Until the Earth is Free

Author's Note: The lines of poetry appearing in this chapter in French were not written by me, of course, they were written by poet André Chénier. However, the first poem Cosette reads to Marius is not a real poem, that one I wrote for the story. I am aware the lines of this poem would likely sound awkward in French, but as a fanfiction author, I'm clearly taking liberties. ~Annalie

::

Chapter Fourteen: You and I Must Die

September 5, 1831
271 days left

From the dark shadows of a back alley littered with shards of broken glass and omnifarious items of rotting foodstuff, a stray cat slunk through the streets. She was just as bony as any other street cat, her tabby fur just as matted, but she held herself with a certain dignity atypical of the average stray, her head and long tail so thin it was almost ratlike held high in the air. She padded along the cobblestoned street, invisible to the humans. But the humans were not invisible to her, despite the fact she did not understand any of them. The cat passed the factories, where workers spilled from cramped back doors, their worn faces streaked in sweat and soot as they wiped dirty hands on equally soiled trousers. The factory girls left from the other side in tight-knit little clusters, already chattering and gossiping. She pattered on past them, unnoticed and insignificant as the cobblestones they stepped on. The cat passed through the worst slums, where the smallest of the urchins scuttled forth on their haunches to stroke her matted fur. She yowled, darted away, not knowing of the crushed expressions left on their faces. She was out for herself, and her kits, who were now mewling for food and for their mother in the alleyway where she'd left them. She cared for and thought little of anything and anyone else. Perhaps one day, those kits would have a good life. Occasionally, some of the wealthier humans would find a stray kitten they took fancy to, while it was still young and cute, and bring them to their homes. It was the only hope a stray had. She was too old for anyone to want her, but there still remained hope for her kits, and she awaited that day with patience. The odds were low, but existent. For now, though, she still had to feed them. Her five kits were still so young their eyes had not yet opened fully, and it was up to her to hunt. The cat continued on her journey through the alleys, her nose twitching, insignificant as a shadow.

Cosette sat in her garden, a book of poetry by André Chénier open on her lap. She was not reading it, however, far too preoccupied in her own daydreams. They were such girlish daydreams, she knew, and chided herself for it. Childish fantasies of love and ballroom dancing. She imagined herself in a large dancing hall with Marius. He held her close, and she pressed her body against his as his hands ran gently through her locks of hair, which fell against her slim shoulders in gentle curls, like fresh-spun golden silk. She raised her head slightly and he bent his. Their lips brushed against each other's in the briefest whisper of kisses, sending a tingling sensation through her body. Then they parted, falling back into the comfortable pattern of the waltz.

Cosette woke from her reverie with a shake of her head. She oughtn't be thinking such things. It was silly. The dreams of a schoolgirl. And thinking it was silly was also silly, because in truth, they had kissed more times than she could count. Even so, she could not help but allow a smile to bless her lips. Behind her, the door opened and she saw her Papa coming out from the building. He must be going to the bakery now, as he'd told her he would earlier. Cosette, feeling as if she'd been caught doing something dreadful, instantly blushed and pretended to go on reading. The blush and stubborn smile that refused to go away did not fail to catch Papa's attention, and he paused. "Are you quite all right, Pet?"

She nodded. "Yes, Papa. It's just, the poem I am reading is so very lovely. It's distracted me. I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Why, you needn't apologize. There is nothing to be sorry for. Now, I'll be off to the bakery now, as I said. Are you quite certain you don't wish to join me?"

Cosette nodded again. "Yes, Papa. Only if it is all right with you, of course."

"It is. I might be a while, though: I was intending to exchange words with the priest on my way back. I've business to discuss with him."

"I know, Papa. Really though, I shall be fine here with Chénier to keep me company."

"Very well, love. I promise I shall be back by 9:30 at the latest, then. Is that all right with you, my Pet?" When she smiled and nodded, Papa went on walking. He opened the gate, stepped through, locked it behind him. Cosette watched him go and fingered her key, which hung on a thin metal chain around her neck and was tucked into the collar of her dress. Marius was to be here soon. Sighing, she turned to her poetry book again.

