Chapter Nine
Just Be Careful
A/N: Content warning for mild laudanum (tincture of opium) use.
Éponine was in and out of consciousness, and her memories were only very dim. She knew that as Erik had placed her inside of a fiacre, he had squeezed her hand and said something to her—what had he said to her? And she had realised he wasn't coming with them, and in her delirium, for whatever reason, that had almost made her cry.
During the ride, each jolt and jostle had caused her excruciating pain. When they stopped, she heard the second man's voice— Daroga, had Erik called him? He was speaking in a language she didn't understand, and she wanted to say, "I'm sorry, monsieur, I don't understand." But then she realised he wasn't talking to her, he was talking to another man who was lifting her out and carrying her. She fainted again.
She woke up in a bed, which was not quite as comfortable as the bed in the house on the lake, but she wasn't one to complain. There was a man talking in an authoritative sort of way—a doctor, finally. He was cutting her. She screamed, and she felt a hand on her forehead, and the Daroga's voice saying something soothing. There were hands holding her down.
"Aha. Yes." The doctor's voice. "Fabric. From her clothing, no doubt. Rotting in here and causing infection. Who the devil closed this wound?"
"A friend."
"Might have taken the time to pull all of this out first. Here's the trouble."
Had she gone out again? She heard: "Here, drink this." A bottle was placed against her lips, and something was poured into her mouth. She tasted spices, and some sort of alcohol, and then there was a bitter taste left on her tongue. She coughed. "Don't move about like that!" she heard the doctor's voice snap. He was sewing her back up again.
"Lint!" she heard. "And a bandage, if you please."
And then, a short time later, she began to feel all floaty and light, and overwhelmingly sleepy. She didn't know where sleeping began or where waking ended, and she didn't really care. She had left pain behind, and caring about things. There was only euphoria and lightness. She heard a voice say, "She might lose this hand." And she thought, how silly he must be, sounding so serious and grim! Lose a hand. How could you lose a hand—it's right there on your arm, silly. Just look. You can't miss it. You can't set it down somewhere and forget it. Lose this hand. She supposed the 'she' in question must be none other than herself, as she had only heard men's voices in the room. Well, she could assure them, she was never going to misplace her hand.
—●—●—●—●—
She remained in that dreamy delirium—she didn't know for how long. Whenever the edges between sleep and wake began to sharpen, and the pain along with it, there would be someone giving her more of that dark tincture to send her back again. The doctor came and went, as did a woman whose hands were brusque and efficient, but whose eyes were kindly, with smiling wrinkles in the corners that made Éponine a little bit sad and long for her Maman. Not that Maman's eyes had ever been particularly kindly. The woman would bathe her and pour broth down her throat. For the first time in her life, Éponine did not actually want to eat, but she would have to force it down. And then, she would readily accept more of that liquid to tip her over the edge into such blissful delirium. She did not see that foreign gentleman very often, but he would come and look in on her, and he was always there when the doctor was.
Each night, she believed Erik was there, but she could not say whether that was real or had only been a dream. For a very long time she also did not know for sure how many days it had been, or whether she was becoming better or worse.
—●—●—●—●—
And then, gradually, she started to get well. They wouldn't give her as much of that medicine anymore, which meant her head began to clear, and she began to be surer of what was happening and the passage of time. She was even able to be propped up on her pillows a little, allowing her to look out the window, where she could see a beautiful gardens.
"I really think you might just recover after all, mademoiselle," the doctor said one morning. He said it in an astonished tone. Well, she had expected to die, so it didn't surprise her much that the doctor did as well.
As the doctor gathered his instruments to leave, Éponine turned to the older woman, who, she found out, the foreign gentleman had brought on as a sort of nurse to take care of her. Her name was Madame Poulin. "What are those, please?" She gestured to the window.
"Those are the Tuileries gardens," Madame Poulin replied. Éponine knew the Tuileries. She had walked by them many times. Things looked different from above.
"Now, did you hear what the doctor said?" the lady continued. "You can have a proper bath today. We can wash your hair."
Éponine didn't know when she'd last had a proper bath. Not cleaning herself from a horse trough or getting washed with rain, but a real, proper bath.
Poulin threw back the bedclothes and slowly helped Éponine slide out of bed and stand on her shaky legs. Poulin had to support her heavily as they walked to a zinc tub that had been brought into the corner of the room, where it stood, already filled.
