A/N: I hope this makes sense. I'm working under the influence of two glasses of wine. And another note, there's a certain scene near the end of this chapter that was originally in the previous chapter, but I deleted it five minutes after publishing, but apparently that was not fast enough and it got read. I moved that particular moment to this chapter instead. Just letting some of you know, to avoid confusion.
Orléans
"The houses of this description are not among the most genteel or agreeable; and in other respects they are not in the highest esteem, because it is so much the object of the proprietors to economise in the cost of what they set before you, that you are not sure of having food of the best quality"
- Caroline Elizabeth Wilde Cushing, on French restaurants (Letters: Descriptive of Public Monuments, Scenery & Manners in France & Spain, Vol. 1, 1829)
"I must compliment you on your lovely hair, Madame LeBlanc," said the man sitting directly across from Éponine. He was a Monsieur Delacroix, a middle-aged barber and wigmaker, traveling with his wife to set up their trade in Orléans. LeBlanc was the alias Joly had chosen for Enjolras, after a long-suffering violin tutor he once had.
"Thank you, Monsieur," Éponine managed a thin smile, pressing herself further back into her seat.
"If you are ever inclined to part with any of it . . ."
Éponine would have given up her hair to the wigmakers long ago, if her father would not have beaten her within an inch of her life for ruining her looks for the sake of one louis d'or.
"Philippe, really! You say the most outrageous things sometimes!" Mme. Delacroix gave her husband a chiding tap with her fan upon the paunch that was barely restrained by his fine blue waistcoat.
"I already have a standing order on any locks she should wish to give up, Monsieur," Enjolras said smoothly, with a deceptively affable smile.
Éponine raised her eyebrows at the charming man who had suddenly taken the place of the melancholy radical.
A titter came from a young woman seated beside Mme. Delacroix. Her name was Eugenia Petrie and across from her, next to Enjolras, her husband Matthew Petrie. They were American newly-weds from Philadelphia on a tour of the south of France for their honeymoon. Mrs. Petrie's French was prettily spoken. Mr. Petrie's was slightly halting, but well enough to be understood. Enjolras cautiously pressed him for information on the workings of the United States government and was impressed by the man's knowledge on the subject.
"You are very well acquainted with the intricacies of your Republic, Monsieur."
"I am a lobbyist for the American Anti-Slavery Society," said Mr. Petrie, lifting his chin slightly higher and fixing Enjolras and the rest of the company with a defensive stare.
"Indeed?" Enjolras' eyebrows rose and a pleased smile graced his handsome face.
Éponine observed Enjolras lean forward in his seat, his blue eyes burning bright with interest. Even in the depths of her sadness and exhaustion, the sight warmed her.
"Oh, dear, he's lost to me now," Mrs. Petrie said to Éponine with a good-natured grin. "Once my husband gets going on a subject that he's particularly passionate about, it's hard to stop him."
Éponine returned the smile shyly. "It's the same with Mons—Mon mari . . ."
Mrs. Petrie continued to kindly draw Éponine out by speaking to her often on various subjects, outside of the fate of humanity. This engaged Mme. Delacroix, who had much to say on new sewing techniques, leaving poor M. Delacroix to fend for himself; He was not equipped for jumping into either pool of conversation. So, left with no other recourse, he fell asleep.
. . . . . .
They paused briefly on the wayside of the road, near Étampes, for nuncheon. Mme. Delacroix had a well-stocked hamper, which she shared liberally amongst everyone. The locals who were harvesting grapes had also paused in their labors to allow the travelers to sample the first fruits of the press.
. . . . . .
The room was very dim, but Enjolras did not need to see it.
Half by memory he passed slowly through the space. He touched the pear-shaped caricature of Louis-Phillipe Feuilly had scrawled on the wall; his fingers found the large "R" carved into one of the tables by Grantaire. He could almost hear the echoes of their conversations. He moved to the map of Paris nailed to the wall and with his finger traced the routes he had marked out himself of the funeral procession of Lamarque. He leaned his forehead on the parchment and felt the coolness of the plaster bleeding through.
"I will return, I swear it! I have not abandoned you!" He whispered to the listening dark.
Enjolras raised a trembling hand to wipe the tears that were suddenly coursing down his face. But, just as he lifted it, he thrust it away, staring with horror as he saw that it was covered in blood. Enjolras then heard a sinister clicking sound that was all too familiar.
His head snapped up and he saw standing before him a lone National Guardsman, his rifle leveled at his heart.
"Vive-" was all Enjolras managed to say before the gun discharged. He saw the flash, and he felt himself thrust against the wall by the force of the bullet piercing his chest.