::

Two hours earlier, Marius had been sitting on his bed in the Gorbeau House, trying to ignore the way the old mattress creaked every time he shifted in the slightest way. He, too, was trying to read his book — a work of Miss Jane Austen's translated into French, per Cosette's fervent recommendation. But the thought of his visit to see her again tonight, which the two had planned three nights ago, when last they'd met, distracted him. Every few minutes, he would produce his pocket watch and stare at it before stuffing it back into his pocket. Before long, he felt the urge to see it again and yet again pulled it out. Five thirty. Five thirty-four. Five thirty-seven. Five forty. Five forty-one. Oh, heavens, why was it still five forty-one? Could time go by any slower? He was meant to meet her at seven thirty.

Marius went on trying to read, but the light outside was going and he found himself squinting in the faint flicker emitted by his two candles. It had been a long time since he'd sold his oil-lamp, and now he regretted the decision.

His stomach growled, and he realized he had not eaten all day. Yesterday, he'd purchased some bread and cheese, an apple. But he had never gotten round to eating them. From his satchel, he pulled them out, along with a small pocket knife to cut the fruit. It was slightly bruised, and the bread had gone tough, but both were still perfectly edible.

The door creaked open slightly, and there in the frame the light illuminated the thin form of Éponine. She was watching him and the food with mournful brown eyes, and instantly Marius stood, approached the door, and pulled it open wider. "Éponine," he said, smiling, "Why, what a pleasant surprise. Do come in. Have something to eat. You must be hungry." He stepped aside as she entered and hurriedly pulled out the desk chair for her while he himself sank back onto the bed. Éponine ignored his gesture and took a seat next to him on the bed. Marius assumed she'd rather sit there and shifted to the chair himself, which caused Éponine to give him a funny look, but it flickered over her face as briefly as the dancing flame of the weak candlelight. So he only smiled at her. "There is bread, cheese, and apple. The bread is a bit hard, and the apple bruised, but … "

She was smiling at him again. "I should hardly mind. I'm grateful." She waited as he tore the bread into two halves, sliced the cheese, the apple. Then she took it in one hand and wolfed it all down in just a few bites, oblivious or uncaring to the apple juice dribbling down her chin. Marius watched her, blinking, then offered her his handkerchief, which she took and absently used to wipe at her chin before placing it back on the table. Marius finished his bread with cheese and his half of the apple more slowly, while she watched him. An awkward blanket of silence fell between them.

"I've not seen you in a few days," Marius remarked.

Éponine shrugged. "Nor have I you. I've missed you, you know, m'sieur." She fiddled with her omnipresent green plaid shawl. "And how is my brother? I trust you've seen him since, at those meetings of yours at the Musain."

"He's well," Marius said, nodding, glad for a distraction from the previous awkward situation. "He's a clever boy. He knows how to take care of himself. Forgive me for saying so, but I do believe that the life he has on the streets is better than the one he could have had with your family."

Éponine nodded. "Forgive you? But why, when there is nothing to forgive? I believe in that fully." Her gaze skirted across the drab room. "When my mother told him she no longer wanted to care for him and he ran off, I remember him telling me he was glad of it. And when we ran into each other a year later on the streets, I cannot tell you how happy I was for him. In that year, 'Zelma and I constantly worried for him, feared he'd died of hunger or of the cold. That winter was a harsh one."

"Oh, I remember that winter. It was the same winter we met and I befriended you."

A timid smile passed briefly over her lips. "I remember it fully and fondly. I do believe my life became slightly better that day. You were kind to me, and I was so very taken by you, a wealthy — and quite handsome, too, I might add — young student living in the slums."

Marius laughed, then his fingers found his pocket watch again. His fingers brushed the cool metal as he pulled it out and examined it. He knew it was rude of him, but how much time had passed since he'd last checked. One glance confirmed it — precisely 26 minutes. And the walk from here to Rue Plumet was a long one. Quickly he stood, and Éponine stared up at him.

"Forgive me," Marius had told her, reaching for his vest. "But I must go. I've a meeting to attend, and I mustn't be late."

Éponine stood as well. "A meeting, you say? With your friends?"

"No," Marius shook his head. "That shall be tomorrow."

She stepped back. "Oh," she said. Her voice went cold, though why, Marius could not fathom. "You're to see her, are you not?"

