This is a light, cheerful chapter, since I feel that after such long chapters of tears and drama, I needed some cheering up. Sorry that it's so short though. Thanks for your lovely reviews and hope you enjoy!
Chapter Twenty-Five
Things, of course, did not settle back to normal instantly.
Having eight people in one little house that may well be called a cottage with two floors is not easy business—there were only four bedrooms, and so the arrangement was like so: Enjolras and Combeferre, Etienne and Grantaire, Eponine and Margot, and lastly, Etienne's mother in her own. What of little Gavroche? He tried living in Enjolras' room (which was the spare room) for two nights, but walls and doors cannot hold the stubborn child who has spent his entire life as a nomad; the result was this: he left. Oh, of course he visited many times and joined them for breakfast, but only visits, and then off he went again!
Eponine and Margot got on marvelously, as did Etienne and Grantaire—while the sober drunkard spent these days rethinking his life and reminiscing quietly, Etienne was a fantastic chatterbox, so you see, the two were perfect for each other!
What really upset the balance of the household were Combeferre and his roommate. This was quite unusual, since during the days in the Café Musain, the two also got on perfectly fine. But now there would be times when Enjolras, blind eyes darting furiously around and hair in disarray, would crash into a very cheerful breakfast and demand irritably: "Combeferre! Where's my comb?"
"Why, I didn't get your comb," would be the calm reply.
Enjolras would retort: "Of course you did! Who else would? You took it!"
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did!"
And this would keep going until every breakfaster suddenly didn't feel very hungry anymore. There were other instances, such as Enjolras complaining that Combeferre snored like a volcano, which led to a nasty argument that went on for hours; or that incident in which Combeferre, who was trying to avenge himself for a recent argument that he had lost, accused Enjolras of writing poems about Eponine. Of course, there was no evidence.
"He burned them!" was Combeferre's unhesitant reply when Etienne, who was acting as judge, asked for proof.
"No, I didn't!" said Enjolras, his cheeks red, either from anger or embarrassment, but no one could tell which one it was. "Because… because there was nothing to burn!"
"You're blushing! Guilty I say!" cried Combeferre. And at that precise moment, Eponine entered the courtroom.
"Guilty of what?" said she innocently.
"Eponine! Just in time! He," declared Combeferre, thrusting his finger towards Enjolras, "wrote po—"
"Aah! Ah, he means nothing at all!" interrupted Enjolras, attempting to laugh. "Ha, ha! We were just playing a game, weren't we, Combeferre? We just finished, so—"
"He wrote ballads about you! I saw them with my own eyes!" screamed Combeferre.
And this led to much denial, blushing, fighting, and, of course, chaos.
Finally, one particular morning during another heated argument between the two, troublesome roommates, Eponine decided to take a stand.
"Enough!" she snapped. "I've had enough!"
The voices hushed instantly as the two young men fixed their eyes on the girl.
"You," she continued, "have been acting like silly children the past few days, while Etienne and Grantaire have been perfect angels! Look! Even Gavroche is acting older than his years! And here you are, being… being…" She lifted her hands in exasperation.
"Babies given to idiocy," someone muttered. Etienne thought it was Margot.
Combeferre bit his lip; Enjolras' forehead was as red as a cherry. "We are really, terribly sorry, Eponine," began Combeferre. He jabbed Enjolras with his elbow:
"Hmm? Oh! Yes, I… I apologize," muttered Enjolras.
"We won't do it again," said Combeferre, and, surprisingly, they never did.
...
And then there was another troublesome matter, and this, not surprisingly, had to do with Enjolras. After his very humble actions in the Café Musain, while he was mourning for his friends and his blindness and apologizing to Eponine, he realized that he was being humble—and this is never a good thing to do, for once a person cries out: "By Jove! I'm being humble!" then of course, he isn't being humble at all.
Pride is a difficult thing to get rid of, and Enjolras was just full of it. This only made things more complicated now that Enjolras was blind, for his pride made him refuse to accept help, which was kindly offered. Walking down the stairs, finding his way to the kitchen, finding certain objects that seemed to disappear—all of these were done alone and without assistance, by Enjolras' own doing.
One day Eponine passed Enjolras' door and saw Enjolras feeling around vainly for his quill. He had taken to writing for hours, even though his journal was a mess of blots and scribbles.
"Oh, let me get it for you, Monsieur," began Eponine.
"No, no, that is unnecessary, I assure you," replied Enjolras quickly. "I can find it myself."
And then his cheeks became very red as minutes passed and he still hadn't found it. "Where is that rotten quill!" he muttered irritably.
"Here," said Eponine, smiling slightly and holding out the treacherous thing, which she handed to him with a stifled laugh.
He heard it and turned even more red. "Thank you," said he stiffly, sitting down and searching now for his ink stand. He found it—after spilling it clumsily over his papers.
"Enjolras!" said Eponine, suppressing another laugh that threatened to erupt, "Here! Let me write for you!"
In the end, Eponine succeeded in crushing Enjolras' pride with her patience, although of course, Eponine had her own hot temper, and whenever Enjolras' arrogance lasted longer than usual, she would burst as well. But the two got on wonderfully afterwards, and Eponine became his eyes. Enjolras had learned a new lesson, and that was true humility in little trifles.