a/n: Alas! I have posted this. I suppose that if 'Beelzebub's Heart and Lilith's Soul' was the opener, this is the main act. If you haven't read the other, I'm not saying you have to, but…
I want to give a massive thanks to Mel (whatupoprah), my beta, for being so hella awesome. This would have been a graveyard of typos and been a bit (lot) more confusing without her.
Also, and I say this not for just this chapter, but for the whole story: I'm pulling from multiple canons and timelines, so there are aspects of pretty much every version of Les Miserables in here.
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo?
Chapter 1. Flight
Oh, what a sweet happiness! What absolute bliss! She could still feel the place where his lips had pressed against her forehead and in that moment, Éponine was glad. Perhaps she had died loved after all. The notion had seemed more and more of a fantasy with every passing day, but the lingering warmth on her forehead told her that at least one of her childish fantasies had had the kindness to turn to truth. Perhaps the God of her childhood had taken mercy on her. Perhaps she would open her eyes and find that she had somehow found the path to salvation. Perhaps she was with that God, who she was sure had abandoned her so long ago. And, in that moment, she felt only the warmth of that final kiss. In that moment, her pain was gone and she was happy with her death.
Arms, big and strong, slipped under her and she heard the sound of men talking, laughing, cheering. She could hear Maman yelling for her to come away from the men and to go and fetch Azelma. I will open my eyes, Éponine thought, and I will be home again.
Home. It had been so many years since she had a true home. But she could hear it, she could smell it. She would open her eyes and find herself the pampered beauty of that old inn in Montfermeil. Yes, yes this would be true. If God was good, she'd returned to the life she once had, back when life had any meaning at all. She had no doubt that she could once more learn to deal with a spoiled life. She would love it this time, she would appreciate it and understand its beauty. She would be so happy and, oh, how jealous Azelma would be if she could see her now.
But the arms slipped out from under her and the sounds of her childhood faded. It is no matter, she thought, I am at peace. And there was silence.
Minutes, hours, or perhaps several lifetimes later, her peace, however, was shattered by a report outside. She was waking, but this was not her childhood. Never in her pampered youth had she beheld such pain and such misery. Her body seemed to burn as it had never burnt before. Perhaps I am as damned as I once thought. And yet she knew that, even in the darkest depths of Hell, there would be no pain as excruciating as that which suddenly raced through her body. She wanted desperately to scream, but the effort of parting her lips only added more pain. She was lost in darkness, alone. Unloved. And then the darkness left as her eyes sprung open and she found herself in that tiny cafe where her Marius spent so much of his time.
But she was dead. Her Marius had held her, bleeding in his arms, and he had kissed her so softly upon her head. She had finally escaped her pitiful existence and what sort of God would send her back? The pain of her realisation nearly matched that of the burning of her belly, as though she had been torn to shreds from the inside out.
With all her strength, she opened her mouth to call someone, anyone who could help, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a rasp too soft for anyone to hear among the guns that rang outside her Marius's cafe. I am alone, she thought. Perhaps this is my very own Hell. From her left, she heard a soft shuffle and somehow managed to turn her head. A man stood in the cafe, staring at her, his white hair and knowing eyes telling her at once that that he was not just another of her Marius's friends.
I know your face, she thought, and almost wished that she was indeed alone. She tried to speak, but could not. The man only looked at her. And you know mine. Fear flooded her veins. He knew her and she knew he would loathe her. How could he not? And, for the foolishness of her child self and the selfishness of her parents, he would surely let her die.
But then his hand was on her cheek and his hush voice begged her not to move. She felt true hope, truer than she had ever felt it before. Perhaps this man could help her.
"Monsieur Joly!" he called, removing his hand and going to the door to shout once more.
Don't leave. She could feel the tears coming to her eyes. Aren't you the man who goes and saves the wretched?
But he returned to her with a young man by his side. She wanted to ask for her Marius – she did not know anything of this man – only that he sometimes walked with her Marius. The two men began to speak to her, but their voices were lost in the cacophony of destruction. She did not fight as the men removed her shirt, it had fallen open long before and, wherever she was going, she had no need to hide. She did not fight until the old man pried open her lips and pushed a folded cloth between her teeth. Had she the strength, she would have bitten him. But he stroked her arm with a large hand and the younger man poured something over her belly.
She was glad for the cloth then.