Enjolras cried out, his eyes flying open. He was met with the sight of a sea of startled faces. Disoriented, he looked about. His gaze found Éponine's face, her dark-rimmed eyes full of worry. She tucked her small hand into the crook of his arm and gave it a squeeze. The world began to right itself.
"I warned you not to eat those hard-boiled eggs, chér, you know how they give you nightmares," she said with a nervous laugh. A slight chuckle spread amongst their companions and the party relaxed.
. . . . . .
They arrived in Orléans around eight o' clock in the evening, just in time for supper.
When they alighted at the diligence office, off of Place de Martroy, they were swamped by a bevy of representatives from the local hotels, each trying to shove cards with the names of their various establishments into the hands of the travelers. Added to this group were the beggars who surrounded them on the way out. Éponine kept a wary eye out and her things close to her. She grasped Enjolras's hand as he began to extend twenty sous to a particular beggar who claimed to have sold all his teeth.
"No," Éponine said sharply. "He's faking. Even though it's dark I can see the boot-black. And the way he talks isn't right." She then nodded her head to another beggar. "Her. Give it to her. She's genuine."
Enjolras complied without question and the charlatans of the group, perceiving they were in the presence of an insider, melted away into the shadows. After distributing what they could to those that were left, they continued on their way.
The Delacroix's left the party, anxious to be settled in their new lodgings. The Petrie's stuck close by Enjolras and Éponine. They made inquiries after a place where they could eat and were directed to the restaurant Maison Bleue on Rue de la Hallebarde.
Éponine gazed at the statue of Joan of Arc as they passed through the Place de Martroy.
The restaurant was a small, well-furnished hall; twelve tables at most. The hostess sat on a little dais before a desk, surrounded by a railing. She called a waiter over to take them to a table.
Supper consisted of potage, salad, capon, asparagus spears and claret. This time Mrs. Petrie led the conversation, regaling them with stories passed down to her by her grandfather who had been in George Washington's army and had even met General Lafayette.
"In fact, we were called on at our lodgings in Paris by General Lafayette himself and had dinner with him at La Grange. And even more delightful, he remembered my grandfather. I think that shall be one of my fondest memories of this trip, Monsieur. His house was filled with memorabilia of his time in America and he recalled it all to us with such fondness, it touched us deeply, did it not, dear?"
Mr. Petrie nodded. "Indeed. And his library . . ."
Enjolras made a groan of envy.
"His library, Monsieur is a handsome circular room full of beautiful books arranged in open book cases consisting of all the most popular French, English and American works, ancient and modern. He showed us a chair cushion worked by Mrs. Washington herself, prints of Quincy, the home of John Adams, a cane that was fashioned from an apple tree which he had breakfasted under with General Washington on the morning of the battle of . . . oh, I forget which . . . He greatly praised us for our efforts in the abolition of slavery, as well. I cannot begin to tell you how much that meant to me, Monsieur!" Mr. Petrie was flush with wine and joy at the memory.
"We had heard and read much of La Grange and the Marquis before coming to France, Monsieur," Mrs. Petrie continued, "but reality far exceeded our expectations. Never did we imagine a scene of more unaffected harmony and domestic love, more unbounded kindness and hospitality, than this noble mansion presented to us. And more over, the nobleness of character found in the General himself. It was in the privacy of domestic life, in the presence of his family that we were to see the truth of all accounts. I believe if there exists a perfect or happy man on earth, it is General Lafayette. In every vicissitude of fortune, through praise and censure, through prosperity and adversity, he has been true to himself, to his conscience and to his country."
Enjolras shifted in his seat. He admired and respected Lafayette very much. He had caught glimpses of him from atop the barricades in 1830, passing by on his white horse, inspecting them, encouraging the men, carrying himself as if he were still a youth of two and thirty, and not a wizened veteran of two and seventy. Enjolras had been among those who had cried "Vive la Fayatte, vive liberté" until he was hoarse. He had waited in tense anticipation under the windows of the Place de Gréve as the committee deliberated. His heart had sunk to his feet when the Duc d'Orléans, Louis-Phillipe stepped out onto the balcony with the tricolor flag in hand, being embraced by Lafayette. The Marquis had been a vocal Republican, and still was. Enjolras did not understand it. How was supporting another monarch being "true to his country"?
"Are you unwell, Monsieur?"
Mr. Petrie's inquiry had startled him out of his recollections. Apparently, he had been scowling.
"I am a little fatigued, Monsieur."
Enjolras glanced at Éponine. The food on her plate was hardly touched, but the wine in her glass was quite depleted. Her eyes were glassy. Enjolras' heart gave a twinge of worry.
"If you would excuse me for a moment," Enjolras said, rising from the table, "I will be back presently . . ."
"Do not take too long, Monsieur, the carriage departs in half an hour."