It felt so good to be clean. After dressing Éponine in one of the too-large nightgowns which Erik must have sent with her, Poulin helped her back into bed and brought her a mirror. Éponine gasped at how pale she looked. "It's like I've never even seen the sun." She used to have quite tanned skin, darkened still more by grime which never quite washed off. Despite her bloodless complexion, she was surprised to see that her face had softened considerably. The hollows of her cheeks were not quite so pronounced, the circles around her eyes not quite so dark. Her lips looked a little softer and less chapped.
Poulin dragged a comb through Éponine's tangled hair, paying no heed to the girl's cries and protests of pain. Then, she made quick work of braiding it, and made Éponine lie flat again.
"Here. Just a little. Send you to sleep." She tilted a spoonful of that sweet, spicy tincture against Éponine's lips. She didn't like the bitter taste it left in the back of her mouth, but she welcomed its effects.
"What is it?"
"Laudanum."
Laudanum. What a beautiful word. Éponine closed her eyes and waited for the stuff to take effect and bring her into that blissful, dreamy place.
—●—●—●—●—
She woke up with the sun sinking low, and her braid still damp. There was a knock at the bedroom door. Wasn't anyone going to open it? Then, she felt foolish, realising the knock was for her. "Come in," she said.
The foreign gentleman came in. He was an older man—probably her father's age, though his appearance was much better than her father's. There were less lines in his skin, which was warm and brown. His hair was dark under a peculiar cap, and his eyes were a magnificent green. "How are you, mademoiselle?"
"Much better, monsieur."
"The doctor told me it is very encouraging." He hesitated, as though there was something more he wanted to say.
"Monsieur, do you hear anything from Erik?"
She saw relief, then, in his face, as though she had brought up the very topic he was struggling to broach. "I have not. So, I have no doubt he is watching us very closely."
Éponine tilted her head. Perhaps she wasn't dreaming when she thought he was sometimes there at night.
The Daroga glanced toward the window and took a step closer to Éponine's bed. "How did you meet Erik?"
Éponine told him the story as she knew it, beginning with a very abbreviated tale of how she was at the barricade, with no mention of Monsieur Marius. The Daroga looked a bit suspicious when she said he claimed to have found her lying against the wall of the Opera House.
"Did Erik harm you in any way?"
Éponine shook her head vehemently. "No. I was scared, of course. What good could he want with a girl like me? But he was always gentlemanly and kind."
The Daroga looked relieved, but still cautious. "Erik is many things, but I always knew him as a gentleman. Still, be very careful, mademoiselle. I don't want to frighten you, or upset Erik." He paused. "Just be careful."
Éponine felt uneasy. This man had the manner of someone who could be trusted and also knew what they were talking about. But she trusted Erik, too. And she had been careful. She didn't trust easily.
She remembered the way that Erik had sounded when he was threatening the Daroga. It had chilled her, because she knew people who sounded like that. Men who weren't afraid to do whatever needed doing, including spilling blood. Men who enjoyed being feared. She knew Erik was probably capable of the same things as Montparnasse. But being near him was different than being near Montparnasse. She'd always thought she meant something to Montparnasse, until that incident in the Rue Plumet. She'd meant it when she said he was a good boy—she really believed he was, deep down. But he was never exactly kind or gentle. Even though he fancied himself a gentleman, there was always a part of her that had felt slightly uneasy in his presence. Erik made her feel safe. So, she would do well to be careful around someone who was probably capable of the sorts of crimes that the Patron-Minette committed. But she couldn't help but think that she was in no real danger with Erik. Although, thinking of what he had said to the Daroga reminded her of something the Daroga had said.
"What was that you said, in the house on the lake? You said something about keeping young girls against their will."
She thought the Daroga's face paled slightly. He glanced furtively around the room, as though Erik might have been standing in the corner the entire time they had been talking, and somehow had gone unnoticed. "Do not speak of that again, mademoiselle. I should not have said anything about that. Erik's secrets concern no one but himself, and it would be very bad for both of us if I told you. Just be careful." He wished her well and left the room.
Éponine shivered. Perhaps she was not safe after all.
A/N:Madame Poulin is just an OC. Fairly sure there was no one by that name in either novel, but just in case, she's no relation. XD
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