"I Love You"
Chapter 6
The rest of the night, Enjolras thought of nothing but his beloved Eponine and their tender, heavenly first kiss. Even as they boy lay in his bed, visions and memories of that splendid night kept him wide awake.
Rising slowly, he crossed the floor of his bedroom to peer out at the nearly full moon, its radiance spreading a whiteness over the ground, bathing the sky in an eerie silver light. It hypnotized him, and he stared in a trance at the brilliant, starry sky, Eponine dancing through his head all the while, until dawn.
When at last the gray haze of morning filled the air, he walked back to his bed and collapsed in an exhausted heap. The poor young man closed his eyes, utterly confused and distraught by his new feelings, and finally drifted into a troubled sleep. But even as he rested, the ecstasy and agony which tore at his heart and soul still haunted him. The hours until the meeting at Le Café Musain could not pass quickly enough.
* * *
Eponine glanced in the cracked mirror of her apartment and heaved a forlorn sigh. Her hair fell about her face in waves and tangles, very much unlike the lovely curls of the rich ladies in Paris. Scars adorned her cheeks in a pitiful series of lines and stripes. How could a boy in his right mind kiss such a mangled, pathetic tramp?
The girl held her hands out in front of her to see them more clearly. She nearly gasped at the state they were in. Scratches and cuts lay open and the skin was rough from no protection. Her nails split at the tips, darkly resembling the claws of a stray cat.
Dropping her arms at her side once again, she looked down at her tattered, torn skirt and ripped blouse. Tears welled up in her eyes.
How she loved her dear Enjolras! Never in her life had anyone ever cared for her, and now she knew why. She was nothing more than an ugly beggar. Why did such a beautiful boy have affection for her?
* * *
When Eponine did not arrive at Le Café Musain that evening, Enjolras began to grow concerned. All day, he had waited on pins and needles until he could see his precious girl again, and where was she? The poor boy could only assume the worst.
Jean Prouvaire seemed to notice his distress, for he gently approached him, quill and parchment in hand, and joined him at his secluded table.
"What is the matter, Enjolras? You look as though you haven't slept in days," he said, trying to catch the young man's eye.
"Nothing, Jehan," came Enjolras' cold reply. He refused to lift his gaze from the paper he pretended to work on. "I am very busy."
But his parchment was littered with mindless scribbles, clearly exposing his lie. Jehan laid his paper on top of the other boy's, revealing tiny scrawled words, each of them intertwined into a magnificent love poem.
"You lie to me, Enjolras," he sighed, admiring his work. "I can see by the look in your eye that something else troubles you. Something much larger than revolution."
At last, Enjolras looked up, his eyes wide and desperate, stripped of their disdainful façade. Only Jehan could be trusted with the open honesty of his glance.
"I am ill," he muttered, half believing himself, for he did not feel the way he should have.
"I think you've caught what Joly has," Jehan laughed. "I assure you, you're not ill with any physical ailment, my friend. I see it in your face. Something else is wrong with you.but what? Love, perhaps?"
Enjolras nearly fainted at the accuracy of his friend's words, but quickly swallowed his shock and mocked a laugh.
"You're funny, Jehan. I have no time for love."
"It's that Eponine, isn't it?" Jehan stared into his friend's eyes with the intensity Enjolras usually held himself.
The color drained from the other's face. Jehan continued:
"She is a pretty girl, isn't she? You are lucky she likes you. All the rest of us have had our eyes on her as well. This poem here, I confess, is about her."
"Wait," croaked Enjolras, pale and almost frightened at the prospect of admitting his feelings for an actual female. "You.how did you know that I.?"
Jehan's eyes brightened and he nearly toppled out of his chair, he chuckled so hard. His delicate frame shuddered with hysteria at his friend's riotous stuttering.
"We saw you last night," the boy gasped between gales of laughter. "Grantaire and Fueilly and me! We saw just how in love you two are! It was as beautiful as it was hilarious! Here, the icy boy who doesn't love anything but justice, kisses a girl as though he's been doing it for years!"
Enjolras cursed. How stupid of him to display his affection for Eponine right in the middle of Le Café Musain! What had gone through his head to make him so careless? He would never live this down with the other Amis.