Marius hated it when Éponine got this way, hated it when she suddenly grew cold and distant with him. It always happened in a heartbeat: at one moment she was friendly and laughing, the next she got like this. Her behavior always upset him, because he felt as though he should feel guilty for something. He felt as though she was angry with him for some reason. But if he asked her whatever was the matter, she would always avert her eyes and tell him not to fret, that it was nothing. And then she'd leave. Right now, he didn't know what to do, so he only nodded and told her, "I'm to see Cosette, if that's what you mean."

"It's certainly what I mean," she muttered. He bid her farewell and hurried from the room, eager to get to Cosette and away from the situation.

Éponine had stayed behind and watched him go. She waited for a long time before slowly drawing her knees up to her chest, burying her face there, and sobbed silently. The tears made the dirt on her face run and they fell in dirty blotches onto her skirt.

::

At seven-thirty, Cosette got to her feet and saw Marius strolling down the road, his satchel bouncing against his legs as he walked and his cockade pin bright and proud against the lapel of his brown vest. She smiled and raced across the garden, freeing her spare key and opening the gates for him just as he arrived. He didn't wait to step through before he kissed her. His arm wrapped around her waist and he lifted her up in the air as their lips met, causing her to squeal in surprised delight and ruin it all.

"That dress suits you well," Marius said when at last she'd shut and locked the gates, and led him to the stone bench where they now sat. Or perhaps more accurately: he sat on the bench, she in his lap, her head against his shoulders. She wasn't perched on his knee as he used to do on Papa's lap as a child. Marius pressed her against his body just so, as a lover might. It was just like in her daydreams. That was what Cosette loved about Marius: he seemed to her a prince stepped from the pages of the fairy stories she read as a little girl. He was handsome and chivalrous and romantic, but most importantly of all, he loved her deeply and treated her like an equal. Many rich gentlemen often did not treat their wives and lovers as equals, but as property, and Cosette knew that. She'd seen it happen before. Her Marius wasn't like that.

Now, she blushed and smiled softly, her fingers finding the fabric of her dress. It wasn't new, but it was one of her favorites. It was a shade just off white and the hem was patterned in a print of roses. She didn't wear it often because she always worried about dirtying it. But today, she'd wanted to show it to him. "That pin of yours suits you well," she returned. "I've always admired it. It's struck me as a mark of pride and strength."

"It's a mark of the little … er, club I am a member of. With my friends. I've told you about it."

Cosette smiled. "Is it? Oh. Well, as I've said. It suits you." She paused, then a thought occurred to her and she smiled even more broadly. "I say. Are you familiar with the poetry of André Chénier?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Why, a terrible pity," Cosette shook her head. "But not something we cannot remedy." She opened the book and began to read to him from the poem which opened the book. It was not that of Chénier, but by an anonymous poet. She told him so, and he nodded, responding by telling her he'd gladly listen to her read anything, Chénier or not, if only to hear her voice. This caused her to giggle again and swat playfully at his arm. She cleared her throat, and began to read: "In time shall come a time when we discover it has all been a lie / In time shall come a time we all must part this plane / When our lives fade whether in weary old bodies or torn from us brutally in screams and blood / In time shall come a time when you and I must die. In time shall come a time when the weary gods shall give us up / In time shall come a time when – " She stopped reading and studied Marius' face, and frowned. "Oh! You don't like it."

"It's morbid. That's all," Marius shook his head. "I'd rather not continue. Read another poem."

"It's honest," Cosette protested.

"I only see how very morbid and miserable it is. Forgive me for saying so."

"The truth often is," she answered, but went on, "But I can see you shall merely be stubborn about it all and there shan't be any changing your mind. Here. Why do I not read to you from Chénier, as we agreed before?"

"That sounds lovely."

She read him her favorite Chénier poem, Comme un Dernier Rayon. "Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier zephyr / Animent la fin d'un beau jour / Au pied de l'échafaud j'essaye encor ma lyre."

And they lost themselves to the world of Chénier, of the words, and of each other.

::

September 6, 1831
270 days left

Morning came like a taunt to Éponine the next day. She'd cried herself to sleep in Marius' bed last night, and now she discovered he'd returned and hadn't kicked her out. Instead, he had tucked a blanket over her before settling down to sleep in his chair. His chair was where he sat now, a thin sheet which he'd wrapped around his body fallen in white folds on the floor like sea foam and his head lolling in time with his slight snores. His little act of kindness stung. Éponine kicked off the blanket and slipped out of Marius' room in silence.

