappointed to see him. He was too much of a skeptic to be useful to Enjolras, and he drank like a fish. "Haven't you had enough for tonight?" she asked, knowing he had not.
"Never enough."
So she gave him a shot of whiskey and rearranged the bottles while he contemplated her. "I didn't hear about a meeting tonight," he said.
"That's because there wasn't one," she returned, and at his questioning glance, added, "I am no longer allowing meetings here."
He raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked, and downed the shot in one quick motion. She refilled his glass instead of elaborating, and he downed that one too.
There were a few moments of this back and forth before he said, "I wouldn't have been surprised if there had been a meeting and no one bothered to mention it to me."
She cocked her head. "Why would you say that?"
"Because they all think I'm useless," he stated, and she winced guiltily. "Especially him. He has no use for me."
She didn't have to ask who he was. "That's just wrong. He shouldn't turn away from you simply because he can't find a use for you. You're a person, not a slave."
Grantaire shook his head sloppily, and it occurred to her that she should have withheld some of the shots of whiskey. "No, no. I'm a disgrace. I can tell he thinks so. I disappoint him. I should be better."
"Grantaire, why do you say this?"
"Because it's true, and you'll listen to me. You're kind, Marie, kinder than anyone. He loathes me. But I vex him, because I don't know what else to do. It doesn't matter if he glares at me, as long as he's looking."
The word "kind" jabbed her heart like a knife, and there was a moment's silence as she wondered how much of this was just the liquor talking and how much was the truth.
Finally, Grantaire asked in a small voice, "Back when the police raided…was he hurt very badly?"
"Grantaire, you saw him walk up the stairs. He was fine."
He shook his miserable head. "I should have been there. I haven't forgiven myself for it. I try to forget—but booze and women can only do so much."
Again, Marie did not know what to say. She liked Grantaire very much, because he was sad and didn't know how to deal with it. She often felt that way herself, as good as she was at promising she didn't care.
"Grantaire, you should be getting home," she said finally. "I'll walk you." They were the only two left in the bar, and she feared he wouldn't be able to find his way home alone.
"I couldn't ask a lady to do that," he muttered, but stumbled as he tried to get off his barstool. She quickly went to help him shrug on his coat, and led him out the door.
"What about your money?"
She shrugged. "We'll figure it out later." And they set off.
With some prompts by Grantaire, they made it back to his apartment.
"I would take you up there," she said, "But I'm afraid of what the neighbors would think."
He leaned against her heavily, "If you wanna give 'em somethin' to talk about…"
"Goodnight, Grantaire."
"G'night, Marie," he slurred, and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
She watched him disappear through the door, and turned to walk home.
The entire day had been miserable, and she worried vehemently for her sister. Where had she gone all day? Had she made it home yet? She wasn't sure if she could face Brigitte yet, but nothing could be worse than the young woman wandering the streets alone.
And what of Grantaire? He was a handful, but he was sincere. She could never dismiss a sincere person, for she knew so few. If only there was some way to help him, maybe he wouldn't drink so much. She suspected that underneath all of the slurs, there was an extremely intelligent mind. If only she could see into it…
Marie had been so lost in her thoughts that she did not realize she had gotten actually lost. These streets were unfamiliar to her, and her stomach clenched in a panic. Maybe if she went back up the block, she could see where she made a wrong turn…
"Oi, Miss, where're you headed to?"
The voice was rough, male, and directed at her, the only other person on the street.
She froze. Instincts told her that nothing good could come of this, and that she should run down the street as fast as she could. But fear rooted her to the spot.
"I'm talkin' to you, Miss," he said, footsteps slapping the pavement. "Don't turn your back on me."
Running would do her no good now, for he'd certainly catch up. Her gut told her to keep him calm, so she turned toward him slowly. He was tall and grimily handsome, but the leering way in which he smiled confirmed her fears. She cleared her throat. "Monsieur, I didn't see you there. I was just going home, I'm sorry to disturb you…" She made her way to the nearest door, praying like mad that the person inside would let her in if she knocked. But the man was too quick for her.
He strode up to her and grabbed her wrist. Her forehead broke out in a cold sweat, and she knew she was trapped.
"Oh, don't leave me here like that," he drawled, leading her away from the door. She wasn't on Julian's territory—no one was coming to save her.
"Monsieur, if you'll just tell me what you want—" she said desperately as he led her down a dark alley. He chuckled menacingly.
"Let me just show you," he purred, grabbing her waist and pinning her against the wall. The knot in her stomach exploded in a scream that scared even herself. Was no one awake to help her?
"That's one pretty little scream you've got. Shall we try for another?"
He reached around to his back pocket and she screamed again, though she imagined it was pointless. If he wasn't even bothering to stop her, surely there was no chance of anyone coming. But what he brought back up to show her sent another scream through her throat: a gleaming knife.
"No, please, please!" she begged, but he only chuckled again.
"There are far worse things that could happen to you, love," he murmured, tracing the tip of the knife over the bodice of her dress. She whimpered, tears obscuring her vision.
"Let me go, please, let me go, and I won't tell anyone, I promise!"
"You won't be telling anyone, that's for sure."
The cold metal of the knife touched the skin on her throat, and she was shaking so badly it cut into her with no pressure. She twisted in his grip.
"No, no!"
But he paused as a familiar voice intruded on the scene. "Montparnasse? What are you doing?!"
He panicked, and it was his reflex to finish what he had started. Without hesitation, he brought back the knife, and stabbed it into Marie's side.
She slipped to her knees, though she felt numb and everything around her blurred into a haze. For a moment, she thought he merely punched her, until wetness dripped onto her hand and the world disappeared into blackness.