The old man propped her up and held her close as the young man wrapped an almost clean linen around her. The world around her spun and she desperately wanted to tell them that their efforts were futile. She would die in this Hell before going on to the next. Silence had fallen beyond the walls of the cafe. Or at least the guns had stopped. Voices still flooded the air around her, but one could not be distinguished from the next. Éponine was drowning in a sea of murmurs and could find no escape. And then a voice reached her. Clear and sweet and young and innocent and as melodic as it always was. She reached out her hand to pull the singer close to her. He was so close. He was in her reach. But, as one, the two men reached for her arm and pushed it back beside her.
A second voice broke through the chaos. But there was no melody to this one. Only terror. The men beside her looked towards the door. There was the sound of the other men moving rapidly and the second voice called out once more, calling that name that was forever in her bleeding, failing heart. There were whispers from either side of her. The young man tied off her bandages and ran to see what was happening outdoors and the old man lifted her in his arms.
"Mademoiselle!"
Outside her brother continued to sing.
"Mademoiselle Jondrette! Mademoiselle Thenardier!" These sounds meant nothing.
A shot rang out and men's voices shouted, but the boy's melody still swam the street.
"You must stay here. You must not move!"
She needed to go to him. The child needed her.
"Stay hidden, child, and you may be saved."
She turned up to face him. Save my brother, she wanted to say. But he grabbed her chin and locked eyes with her.
"You will not move. I will come for you when it is over. Have no fear, poor child." And then Monsieur Fauchelevent was gone and Éponine was alone in a corner, a shelf blocking her from the door.
A second shot sang and someone screamed her brother's name. She had never before realised how horrible the name could sound to her ears. There was a moment of silence. No more screaming. No more gunfire. No more singing.
But, as they always did, the voices returned to the men. They were louder than they had been before. And angrier. So very, very angry. And the guns began to shoot once more.
She hugged herself tightly in that corner. Guns didn't scare her. She remembered the way the gun had felt in her hand when Montparnasse had dragged her fingers across it. "It is the man who does the killing," he had told her, kissing her shoulder until her trembling ceased. "The gun is no more than a method." She had flopped down on his bed in response and, foolishly, asked if he was that man. A darkness had clouded him then and he had taken her by the wrist and told her to leave. She tried to picture his face, but the sounds of men dying, men losing their bravery, now flooded her head. But would all these men be dying, 'Parnasse, if the guns were not tearing them apart? It is not a man inside me, killing me cruelly. Only a bullet.
The door to the cafe burst open and, for a moment, she shut her eyes. Men are more frightening than any gun, their favourite weapon always upon them. Montparnasse had told her that as well when he had found her wandering the streets not so many months ago. But she opened her eyes and saw men with almost familiar faces came through the cafe. Not a single eye fell upon her as they raced upstairs. But where is my Marius? She wanted to scream. Have you let them kill my love? The door burst open once more as soldiers filed into the cafe. She wanted to reach out and kill them, kill them all for killing her beloved.
But you are as guilty, another voice whispered in her head. You led him here. You have killed him as much as he who held the gun. It took all her strength not to scream as she watched the soldiers turn their guns to the ceiling and heard the bodies fall above them. She was wrong, so very, very wrong. A gun was very terrifying indeed, especially in the hands of a man.
Silence fell and, even with all the soldiers in the room, the girl was alone. And then the floorboards creaked. A weight shifted above the soldiers and she watched as they swiftly disappeared up the stairs. She waited for the guns to sound again, but before they could, another sound emerged - that of heavy, uneven footsteps upon a wooden floor. She watched a lone young man walk upstairs. She even knew this one's face. He was the drunkard, her Marius had told her that.
Stop, you fool! Run, run away. Take me and run away.
But, in truth, she was silent and the drunkard disappeared after the soldiers. And once more then guns sang their song. She sat there, trembling, clutching her burning body and praying that the soldiers would find her on their way out. They had killed her love and all those he cared for, why not her as well? But after a time, the soldiers came back down the stairs and walked out the door. Away in the distance, a bird began singing, as if to make up for the end of the guns' song. She closed her eyes and prayed for wings. Make me a bird and let me fly from this pain.
But the girl's back was only skin and bones, nothing that would enable her to fly. She bit her lip hard to stop the cry from leaving her mouth. A drop of blood ran down her chin, but it was nothing to her. Her body was already caked in its own blood. What was another drop?
