Chapter Six

Gentleness and Goodness, When Unusual, Can Be Frightening


Éponine woke up aching. Her hips, the muscles in her back, her neck. It had to be from laying in bed too much. People weren't meant to lay in bed for days on end. She needed to get up and move. She hadn't slept well, either. She had been woken up by the organ music again—she didn't know what time that had been, because she couldn't see the clock in the dark, but it was definitely an ungodly hour. She could just feel it.

Erik came in and busied himself with lighting the lamps. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," she lied. "And you?"

"Yes." But she knew by his nocturnal concert that he was also lying.

"Monsieur?"

"Please, call me Erik. So few do."

"Erik, can I sit up a little bit today?"

"You most certainly may not. Remember? Your wounds are becoming infected. You need to rest if you have any chance of pulling through."

"But I'm getting sore from laying here too long. Even though it is a very comfortable bed. I need to get up. I need to try to walk and I need to sit up in a chair or something. Please."

Erik seemed to consider for a moment, finally relenting. He went around to the right side of the bed rather than the left where his chair was, because the right was her strong side. He slid one arm behind her back and clamped her shoulder with his other hand, and helped her sit up. Éponine bit the inside of her lip as hard as she could to keep herself from crying out, hoping her face did not betray her. If he saw how badly that hurt, he would know this was a terrible idea. Lord, she knew this was a terrible idea, but she couldn't lie in bed another moment or she would go mad.

He let go of her, but his hands hovered, one behind her back, the other ready to grasp her arm again, in case she couldn't hold her own weight. It took tremendous effort to remain seated instead of falling back in the bed, but she was able to do it. She managed a smile that she hoped masked the excruciating things that were happening all across her chest and back. And her mangled left hand, which she had used to steady herself as he helped her sit up. She glanced down at it. It was bandaged so she couldn't see, but she knew there was a hole in the middle of it, probably severing a lot of important things. She tried to move her fingers, and it was like they weren't connected to her anymore. She bit her lip. How was she going to take care of herself on the streets with a useless hand? She wasn't going to worry about that for now.

Once he was satisfied that she could remain upright, Erik walked over to the wardrobe, which was the same shiny, reddish wood that the bed was made out of, and he flung it open to reveal tons of lady's clothes. Éponine's eyes widened as she saw silks and lace and all manner of fine fabrics, fit for Marius's beautiful young lady. It made her a little uneasy that this man should have a full, and very expensive, lady's wardrobe. She tugged impatiently at the neck of her nightgown, which wanted to fall off her shoulders.

She hadn't gotten such a good look at the room as she could now, sitting up. There was a dressing table—though, strangely, no mirror—a couch at the foot of the bed, upholstered in soft green, a carpet on the floor, papered walls which wasn't even faded or peeling off, paintings of flowers in gilt frames. It was the richest room she had ever seen.

Erik strode over to her with a folded white nightgown and a deep blue dressing gown. He laid both out on the bed, and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"You should change."

Éponine flushed and looked down at her useless arm, which she couldn't even lift without causing severe pain in her shattered rib and causing the flesh to pull around her wounds. "I can't," she mumbled sullenly.

Erik looked over his shoulder. His eyes followed hers to the hand which lay motionless on the bed. "Ah."

He strode back over to her and began unbuttoning the neck of the clean night gown. The one she wore had a scooped neck which was not helpful considering how it was too large for her to begin with. This one came up high on the neck, where it parted in a triangular collar that went sideways to the shoulders. It had buttons to the waist. With her good hand, she timidly felt the fine cotton. It felt so clean and delicate.

His jaw tense and his eyes elsewhere, Erik abruptly pulled the new nightgown over her head, so that it was bunched around her neck and shoulders. He tugged it downwards so that it came down over her like a tent or a cape.

"Slide your left arm out of the old one."

She glared at him. "I can't."

His jaw tightened again, and he sat on the edge of the bed, turning himself slightly sideways to face her. He reached underneath the new nightgown and very gently lifted her arm out to the side. It did hurt, but not as much as it could have if he hadn't done it so slowly and carefully. Then, his hand slid along the flesh of her shoulder, pushing the sleeve down her arm and giving her goosebumps. She couldn't stop herself from shivering, and his eyes met hers, his mouth twitching almost like he was about to smirk, and stopped himself. She glanced sideways. She could not look into those greenish eyes, not right now. She felt her face burning hot.

When he had slid the sleeve as far as he could, he very gently lifted her shoulder, bending her arm in close to her body and upwards. She gasped.

"This is a terrible idea. You need to stay in bed."

She grimaced. "It's fine. Just...just get it over with."

