"I Love You"
Chapter 7
The chilly night wind tossed Enjolras' hair as he hurried out to find Eponine. The streets of Paris were empty aside from a few ambling factory workers headed home for the evening, their silhouettes swiftly vanishing into the darkness as they passed. Dim embers flickered in the street lamps, casting a faint golden glow on the pavement, illuminating the boy's path.
He picked up his pace, anxiety growing from deep inside him, as he wondered where the girl could be. It was unlike her to disappear like this.
Just the night before, the two of them had shared such a pure, marvelous kiss; nevertheless, it felt so very far away in the dark of the night. The adoration that had adhered itself to the confused young man now tried to pull away, leaving him cold and mystified without Eponine.
All his life, Enjolras had never depended on love to warm him. His mother was the revolution; his father was justice; his brothers were the young hopefuls who shared his dreams of a new, free world. Women meant nothing to him. And Eponine was a woman, just like the rest of those who swooned over his beauty. So why did his heart torture him so? What were these strange emotions that caused him such delightful, dreadful agony?
As he pondered these unanswerable questions, he led himself blindly down alley after alley, street after street, stopping for nothing. The passing scenery blurred in his troubled search, melting and contorting itself into a colorful haze.
At last, a faint shadow in the distance began to take the shape of a girl. She stood by a fountain in the square of the street, gazing in at the swirling liquid. Her head was bent forward so that her hair fell in her face, disguising her, shrouding her from the rest of the world. If her own father had passed her at that very moment, he wouldn't have even recognized her.
But Enjolras knew that coat anywhere. His heart giving an exhilarated flutter, he hurried to her side without hesitation.
"Eponine!" he sighed, flushed and breathless from running. "What on earth are you doing out here by yourself? There's a meeting tonight. I-- what's wrong?"
He started at the girl's expression, for it was one he had never seen her wear. Dark circles rimmed her usually bright eyes and she looked grave, as though all hope had vanished from her soul. In her state of sorrow, she appeared considerably older, as though the misery added worn years to her youthful face. The poor young woman was simply haggard.
With a look of anguish, she turned her head away, unable to hold the gaze of the magnificent boy before her.
"Eponine, please," Enjolras pressed with abnormal desperation. "Are you ill? Is there something you need?"
"No, Enjolras," she replied, eyes still fixed on the pavement. "There is nothing I need. Just wanted to walk a bit before the meeting. I was just on my way there."
She glanced once more into the water, disgusted by the ugly gamine staring back at her, and raised her eyes at last, eager to escape the horrifying specter of a young woman that was her reflection.
Enjolras gazed with concern into the girl's face, searching for a sign of what could be troubling her. But all he saw was sadness; the cause of her despair remained lost in the enigma of Eponine. The honesty of her expression chilled him to where he felt an urge to shiver.
"And you worry about me," he sighed, shaking his head after regaining his composure.
Eponine bit her lip, looking up in an effort to keep from crying, but tears welled up in her eyes anyway. She forbade herself to weep. How foolish could she be? She knew better than to show her emotions. That was a major rule of the streets: Save your tears; no one cares.
But Enjolras cared. The icy, bitter statue cared, for regardless of his nonchalant exterior, he felt things just like the other Amis. When the others spoke of mistresses, he always scoffed, stating that love is a waste of time, but in his heart, he wanted what they had; when Jehan sighed over the many women who had moved him to tears, Enjolras rolled his eyes, but deep inside, he yearned to care for something; when Marius swooned over Cosette, Enjolras feigned annoyance, but the idea of love always appealed to him.
This was why when Eponine entered his life, his usual disdain and disparagement were disturbed. And now his cover was nearly blown, thanks to this girl who had thrown him so completely off balance.
But he saw her tears, so heartbreaking when they belonged to the girl he loved, and he could not bear to ignore her agony. She needed tenderness. For once in her life, Eponine needed someone to care.
Gently and protectively, Enjolras wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her close to his chest, defending her from the cruel world that had so unkindly thrown her aside.
"It's alright," he whispered, resting his cheek in her hair. "Don't cry, Eponine. It will be all right. I'm here."
And so they stood for a moment, or perhaps for an eternity, in silence beside the fountain, its cool water trickling endlessly in the night.
In the quiet, Enjolras realized how nice it felt to be unlike himself. He closed his eyes and stroked Eponine's dark locks, realizing he could easily put on his mask of indifference again tomorrow.
Eponine did not make any sound. She hated girls who sobbed like infants, for she was perfectly well and strong, and had no need for such childishness. But the tears still remained, silent and sure.
At last, unable to keep it in any longer, she faintly whispered the one thought that had haunted her ever since she was old enough to see its truth:
"I am wretched."
Enjolras squeezed her tighter when he heard her words, and he almost cried himself, though he managed to fight the stinging tears by clamping his eyes shut.
"You are beautiful," he choked, the sound almost inaudible. But he meant the words more than anything he had said in his entire time on Earth.
When Eponine pulled away to look him in the eyes, there were dark wet marks on Enjolras' scarlet vest.