There was nothing but silence in the cafe. Old Fauchelevent was not coming for her. I'm no less pathetic, no less pitiful than your lark. It was not fair that he would not save her, too. Hot tears poured down her cheeks and landed on her chest, mixing with the blood congealing there. Her life was leaking out of her and there was no one there to hear. And so Éponine resolved to save herself.
She did not remember standing and, clutching her side, could not recall why she was standing at the foot of the stairs. It was not, she knew, a way out. She needed to leave now, before the soldiers returned. But she didn't. Her mind could not work so hard just now, it was too busy with the pain. So, without the help of her mind, she pulled herself up the stairs. When she reached the top, she took in a deep breath.
Three men were lying in the middle of the floor. A fourth man, the drunkard, had fallen against the wall beside the window. His eyes were big and brown and looking ahead as though the Virgin herself stood before him. But there was nothing but an empty room. It was the fifth man, however, who called to her. The corpse hung out the window, his feet on the floor and his head out in the rising sun. She walked towards him, stepping lightly over the bodies on the floor. Her insides tightened painfully as she saw the man who had only just wrapped her wound in clean linen lying there under her foot. But still she kept walking. She knew the face of the man in the window. She had often heard her Marius talking with his friends about their leader. "He is not even a man. Where we have flesh, he has marble. I don't even think he bleeds."
But, oh, how his blood soaked through his shirt! Inexplicably, she reached out to run her hand across his face. It looked like true flesh. It was even still warm to her touch. She ran her finger first along his jaw and then his forehead. It was then she felt the flutter of his eyelash against her wrist. She withdrew her hand, but he grasped her other wrist. A weak grasp, as weak as any she had ever felt, but still the life in him grabbed her. She sucked in her breath, momentarily forgetting the pain still pulling apart her insides. And then she was pulling him in through the window and propping him against her.
"I will help you, monsieur, I am stronger than I look," but the half corpse made no reply. Carefully, she dragged him to the top of the stairs. The soldiers would be back soon and she needed to be gone. But a debt was a debt. Her Marius had been there because of her. He had fought because of her and he had died because of her. She robbed him of a life and gave God a soul that he had not expected. You owe me. She had been unable to save her Marius, but this statue - he, she could save.
She wrapped her arms around his middle and pulled with all her might. Tears were once more streaming freely down her face by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Pulling him down was worse and more than once did she almost fall, but she succeeded. As quickly as she could, Éponine pulled him from the cafe and into the shadows, willing him not to die. In the safety the shadows provided her, she breathed. A dark mark was growing on her bandages and once more her head was beginning to spin. And, only now in the outside air, did she remember her shirt, abandoned in the cafe. Only her bandages covered her now. Her eyes welled up again, but this time in shame as she stripped the man of his jacket and wrapped it around herself.
Biting down on her lip, she pulled up the man, slipping her own arm around his waist and placing his arm over her own shoulders. His head fell limply upon her shoulder.
"You will not die on me, monsieur."
The man's eyes fluttered open and she gasped as he stared at her with pain and confusion.
"You will not die," she repeated.
He seemed to nod, and then his eyes shut once more. Silently, Éponine and the statue man went through Paris. Tears ran down her face and the stain across her chest and belly grew, but still she made no sound. They were safe as long as they were silent as the shadows. But even the shadows, which had once provided her with safety, could only protect her so long. Pain coursed through her body as her head spun and the man grew heavier and heavier until Éponine could bear it no more.
She sank down against a wall, the body falling beside her, and let herself cry. She had to stifle a scream as she drew her knees to her chest.
"Please let me die," she whispered. She stroked the cheek of the dying boy beside her. "If there was a God, monsieur, I think we would both be very dead."
"That's quite the negative outlook on things, sweet 'Ponine."
Éponine looked up, but the voice came from the shadows. It was no matter - she would know that voice anywhere. Anyway, Montparnasse was the only one to ever call her sweet. No one else would submit themselves to such a lie.
Quickly, Éponine wiped her tears away and stared at the spot from which the voice came.
"What?" she snapped. "Have you come to mock me while I die?"
The gangly figure stepped out of the shadow and squatted before her. "Do you really think me so cruel?"
She spat at him, but he paid it no mind.
"Come, 'Ponine. Leave this corpse to rot with the others. Let me take you home." He reached forward, placing his thumb lightly on the bandage. Éponine winced. "We can fix this."