She finally met his piercing greenish eyes (or were they amber? The colour seemed to change with the light and it was difficult to pinpoint) with her brown ones. And his eyes did not flinch from hers as, with a quick movement, he pulled her arm out of the sleeve. She let out a stifled cry. God, that hurt. But she told him to get it over with, and it was probably better than drawing it out. He gently set her arm down, pulled his hands back, and let her catch her breath. She felt faint, but she steadied herself and gave him a determined nod.

He reached under again, and with one hand supporting underneath her arm where it became the shoulder, he used the other to very gently guide her injured hand through the wrist opening of the gown. This one had longer sleeves, which made Éponine frown, because it was going to be more challenging to take off again than the shorter sleeved one had been.

This one, too, was too large for her, and he had to roll the sleeve so that it didn't hang down past her hand. It wasn't made for a particularly large person, but for someone who was a little taller and had more flesh and a better figure than Éponine.

"I can do the other arm myself," Éponine said, out of breath partly from the pain, and partly because...well, the situation.

Erik looked at her doubtfully.

Her face fell as she realised that of course she couldn't. Just because this arm wasn't injured, she still didn't have the help of the injured one.

He didn't say a word, just helped her. It was much easier this time, as he didn't have to be as careful. The old nightgown was most likely supposed to go on and off over the head, but because it was so big on her tiny frame, she would be able to easily slide it out from beneath the new gown. With both of her shoulders freed, she used her good hand to tug the nightgown down further. Erik stood up and pulled back the bedclothes, and Éponine saw that her old nightgown had twisted and risen up almost past her knees. Erik averted his gaze as she started to tug at the hem, but decided it didn't matter much. With his eyes still averted from her half-bared legs, he helped her tug the new night gown down over her, lifting her a little so that it could pass underneath her.

"Now," she said, still struggling to catch her breath, and feeling absolutely exhausted, "help me stand up."

"Are you sure, Éponine?"

She nodded vigorously.

Erik sighed and wrapped one arm behind her back, sliding his other beneath her knees and pulling her toward the edge of the bed. She felt weightless in his arms, like a bit of paper or a bundle of twigs. Then, he gently turned her so that her legs hung over the bed. He paused, looking at her as if he expected her to fall over any moment. She expected the same thing, but she was determined it wouldn't happen. God, her chest was just on fire. She wanted to look down the neck of her gown and see how bad the bruising and redness was, but if she did that, he would know it was bothering her.

"I'm fine, Erik. Help me up."

In a swift motion, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her off of the bed. The old nightgown slid off onto the floor. She felt the blood rush to her feet, and she thought she was going to faint, but she didn't. His hands were so strong on her skinny little waist, and through the thin cotton she could feel them almost as if they were right against her skin. For some reason, that made her stomach flutter and her head even lighter.

He set her on her feet, but he still held on. She let her head fall forward against his chest. The room was spinning. Her knees felt too weak to support her as the blood was trying to circulate.

"Éponine?" there was a hint of fear in his voice. She had the guess that this was not a man who was often afraid.

"I'm fine just—just let me get my legs under me." His waistcoat felt nice. It was silk. And he smelled of ink and paper and coffee and perspiration. Her eyelids felt heavy, but if she was going to keep him thinking this was a good idea, she needed to rally herself. She lifted her head and smiled. "See? Fine."

Erik studied her sceptically, but she continued to meet his eye and betrayed no hint of her pain or weakness.

He helped her get the dressing gown on. Both the nightgown and the dressing gown pooled around her feet and hung over her tiny frame like there wasn't even a person inside. He had to help her carry the skirts so that she wouldn't trip on them. She could feel his other hand hovering just behind her back, ready to catch her as she took wobbling steps toward the door. She needed to sit down. Why had she thought this was a good idea?

"I—I would like to brush my hair," she said. She didn't care really—her hair was always knotted. But it was a good excuse to make a detour to the dressing table and sit for a moment. He seemed to buy it. He helped her sit in the chair at the little dressing table.

"There's no mirror," she said.

"Is that a question? So you do have questions." Was that a teasing tone in his voice? He was standing right behind her. If there was a mirror in front of her, she would have been able to see him, and whether he was smirking. It sounded like he was.

"No, just a statement." She smiled wryly as she pulled her gnarled, dark brown hair over her shoulder and then grabbed the brush that was sitting there. She'd been combing her hair with her fingers only for months. They used to have a brush, but stupid Azelma had lost it somehow. It was going to be a little difficult to brush her hair one-handed.

"May I?"

Éponine really wished for a mirror so that she could see his face—or at least, the part which was visible where the mask ended. His hand appeared beside hers, upturned, waiting for the brush. Hesitantly, she placed it in his hand.

With his other hand, his hesitant, impossibly gentle fingers smoothed her hair back from her scalp. The fingers that coaxed such emotion from the piano and the organ—of course they would feel like this in her hair. She knew her hair was dirty and knotted, but he didn't seem to mind. She closed her eyes, let out a breath, and felt an enormous amount of tension leave her. The fluttering was back in her stomach again. And that's what snapped her back to defensive reality.