Éponine spent a few uncomfortable minutes trying to be sociable. But, the restaurant reminded her in many little ways of the inn in Montfermeil. On top of the sadness, she was so tired . . . The doze she had against the wall of the diligence had not been restful, to say the least. Éponine poured herself another glass of claret. She had no famous meetings or interesting family histories to recount—at least, not true or decent ones.
Fortunately Enjolras returned after fifteen minutes and announced that they would be staying the night in Orléans. The Petries were much disappointed by the loss of their company and hoped to run into them again in the future.
. . . . . .
Where the rue Sainte-Catherine met with rue Jeanne d'Arc sat the Hôtel de la Boule d'Or. The façade was of gray stone and the architecture had minimal affects about it, rendering it a little gloomy.
Enjolras insisted on carrying the portmanteaux himself, instead of the porter.
"I thought we were going straight to Limoges . . ." Éponine asked once they had been deposited in their room.
"I thought it best . . ." Enjolras trailed off. Éponine nodded her head.
"Thank you, Monsieur," She murmured. The burden of the day and its happenings rushed in on her and she sank into the wingback chair that had been provided in one corner of the small room. Tears that she could no longer hold back began to spill freely from her eyes. And the fact that she could not stop them made her cry even harder.
Enjolras stepped quietly out of the room, thinking that she needed to be alone. But, as he took a step away from the door her muffled sobs, which seemed to grow louder, rent his heart. When he was sad he preferred to be left alone to work through it himself, but women . . . He knew from being around his sisters that when women were in emotional turmoil, they needed someone to share the burden . . . When Hèléne, the second eldest, had been slighted by a man at a ball she threw herself into the arms of the eldest, Marie, and wept for a solid twenty minutes. That was an uncomfortable evening.
Enjolras hovered in indecision. He wanted to go to her, so much so, it was almost like a physical ache. But, he felt it was imperative to keep his distance. Suddenly, he thought he heard his name and all resolve melted away.
Enjolras opened the door so hastily it swung wide open, banging against the wall. Éponine jumped up in surprise. In two strides he was before her and gathered her into his arms.
Once Éponine got over the shock she began to cry again, but grateful tears were mixed with the grief. She wrapped her arms around his torso, burying her face in his chest. She felt his body flinch then stiffen. Her fingers dug into the back of his coat, holding onto him as if for dear life, as the tide of anguish and exhaustion washed over her. His embrace was strong and warm. He was not marble after all, but clay, and she seemed to mold perfectly against him.
Enjolras buried his face in her hair, breathing in the lavender. He felt strangely out-of-breath. His head was light. His hands tingled as he rubbed soothing circles into the small of her back.
As her sobs quieted Éponine burrowed her head into the soft spot between his left shoulder blade and his chest. She felt Enjolras wince and heard him hiss sharply.
Éponine jumped back.
"Oh, Monsieur! I'm so, so sorry—I forgot—"
"No, it is all right, Madame . . ." Enjolras hastened to reassure her as he massaged the area of the healing bullet wound, which was already exacerbated by his tangle with Montparnasse.
They stood awkwardly for a moment. Éponine wiped her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.
"Thank you, Monsieur," she said avoiding his gaze. She was surprised and glad that he had not run from her emotions.
Enjolras nodded, feeling awkward now, not knowing what to do next.
"I . . . I'll leave you to get ready for bed, Madame. I'll return in twenty-minutes time. Is that sufficient?"
Éponine's color heightened. "If you could send one of the chamber-maids to help me . . ."
Enjolras quickly nodded. "Of course, Madame." And made a hasty retreat. Once the door was closed behind him he leaned heavily against it, breathing deeply. He realized with a dreadful start that he was in a battle and, true to form, he was losing.
A/N #2: The American Anti-Slavery Society was founded in 1833. For the sake of this fic, it's a year earlier. Also the lobby for it wasn't organized until 1842. Ignore that.
Also, the descriptions of the Petrie's visit with Lafayette were pulled from Elizabeth Cushing's visit with Lafayette. On a slightly funny side note, I was reading the passage about their visit and Mrs. Cushing described a print of a scene in Yorktown, which had the figures of Washington, Lincoln and Layatte, among others in it. I was—wait, what?— what's Lincoln doing in there?! Then I looked up those names together with Yorktown and it wasn't that Lincoln, but Benjamin Lincoln, a major general in the Continental Army, who I think is related to Mrs. Cushing's husband . . .
I also got a book from my local bookstore on Lafayette by Brand Whitlock (1929). It came in two volumes and I only found vol. II, but the good news is it covers the the 1830 revolution and onward. Whoohoo! It was fascinating learning the back story to the decisions he made and why he made them.