Éponine shook her head and pressed her injured hand to the dying man's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his blood mix with her own. "I can't, I have to save him." She willed the tears to stay in her eyes. "Please, please let me save him."
The kind assassin - if an assassin could be kind - stood up, looking down at the girl. "Saving people isn't exactly my strongest suit."
"And me?"
"It's a fine pair of trousers he has. And I'm sure that's his jacket."
"Montparnasse!" She was too tired now to be ashamed of the desperation in her voice.
"He's another one of your pretty little bourgeois boys, sweet 'Ponine. You'd be wise to forget him." When he looked down at her, his eyes were almost soft, holding something akin to pity.
"Fine! I don't need you," she told him indignantly. "I can save him on my own!"
Montparnasse sucked in his bottom lip, contemplating the girl. With a sad smile, he tipped his hat and turned away.
Éponine choked out a sob. She would not be left out here alone. In the past, she may have sat there and watch him retreat, but today he would not abandon her.
"Montparnasse!" He wheeled around immediately, his cheeks red with fury.
"Quiet, idiot child!" he hissed, bending down over her. "Do you want the cops to come to you? Do you want to see another soldier?"
Éponine shook her head and, carefully, brought her good hand to his cheek. They had been such good friends once, her and Montparnasse. Sometimes they still were. And sometimes, they forgot.
"'Parnasse," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "'Parnasse, please, if any of the affection you ever claimed to have for me was real, please, 'Parnasse, help me save him."
He looked back at her, eyes wide and vulnerable. Why, he's no more than a boy, Éponine thought. And, for as cold of a heart as Montparnasse wanted people to think he had, it was a boy's heart nonetheless, and this boy's heart took pity on the girl who had been his first everything. Without a word, he pulled Éponine off the ground. Then, after making sure she was steady, he pulled up the almost-corpse as well. With the man supported between the boy and the girl, the three continued through the shadows, Montparnasse leading the way. By the time they stopped, Éponine's world had grown blurry.
"Where are we?"
Montparnasse stepped away and the man between them fell to the ground. Éponine would have collapsed as well had Montparnasse not grabbed her firmly around the waist. He took one hand and brought it to cradle her face. It had been so long since he had caressed her with such care. She let her eyes shut as he held her there.
"Éponine! Éponine, look at me! Listen to me!"
With all her strength, she obeyed.
"You will not speak of this, sweet 'Ponine. Nor will I. You disappeared, thrown into a ditch or the Seine with the others." Softly, he kissed her cheek. "Be smart, Éponine. Be brave. And don't die. I will know." He turned and banged heavily on the door. She hadn't even noticed it before.
"'Parnasse," she said faintly, but he was gone.
After a moment, the door opened and a tall, old man stood inside. His eyes shifted from the shivering, bleeding girl standing before him to the man dying at her feet. They moved quickly back to the girl, full of concern. Éponine looked at the old man, standing there in his robes.
Why, he's a priest. 'Parnasse has brought me to a church.
She smiled as the priest grew fainter. She only saw his arms shoot out to her as the ground came rushing up.
e/e/e/e/e/e
My beloved Mère -
I hope this letter reaches you in time. I wouldn't want you to think I had forgotten your birthday. What sort of daughter would that make me? I know that I have not written as often as I should. After a long day, my fingers are often too sore from that silly needle and can barely hold the pen. And there have been so many distractions, Mère! I know Papà warned me of all the distractions I would find in Paris, but I was never expecting it like this. I think Grand-mère thought that getting me a job with a seamstress would help keep me behaved. How could you have deceived her so, Mère?
I doubt Papà would like very much to hear this, but Paris is a city of men, Mère. There is a cafe not far from where I work and that is where many of these young students congregate. They have such ideas, Mère, I think they would shock even you! But I fear that if I tell you too much, you'll whisk me back home or worse - you'll send me to Nonna. And I don't think I could stand another summer in Italy.
I hope all is well with you and Grand-mère says to wish you to happiest of birthdays. I send you all of my love and affection.
Your most grateful, loving, and obedient daughter,
Musichetta
PS. My friends, Messieurs Joly and Lesgle, send you their fondest greetings for your birthday.
The letter had been sitting on her bedside table for days now. Since before General Lamarque died. Lesgle had asked her about it the night before last, when he and Joly had snuck into the large apartment after her grandmother had fallen asleep.
"Weren't you writing this days ago?" Lesgle had asked, wrapping his arms around her waist.