"Jehan," he sighed, trying desperately to hold onto any scrap of dignity that might have remained. "Please don't bother me with this now. I don't feel well at all.I don't need this."
"Where is Eponine tonight?" inquired Jehan, quieting his laugher, but ignoring his friend's plea. "I haven't seen her here."
"She did not attend this meeting," replied Enjolras, simulating a nonchalant air. But this was not enough for Jehan.
"Aren't you worried?" he asked with genuine concern. "She always comes to the café in the evenings."
In truth, Enjolras was extremely worried. His obsession with the girl consumed his thoughts, forbidding him to eat, sleep, or think lucidly. He wondered if Eponine had fallen ill, and if so, he would surely go to pieces. His own health had begun to fail, leaving him flushed and feverish over his dear girl, for he could scarcely function properly without her. Enjolras understood love for the first time in his life.
Finally unable to contain his anxiety, he opened up to his friend in anguish:
"Jehan, help me," he whispered roughly, leaning across the table and glancing around no make certain that no one saw him. "Something is horribly wrong with me. I can't think of anything but that girl. I don't know why I feel this way, but it is like nothing I have ever known. Jehan, I don't know what to do."
The poet picked up his quill, dropping his gaze from Enjolras, and sucked on the tip.
"This is very inspiring," he mused.
"Jehan! Please!"
"Enjolras, do you know what you have to do?" he asked, looking once more at his friend. Any trace of amusement that had once graced his elegant face disappeared and was replaced with absolute seriousness. "You have to go find her. You're in love, my friend. Take my advice: Follow your heart!"
Enjolras gaped at Jehan for a moment before seeing the wisdom in his words. If anyone knew about love, it was Jean Prouvaire.
Rising from his chair, he regained his composure and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair for effect.
"Not a word of this to the others," he whispered harshly as he headed for the door of Le Café Musain.
But as he exited, Grantaire, who had all but drunk himself under the table, pretended to swoon, causing the statue of a man to turn a deep shade of scarlet.
Chapter 6
The rest of the night, Enjolras thought of nothing but his beloved Eponine and their tender, heavenly first kiss. Even as they boy lay in his bed, visions and memories of that splendid night kept him wide awake.
Rising slowly, he crossed the floor of his bedroom to peer out at the nearly full moon, its radiance spreading a whiteness over the ground, bathing the sky in an eerie silver light. It hypnotized him, and he stared in a trance at the brilliant, starry sky, Eponine dancing through his head all the while, until dawn.
When at last the gray haze of morning filled the air, he walked back to his bed and collapsed in an exhausted heap. The poor young man closed his eyes, utterly confused and distraught by his new feelings, and finally drifted into a troubled sleep. But even as he rested, the ecstasy and agony which tore at his heart and soul still haunted him. The hours until the meeting at Le Café Musain could not pass quickly enough.
* * *
Eponine glanced in the cracked mirror of her apartment and heaved a forlorn sigh. Her hair fell about her face in waves and tangles, very much unlike the lovely curls of the rich ladies in Paris. Scars adorned her cheeks in a pitiful series of lines and stripes. How could a boy in his right mind kiss such a mangled, pathetic tramp?
The girl held her hands out in front of her to see them more clearly. She nearly gasped at the state they were in. Scratches and cuts lay open and the skin was rough from no protection. Her nails split at the tips, darkly resembling the claws of a stray cat.
Dropping her arms at her side once again, she looked down at her tattered, torn skirt and ripped blouse. Tears welled up in her eyes.
How she loved her dear Enjolras! Never in her life had anyone ever cared for her, and now she knew why. She was nothing more than an ugly beggar. Why did such a beautiful boy have affection for her?
* * *
When Eponine did not arrive at Le Café Musain that evening, Enjolras began to grow concerned. All day, he had waited on pins and needles until he could see his precious girl again, and where was she? The poor boy could only assume the worst.
Jean Prouvaire seemed to notice his distress, for he gently approached him, quill and parchment in hand, and joined him at his secluded table.