"Never mind, monsieur," she said coolly. "I can do it myself."

He handed her the brush, and she felt that he was no longer so close behind her. She dragged the brush through her hair, not caring that it hurt. Maybe it would bring some sense back into her. She wasn't safe here. She wasn't safe anywhere. She couldn't let her guard down like that. Especially not when she was so weak like this, and had no idea where to run, even if she could.

She knew she hadn't even begun to tackle the mess that was her hair, but she didn't really care. She ran her good hand through it, ruffling it up, and tossed it back over her shoulders again.

"Would you like to go sit in the drawing room, mademoiselle?"

So, they were Monsieur and Mademoiselle again? There was a note of something in his voice, and she couldn't tell if it was cruel or wounded. Perhaps both. Well, no matter. She'd had no choice but to put a stop to that. He'd said the other day that he was not often in the company of women, and yet here was this room, clearly furnished and filled with a lady in mind. For all she knew, he was a sinister man who had brought many girls down here so that he could brush their hair and God only knew what else. It probably wasn't a bad idea to keep an eye out for escape routes on the way to the drawing room, just in case.

He helped her stand, and they went through the door that he was always entering and exiting through. It opened directly into a drawing room. She gaped openly at the fine upholstery on the furniture, the wallpaper which had an elaborate design, and the rich oriental carpet under her feet. It was rather dimly lit, and after helping her sit down by the fire, he went around lighting more lamps and candles until the whole room was illuminated in a merry glow.

He left the room and returned with a breakfast tray, serving her coffee (he was right—she probably would get used to it. She already liked it better than yesterday) and porridge and fruit. He avoided looking at her, even after he sat down. He looked back and forth between his hands and the fire.

"Have you eaten, monsieur?"

He muttered something about not being hungry that morning. She thought he was angry with her, but as she looked at his posture, she realised he was sad. Perhaps she had been too harsh, although it seemed an odd thing to still be moping about.

"Erik," she said, once again trying to sound sweet and soft. His gaze flashed to her face, piercing and making her feel a little cold. "Thank you. I'm not sure why you've been so kind to me. Tell you the truth, it scares me a little. But...thank you."

"Scares you? Why should it scare you?"

She shrugged her good shoulder. "Usually if people are being nice, there's a catch."

"That's true enough." He looked into the fire with a melancholy sigh. "But you have nothing to fear from Erik, I already told you."

"Then...why did you bring me here? Why are you taking care of me like this?"

He met her eyes with a little smirk. He must really be very handsome under that mask, she thought, and then chided herself for thinking it. "What's that, Éponine? Is that a question?"

She huffed. "I never said that I don't ask questions. I just said I don't poke my nose where it doesn't concern me. This happens to concern me."

"And why does it concern you? I've told you, you have nothing to fear. You're very safe here."

"How do you expect me to believe that, though?"

"Have I given you any reason to doubt it?"

"People don't just help for no reason, not like this. Not for days on end. Not without expecting something in return. Especially..."

"Especially what?"

"Especially men."

Erik looked into the fire thoughtfully.

After giving him a moment to respond, she said: "Look. I'm not going to ask whose clothes these are, or why you live underneath the Opera House, and I really don't care about your mask. But I need to know why you brought me here. I'm really grateful. And you've been nothing but kind and gentle with me. But I need to know why."

Erik continued not to meet her gaze. He looked like he didn't quite know the answer himself. "I didn't really think about it. You were gravely injured, outside of my Opera House. And I suppose, it has been a distraction for me. Perhaps I hope this will atone for the rest."

She didn't ask what "the rest" meant, because that was once again outside of the territory of that which concerned her personally. She was satisfied with that answer. She used to want to believe people were good. She still knew that some people were. She knew the rich, kindly old man who had come to take Cosette away was. Her parents didn't think so, but she saw it in his eyes. And her little brother, Gavroche. He had nothing, and yet he was always stealing on behalf of people who had even less. And Monsieur Marius. Even though he was embarrassed and a little disgusted by her, he was a good, sweet boy, which was why she had loved him so much—had loved him? Had? She would examine that later. But he was a dutiful boy, and devoted to Cosette in a pure and honest way that she only hoped someone would one day be towards her. And his friends. She didn't know them much, but they were always kind to her brother and the other gamins. Even especially the drunken Grantaire. And then there was that blond one, Enjolras, who seemed cold as marble and yet his blue eyes burned bright with fiery passion as he stood ready and willing to die for a better world, wanting that more than anything for his countrymen—even if it meant he would not be there to see it. Yes. There were good people. She hoped someday she could be one too, even though her parents were who they were, and she was what she was. And perhaps this man in the mask underground really was a good one. Even if he felt he had things to atone for. God knew, so did she.