She had stifled a giggle as he kissed her neck. "I've been distracted."
"The revolution?"
"Your revolution."
Both her boys had laughed softly at that. Then the three had stood in silence, until Joly muttered an excited "Oh!"
"Oh?" Musichetta had repeated.
Joly had picked a pen off the counter and stood over her letter. "Aren't we supposed to love who you love?" And he had placed the pen to the paper.
"Vincent!" she had hissed, breaking free from Lesgle. But Joly had already put down the pen, grinning at his post-script.
A tear dripped down her cheek at the memory and she quickly brushed it away. To think, that had only been two nights ago! She had woken up the next morning as her boys silently slipped from her bed before the old lady could awake.
"We'll be back," they had told her. "When all the fighting's done, we'll come back and get you."
"Show me your new world?" And they had nodded and kissed her softly, each in turn.
But now it was nearly noon and hours had passed since the last gunshot sounded off in the distance. How the old woman slept through it, she'd never know.
"We'll be back," they had said. But they weren't. Musichetta had stayed up all night, waiting for her boys to come back, but they never did. This time, when the tear leaked down her cheek, she made no move to hide it. No, she resolved, I can write Mère again later. She had so little of her boys. She had written Lesgle a sweet note on his last birthday, but that was all. There were no long love letters to document the affairs. No pretty sketches done in their likeness. The closest thing was a stick-figure drawing Grantaire had drawn in the back of one of Joly's books (to the medical student's appall). If the worst had come (although she prayed it had not - it was still quite early, noon's not so late), this silly little post-script was all she had of her boys. Two silly men sending her mother their affections. She reached out for the letter and choked out a little sob that nobody would hear.
"Just come home," she whispered. Please. Musichetta closed her eyes and turned her head up to face the ceiling, clutching the letter to her breasts as though the letter itself was proof enough that there were two men out there who loved her and would come back for her. It had been years since she had truly prayed for anything, but now she sat there, willing the old lady to stay in her room, and she prayed for her boys. "Please," she begged of whoever was up there, "please send them home to me."
"Who are you talking to, mon fifille?"
Musichetta almost cringed as her grandmother's voice floated into the room. The old woman seldom called her by her proper name if she could; she saw it as another reminder that her precious daughter had married that "méchant italien."
She wondered what her grandmother would say if she told her she was talking to God. Maybe she'd be proud of her. She wondered what her grandmother would say if she told her she was praying for God to return her lovers to her. Both of them.
"Only myself, Grand-mère."
Musichetta could here the humph! from the next room.
"You must stop behaving like a silly girl, child. It's unbecoming." Her grandmother sighed. "And stay inside today, is that understood? I don't trust all those stupid boys... Do you hear me? Young lady, you'd do well to respond to me!"
But Musichetta had pressed that sweet birthday note to her lips and was rocking back and forth, her eyes squeezed close.
"MUSICHETTA!"
"I understand, ma'am," she managed to croak out. And then, once more, there was silence. She wasn't sure how long she had been sitting there – perhaps it was only minutes, perhaps it was hours – when there was finally a knock at the door. She was at the door before her grandmother's aging maid had even registered that someone had knocked. And, when she threw the door open, it was with such force that the young woman on the other side gave a shocked squeal and dropped an empty wooden pail at their feet. Musichetta immediately stooped to retrieve it.
"Clémence!" Musichetta could scarcely hide the disappointment in her voice. "You frightened me. I thought you were-"
"It's over," the other woman interrupted. "The fighting's been done for hours."
If it was over, where were her boys? Hours...hours...It surely could not take them hours to remember that they were meant to come back to her. They're just busy, she told herself. Yes, that had to be it! Her boys were busy restoring the peace and preparing for their new world. And Vincent, her sweet Vincent, there would surely be wounded men that needed his attention. And darling Valère would never leave his side. Not even for me. But she could live with that, for now at least. In the end, they would put her first. They were not their marble leader, who put France before women and men alike. No. But they knew she could wait, they knew she'd be safe and she'd wait for them.
"'Chetta?"
She had forgotten Clémence was there. There was a pressure on her shoulder and she became aware of Clémence's hand resting there. The two girls looked at each other and, for the first time that morning, Musichetta saw just how empty her friend's eyes were. She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself just staring at the other woman.
"They're looking for women and girls," her friend said softly. "To help clean up the…to help clean up the mess."
"Our men."