Chapter 7
The chilly night wind tossed Enjolras' hair as he hurried out to find Eponine. The streets of Paris were empty aside from a few ambling factory workers headed home for the evening, their silhouettes swiftly vanishing into the darkness as they passed. Dim embers flickered in the street lamps, casting a faint golden glow on the pavement, illuminating the boy's path.
He picked up his pace, anxiety growing from deep inside him, as he wondered where the girl could be. It was unlike her to disappear like this.
Just the night before, the two of them had shared such a pure, marvelous kiss; nevertheless, it felt so very far away in the dark of the night. The adoration that had adhered itself to the confused young man now tried to pull away, leaving him cold and mystified without Eponine.
All his life, Enjolras had never depended on love to warm him. His mother was the revolution; his father was justice; his brothers were the young hopefuls who shared his dreams of a new, free world. Women meant nothing to him. And Eponine was a woman, just like the rest of those who swooned over his beauty. So why did his heart torture him so? What were these strange emotions that caused him such delightful, dreadful agony?
As he pondered these unanswerable questions, he led himself blindly down alley after alley, street after street, stopping for nothing. The passing scenery blurred in his troubled search, melting and contorting itself into a colorful haze.
At last, a faint shadow in the distance began to take the shape of a girl. She stood by a fountain in the square of the street, gazing in at the swirling liquid. Her head was bent forward so that her hair fell in her face, disguising her, shrouding her from the rest of the world. If her own father had passed her at that very moment, he wouldn't have even recognized her.
But Enjolras knew that coat anywhere. His heart giving an exhilarated flutter, he hurried to her side without hesitation.
"Eponine!" he sighed, flushed and breathless from running. "What on earth are you doing out here by yourself? There's a meeting tonight. I-- what's wrong?"
He started at the girl's expression, for it was one he had never seen her wear. Dark circles rimmed her usually bright eyes and she looked grave, as though all hope had vanished from her soul. In her state of sorrow, she appeared considerably older, as though the misery added worn years to her youthful face. The poor young woman was simply haggard.
With a look of anguish, she turned her head away, unable to hold the gaze of the magnificent boy before her.
"Eponine, please," Enjolras pressed with abnormal desperation. "Are you ill? Is there something you need?"
"No, Enjolras," she replied, eyes still fixed on the pavement. "There is nothing I need. Just wanted to walk a bit before the meeting. I was just on my way there."
She glanced once more into the water, disgusted by the ugly gamine staring back at her, and raised her eyes at last, eager to escape the horrifying specter of a young woman that was her reflection.
Enjolras gazed with concern into the girl's face, searching for a sign of what could be troubling her. But all he saw was sadness; the cause of her despair remained lost in the enigma of Eponine. The honesty of her expression chilled him to where he felt an urge to shiver.
"And you worry about me," he sighed, shaking his head after regaining his composure.
Eponine bit her lip, looking up in an effort to keep from crying, but tears welled up in her eyes anyway. She forbade herself to weep. How foolish could she be? She knew better than to show her emotions. That was a major rule of the streets: Save your tears; no one cares.
But Enjolras cared. The icy, bitter statue cared, for regardless of his nonchalant exterior, he felt things just like the other Amis. When the others spoke of mistresses, he always scoffed, stating that love is a waste of time, but in his heart, he wanted what they had; when Jehan sighed over the many women who had moved him to tears, Enjolras rolled his eyes, but deep inside, he yearned to care for something; when Marius swooned over Cosette, Enjolras feigned annoyance, but the idea of love always appealed to him.
This was why when Eponine entered his life, his usual disdain and disparagement were disturbed. And now his cover was nearly blown, thanks to this girl who had thrown him so completely off balance.
But he saw her tears, so heartbreaking when they belonged to the girl he loved, and he could not bear to ignore her agony. She needed tenderness. For once in her life, Eponine needed someone to care.
Gently and protectively, Enjolras wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her close to his chest, defending her from the cruel world that had so unkindly thrown her aside.
"It's alright," he whispered, resting his cheek in her hair. "Don't cry, Eponine. It will be all right. I'm here."
And so they stood for a moment, or perhaps for an eternity, in silence beside the fountain, its cool water trickling endlessly in the night.
In the quiet, Enjolras realized how nice it felt to be unlike himself. He closed his eyes and stroked Eponine's dark locks, realizing he could easily put on his mask of indifference again tomorrow.
Eponine did not make any sound. She hated girls who sobbed like infants, for she was perfectly well and strong, and had no need for such childishness. But the tears still remained, silent and sure.
At last, unable to keep it in any longer, she faintly whispered the one thought that had haunted her ever since she was old enough to see its truth:
"I am wretched."
Enjolras squeezed her tighter when he heard her words, and he almost cried himself, though he managed to fight the stinging tears by clamping his eyes shut.
"You are beautiful," he choked, the sound almost inaudible. But he meant the words more than anything he had said in his entire time on Earth.
When Eponine pulled away to look him in the eyes, there were dark wet marks on Enjolras' scarlet vest.