In the apartment, her father was sitting at the rickety table with an omnipresent bottle of beer clutched in his fist. He was also fully conscious, and his head snapped up to look at her when she stepped into the ramshackle apartment, brushing aside the burnt pipe that lay discarded on the dirty floor with one toe. The grip of his fist around the bottle tightened until his knuckles went white and she feared he might shatter the glass. Damn, she thought to herself, free to curse in her own mind. When he spoke to her, his words were slurred and his tongue thick. "Where the 'ell 'ave you been, eh, you bloody stupid brat?"

Éponine closed the door behind her and pressed herself against it. "Ye gods! Must I always tell you?"

"You're my daughter! You'll do as I say!" he thundered, and threw the bottle at her. She ducked instantly, and it shattered against the door where her head had been. She was splashed in the face by the remaining liquid, and she sputtered.

"I do what I wish," she said, trying to remain calm. "And you of all people should know that, I should think." She walked past him and into the little room she shared with Azelma. From behind the door, she could hear her younger sister snoring softly. Good. She was asleep. Heavens knew she needed it.

"My, you're a troublesome brat," he leered at her. "A burden. And after all I've done for you, all the sacrifices I've made, all the … the … " He trailed off, perhaps too drunk to find the words. Éponine ignored him, and spat on the ground before stepping through the door.

::

Jean Prouvaire and Grantaire were meeting at a local café — not the Musain, but a larger, better-lit place closer to Jehan's home — for a coffee and biscuits in the mid-morning. Or, more accurately, Jean Prouvaire was having a coffee and biscuits. Grantaire was ordering wine.

"Merciful heavens! So very early? Do forgive me for saying so, but at ten in the morning, monsieur?" the waiter asked. "Surely monsieur would want his wine with his dinner, in the evening?"

Grantaire looked up at the portly young man standing over their table. "I am a drunk," said Grantaire emphatically. "And I shall have wine at ten in the morning if I wish."

"Very well, monsieur," said the waiter, and left, though in his voice there was still a trace of doubt.

"Heavens, Grantaire, my friend," Jehan clucked. "You are a drunkard."

"Ah, yes, but you already knew that," replied Grantaire, causing Jehan to laugh and shake his head. Afterwards, the friends said nothing until their drinks and small assortment of biscuits arrived. The biscuits came on a small china dish with a doily.

"I do hope you won't be drinking terribly much at tonight's meeting," remarked Jean Prouvaire in a suddenly hushed tone.

"I wouldn't count on it," was Grantaire's blunt answer, and he laughed.

Almost an hour later, when the drinks and biscuits had been paid for, the two friends began to walk down the street together. They talked not of their revolution, for they daren't discuss such matters on the streets in public, especially when not a few paces away was a police inspector on duty, standing rigid as a wooden pole. The pair talked of the banal things passersby would expect to hear from the mouths of two young students in their twenties. This was talk of women, and of papers due for their law course.

On their casual stroll in the morning, which was slightly cool for September, Jehan spied a crow. It cawed loudly to make itself known and perched itself on a nearby lamp-post, ruffling its omen-black feathers. Silly as it seemed for saying so, the young poet could not help but feel that the crow's eyes were following him, boring into him, and he suddenly remembered the bothersome crow he'd seen that day while writing in the cemetery.

"My word," Jehan muttered. "I don't believe it! Another crow. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same crow."

Grantaire laughed. "Don't tell me you believe a crow is following you now, Jehan? It's but a crow. A perfectly ordinary, everyday crow."

"No, no. When I was writing in the cemetery, there was a crow as well. But that was almost a month ago. Why is it I still remember?"

"Perhaps you shall break it from a spell, discover it is truthfully the long missing princess of a faraway kingdom, and marry it. We ought to give her a name. Simone? Marie? Gilbertte? Yes, she strikes me as a Gilbertte. It comes across in her beak."

Jehan laughed. Grantaire was right: he was being silly. Childish. It had been a month since he'd seen the crow in the cemetery, and there was no way this could be the same crow. There were countless crows in Paris. He and Grantaire continued on, oblivious to the way the crow — whose name was now Gilbertte, apparently — took off from her perch on the lamp-post and flew along near the rooftops, following Jean Prouvaire.

Watching.

Waiting.