Clémence nodded, biting down on her lower lip. She had been well-known and well-liked among many of the young students and had been known to share Courfeyrac's bed once or twice.
Musichetta nodded, ashamed of the tear escaping down her cheek.
"Josephine," she called, her voice magically betraying no emotion.
A stout older woman entered the room. "Mademoiselle?"
"Where is Grand-mère?"
"Resting, mademoiselle."
Musichetta nodded again. "When she wakes, tell her the fighting is done. I've been called upon to help clean up."
Josephine looked at her, with her mouth pressed into a small, sad smile. Truly, her grandmother had no need for a maid and not much money to spare once they worked out her salary. But Josephine had been there since her mother was a child. In truth, she felt more like family to Musichetta than the old lady did.
Josephine nodded. "Stay strong, sweet girl. That's what you are." And then she kissed her cheek and was gone.
"Shall we?"
Clémence's eyes widened and wandered up and down Musichetta's frame. Confused, the girl looked down and saw that she was foolishly still clad only in her nightdress and dressing gown. Quickly, she retreated to her room and changed into a simple brown dress she had owned for years. It was uncomfortably tight across her bust, but it seemed silly to wear anything nicer. My boys will love me however I dress, she told herself, smiling slightly. Perhaps they wouldn't mind too much the tightness across her chest.
Within half an hour, the two girls were walking down the street, each clutching the other's hand and praying. So very, very hard they were praying.
And then they were there, standing in front of the almost unrecognisable café, in front of a place her boys once nearly called home.
Women knelt upon the street, wet, red rags in their hands. Soldiers walked amongst them, ensuring that they were doing what was asked. Behind them, in the door of the café, she could see a line of large masses upon the floor. It was there that she walked.
"Mademoiselle!" A firm hand was on her arm and a young soldier was staring down at her.
"Please," she said softly. "My...my..." Lovers? "My fiancé may have been...I cannot find him."
And to her astonishment, the young soldier took pity on her.
"With me, mademoiselle." Putting a hand on her back, the young soldier led her towards the cafe.
"Was he a student?"
Musichetta nodded, scared of what would happen if she dared try to speak.
"Did you know many of his friends?"
Again, she nodded. The soldier stopped abruptly, stopping Musichetta with him.
"Do you know if your fiancé or his friends were involved with the revolutionary group known as Les Amis de l'ABC?"
Musichetta kept her eyes on her feet, slowly dragging her left foot back and forth and back and forth, watching the black of her boot poking out of the folds of her skirt, only to retreat again. Or perhaps trying to escape only to be pulled back in. She almost grinned at the absurdity of the thought.
"Mademoiselle." The soldier's voice was almost harsh this time. And why wouldn't it be? She was here, at her boys' cafe, where bodies now lined the floor. And this soldier had fought. He fought against her boys. He fought against her friends.
Damn you all to hell. "We never discussed politics," she told him coolly.
"Well, perhaps, at least, you could help us with identities." With that, he took her arm again and led her inside.
The first body was one of an old man, one she did not recognise, and still she felt the bile in her throat. Beside him was a figure much smaller, a boy she knew by sight though not by name. The little gamin that followed Courfeyrac—and the rest—everywhere. A boy who could be not much older than ten years. She quickly brought up both hands to cover her face.
"Mademoiselle, do you know this child?"
Musichetta did not respond—it took all of her power to not lose whatever bit of sanity remained to her. She needed to leave. The room was too hot. All she could hear were the screams of the dying and all she could feel was the soldier's breath far too close to her face.
"Mademoiselle," he asked again. "Did this child have a family?"
Why do you care? she wanted to scream. You killed him, a child! Instead, she remembered something she had once heard the boys say about an orphaned friend of theirs, lowered her hands from her face and calmly said, "His mother was France, monsieur. But it appears you've killed her, too."
The soldier stared, dumbfounded at such a reaction. And, before he had time to comprehend what she had said, Musichetta turned on her heel and began walking away, her eyes straight forward and unblinking. She would not look down and she would not see the blood of her friends. And still she could feel it seeping through her boots. This could be them, she thought, still scared to look down. This could be my boys.
This could be the last time I touch them. This could be goodbye.
She took off in a run, not even acknowledging Clémence's calling after her. She ran and ran and felt the stares of those around her. When she felt that she could run no more, she continued. And then she stopped. She stopped there on the street and stared up at that nasty, old, disease-infected building with the landlady that could very nearly kill Musichetta with a single look. Immediately, she ran to the door.