"What is the matter, Enjolras? You look as though you haven't slept in days," he said, trying to catch the young man's eye.
"Nothing, Jehan," came Enjolras' cold reply. He refused to lift his gaze from the paper he pretended to work on. "I am very busy."
But his parchment was littered with mindless scribbles, clearly exposing his lie. Jehan laid his paper on top of the other boy's, revealing tiny scrawled words, each of them intertwined into a magnificent love poem.
"You lie to me, Enjolras," he sighed, admiring his work. "I can see by the look in your eye that something else troubles you. Something much larger than revolution."
At last, Enjolras looked up, his eyes wide and desperate, stripped of their disdainful façade. Only Jehan could be trusted with the open honesty of his glance.
"I am ill," he muttered, half believing himself, for he did not feel the way he should have.
"I think you've caught what Joly has," Jehan laughed. "I assure you, you're not ill with any physical ailment, my friend. I see it in your face. Something else is wrong with you.but what? Love, perhaps?"
Enjolras nearly fainted at the accuracy of his friend's words, but quickly swallowed his shock and mocked a laugh.
"You're funny, Jehan. I have no time for love."
"It's that Eponine, isn't it?" Jehan stared into his friend's eyes with the intensity Enjolras usually held himself.
The color drained from the other's face. Jehan continued:
"She is a pretty girl, isn't she? You are lucky she likes you. All the rest of us have had our eyes on her as well. This poem here, I confess, is about her."
"Wait," croaked Enjolras, pale and almost frightened at the prospect of admitting his feelings for an actual female. "You.how did you know that I.?"
Jehan's eyes brightened and he nearly toppled out of his chair, he chuckled so hard. His delicate frame shuddered with hysteria at his friend's riotous stuttering.
"We saw you last night," the boy gasped between gales of laughter. "Grantaire and Fueilly and me! We saw just how in love you two are! It was as beautiful as it was hilarious! Here, the icy boy who doesn't love anything but justice, kisses a girl as though he's been doing it for years!"
Enjolras cursed. How stupid of him to display his affection for Eponine right in the middle of Le Café Musain! What had gone through his head to make him so careless? He would never live this down with the other Amis.
"Jehan," he sighed, trying desperately to hold onto any scrap of dignity that might have remained. "Please don't bother me with this now. I don't feel well at all.I don't need this."
"Where is Eponine tonight?" inquired Jehan, quieting his laugher, but ignoring his friend's plea. "I haven't seen her here."
"She did not attend this meeting," replied Enjolras, simulating a nonchalant air. But this was not enough for Jehan.
"Aren't you worried?" he asked with genuine concern. "She always comes to the café in the evenings."
In truth, Enjolras was extremely worried. His obsession with the girl consumed his thoughts, forbidding him to eat, sleep, or think lucidly. He wondered if Eponine had fallen ill, and if so, he would surely go to pieces. His own health had begun to fail, leaving him flushed and feverish over his dear girl, for he could scarcely function properly without her. Enjolras understood love for the first time in his life.
Finally unable to contain his anxiety, he opened up to his friend in anguish:
"Jehan, help me," he whispered roughly, leaning across the table and glancing around no make certain that no one saw him. "Something is horribly wrong with me. I can't think of anything but that girl. I don't know why I feel this way, but it is like nothing I have ever known. Jehan, I don't know what to do."
The poet picked up his quill, dropping his gaze from Enjolras, and sucked on the tip.
"This is very inspiring," he mused.
"Jehan! Please!"
"Enjolras, do you know what you have to do?" he asked, looking once more at his friend. Any trace of amusement that had once graced his elegant face disappeared and was replaced with absolute seriousness. "You have to go find her. You're in love, my friend. Take my advice: Follow your heart!"
Enjolras gaped at Jehan for a moment before seeing the wisdom in his words. If anyone knew about love, it was Jean Prouvaire.
Rising from his chair, he regained his composure and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair for effect.
"Not a word of this to the others," he whispered harshly as he headed for the door of Le Café Musain.
But as he exited, Grantaire, who had all but drunk himself under the table, pretended to swoon, causing the statue of a man to turn a deep shade of scarlet.