"Madame Dupont!" she shouted, hitting the door hysterically. "Madame Dupont, please!" Her entire body trembled as tears dripped into her open, screaming mouth.
After a minute, a stout older woman answered the door. She looked at Musichetta, crossing her arms over her excessive chest, and did not say a word.
Musichetta didn't wait. Without a second thought, she pushed her way past Madame Dupont and raced up the stairs. When she reached Vincent's room, she pounded furiously on the door, sobbing and screaming his name.
"You bastard!" she howled. "I know you're there, you horrible fucking bastard. Open the door. Open. The. DOOR!"
Suddenly, a hand was on her shoulder and Musichetta screamed, spinning around. But it was only Madame Dupont, observing her with a warmth Musichetta had not known her capable of possessing.
"Monsieur Joly has not been home in days, Mademoiselle. Nor has his...friend."
Musichetta nodded her head repeatedly, her breath growing rapid. Soon, it was the only sound that filled her ears. She was vaguely aware of the older woman grasping her arms and lowering her to the ground. A terrible sound then filled the hall. A horrible, wretched, distraught shriek, one that held the anguish that only exists in literature, in the theatre.
"Musichetta," Madame Dupont murmured, stroking her cheek. "That's your name, my dear, isn't it?"
Musichetta looked up at her, wondering if the old woman was mocking her. There was no doubt, she thought, her cheeks reddening, that everyone in the building knew her name. She could so vividly remember the night she had realised that this could be a problem. It had been a Sunday and she had known before it happened that this would be the night sending her straight to Hell. And she couldn't have cared less. Valère had made dinner, but Vincent had insisted on his need to study and had left Musichetta and Valère to themselves. She could still feel the wall against her back, her fingernails in his flesh and hair. It was the first time it had ever been just the two of them, the first time she had felt his hands so tightly gripping her waist and so easily lifting her off the ground. The first time she had begged, really and truly begged him, to say her name. She could remember waking up in the morning to find that Vincent had slipped in on her other side. She could still smell that sweetness, that beautiful mixture of sweat and of them. She had woken up that morning between the two men who were her world. And now she would never see them again.
Her body trembling, Musichetta looked up into the other woman's eyes.
"I should go," she said softly, her throat raw. "People might worry about where I am."
Madame Dupont nodded and rose, extending her hand to the girl still crumpled on the floor. Biting her lip, Musichetta took it and stood up.
"I may come by," she said slowly, her voice catching in her throat. "Sometime this week. To - to get some things. If you would let me in then…"
Madame Dupont patted her arm. "Take your time, mademoiselle. I know your... friends would want you to have their belongings."
Musichetta nodded and, with a quick murmured goodbye, all but fled the building.
When she walked in the door, Josephine said nothing. She only walking up to the trembling girl and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Musichetta wanted to scream.
"I thought I told you explicitly not to go outside today!" Came the old lady's shrill caw from the other room. "Insolent girl! You could have been killed!"
Musichetta kicked off her shoes, looking at the toes now caked in blood. Grand-mère would surely have them thrown away. She tilted her head back and leaned upon the wall.
"I'm home safe now," she snapped, her voice magically not betraying her grief. "What more must you ask of me?"
e/e/e/e/e/e/e
On the other side of Paris, a man stepped foot into the city he had not seen since his youth. How drastically it had changed! Nearly as much as I have, he thought, smiling sadly. He knew he looked far older than his thirty-nine years. His travels had led him far and for what? To return to Paris empty handed? No. But his brother was a priest here now and he prayed that, unlike the rest of their siblings, his eldest brother might be able to help him.
If not, he would at least accommodate him for the night.
Sighing, he stuffed his hand into a pocket and ran his thumb across the fraying sheet of paper. A letter his mother had written before the fever took her. A letter reminding him of his childhood and the uncle who sacrificed it all for him and his siblings. This letter was his life and, to him, it was worth more than gold.
Another disclaimer: I recall intentionally writing the first two sentences to be reminiscent of one of her lines in the book. However, my copy is in the US and I am in England, so all I have are crap online translations. If you read that line and were like, "Damn, Em, that's a little lot like Hugo," it was intentional. If not, then I might I have been just trying to capture the style rather than the words. Who knows? I wrote the first half of this in August. I can't remember that far back.