Chapter Thirteen
A Perfectly Respectable Wife and Her Silly Husband
Exhausted from all that had transpired, Éponine had gone to lie down, and fell asleep almost immediately. When she awoke, she fumbled around in the dark to light the lamp. It was 3 o'clock. Her stomach growled. She had slept past lunch, and clearly was getting too used to having regular meals. She rolled out of bed—still dressed—and headed into the drawing room.
She found Erik there, bent over his desk, writing something. She tried not to sneak up on him this time, but nonetheless, she could tell he was a little startled when he looked up.
"Ah, you're awake."
"What are you writing?" Without waiting for an answer, she craned her neck to read aloud. "'My Dear Managers, I am not writing merely to inform you that my salary is due, as you should certainly by now be perfectly capable of—'" That was enough for her to realise this was merely a dull business letter, so she stopped there. "Did you write this with a pen?"
Erik shooed her away. "Yes, of course with a pen. What do you mean? What else would I write it with?" He glared at the pen in his hand.
"It's just—I don't know. The letters look so peculiar. It's like you dipped the head of a match into ink and tried to write with that, or something."
"Why would anyone do that?" he asked irritably.
"I didn't say anyone would. I just said that's what it looks like. I can write better than that. I like that red ink, though."
"I'm pleased that you are beginning to feel so comfortable here, Éponine—"
Actually, (not that she could have articulated this, at the time) she was feeling quite uncomfortable for having told him all that she did, and that was what was making her behave in such a free manner.
"—but I don't like how nosy you're becoming." He frowned down at his half-finished letter, picking up his pen, but then just holding it as if he couldn't remember what he wanted to write. Or maybe he couldn't concentrate with Éponine standing there. "And as for my handwriting, not everyone has had the benefit of 'an education,' as you mentioned that yourself and your sister did."
Éponine tilted her head. He knew so many things. She assumed he must have been a student at some time in his life, like Marius and his friends. Could it really be that he had never even been taught to write properly? Trying to make him feel a little better, she said: "Well, when I said education, we didn't go to school, nothing like that. Maman taught us during the day, when the inn wasn't busy. She loved to read, Maman did."
Erik didn't say anything. He had started writing again. Éponine went and sat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, where the fire had nearly burnt itself out. From that seat, she could watch him in profile as he wrote. He wrote laboriously, like a child just learning. Those hands which she'd seen dancing so effortlessly across the piano keys, the hands which had felt so sure, so strong and yet so gentle in her hair—it was incredible that those same fingers could become so clumsy when gripping a pen. Éponine noticed how his lips folded together as he concentrated. His mask covered his forehead, but she could picture that it must be furrowed with a deep crease between his eyes. She had a notion of going over there, slipping his mask off, and smoothing that wrinkle out. It made her feel sort of light and floaty inside when she thought about that. He would be angry though—absolutely furious—if she took his mask off. No amount of smoothing would unfurrow his brow if she did that. How bad could his face really be? What she could see—mouth, chin, and jawline, left uncovered by the mask—was pale, but strong and handsome. She couldn't understand or believe that the rest of the face could actually be too horrible for people to look at.
"You're staring," Erik said, without looking up.
"Am not! I was just thinking."
"I can feel your inquisitive eyes." He finished writing and waved the paper impatiently to get the ink to dry. Then he folded it, sealed it with a wax seal, and tossed it down on the desk before standing up. "I'll need to deliver that later, but it can wait. Are you feeling strong enough to go shopping?"
"What?"
"For new clothes. Clothes that fit you properly."
Éponine glanced down at her hand, which twisted nervously into her skirt. She had heard stories. Sometimes a girl—not girls quite as low as her, more like seamstresses and shop-girls and the like, would catch the eye of a gentleman who would set her up in a little flat, dress her up in finery, and lavish her with gifts. It would be pretty comfortable for a while, but it could never last. Sooner or later the girl would be out on the street, worse off than before, because now she'd had the taste of a comfortable life and perhaps even a child or two. That was what her Maman thought must have happened to little Cosette's mother. Éponine trusted Erik about as much as she could ever trust anyone. She was fairly well reassured that he hadn't taken her in for any base or selfish reasons, and truly didn't expect anything in return for letting her recover in his house on the lake. But allowing him to buy clothes for her would be a step too far. What motive could he possibly have for that?
She shook her head. "That's all right. I don't need anything new. There are lots of clothes in there."
"But none of them fit you properly. They weren't made for you. No, I insist. We'd better go at once, and be back in time for supper."
"I insist: I can't let you buy me anything."
Erik was putting on his frock coat and impatiently pulling on his gloves. He didn't stop or look up, but he did say, "Why not?"
"Because...because I refuse to be your mistress."
That got his attention. He stared at her with his jaw slackened in horror. "Who said anything about that? Did I say anything about that? Absolutely not."
"No, you didn't," Éponine said, feeling a deep blush burning across her cheeks. "But that's how it would look if you bought me things."
"How it would look? How it would look to whom? I don't see any wagging tongues around us, this far beneath the ground, do you? How it would look to a seamstress we need never see again? We can tell her anything, give any story or explanation we wish."
Éponine looked down again, still fiddling with her skirt. "It just doesn't make sense. Why would you want to buy me things?"
Erik sighed. "Why should it matter what I do with my money? Besides, I was in the business of dying when I stumbled upon you—stumbled quite literally. Since I should have been dead by now, I think I should be able to do whatever I please with this borrowed time, don't you?"
Éponine shrugged, which caused her dress to fall off her shoulder. She tugged it back into place.
"Besides, it's absolutely ridiculous how you're swimming about in that dress. I demand my guests be better dressed than that—it reflects very poorly on me as a host!"
Éponine laughed in spite of herself, and stood up. "Whose clothes are these, anyway?"
"Christine's." He frowned, and it was as though a dark cloud had come over his face. "I saw to it that she had everything she could possibly need down here. But, those clothes were never worn."
"Maybe," Éponine said hesitantly, "maybe we could have some of these clothes altered to fit? Instead of buying new ones? And maybe I could do some work to pay it off."
Erik frowned. "There's no need for that. You won't owe me anything. As I said, what I do with my money shouldn't concern you."
"But it would make me feel better about it, if you let me work it off."
"What work could you possibly do? You're still recovering. I'm not exactly going to have you scrubbing floors."
Éponine twisted her mouth thoughtfully, as she glanced around the room. What could she do? It was true, she was still very weak, and she wouldn't be sticking around after she recovered. Her eyes landed on the writing desk. "I could write your letters for you? You could tell me what you want it to say, and I could write it down."
Erik scowled. "I don't need help writing my letters; I manage just fine on my own, thank you. But never mind, we'll think of something, if it would please you. As for altering the clothes, I suppose that's a fine idea as well. Go and pick out what you like."
Éponine went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. She liked the green plaid she was wearing. She also liked one that was dark red-orange with a small floral pattern, and one that was deep, solid blue. Three dresses seemed like a lot, but she knew Erik was going to fuss if she only came out with one. She changed out of the green plaid, as she would have to leave it with the seamstress, and donned a sky blue one that at least had a higher neckline, so it wouldn't be falling down her shoulders on the street. It was a struggle with her mangled hand, but she successfully braided her hair and wound it around into a bun on the back of her head. She found a bonnet, which had an enormously wide brim. She couldn't see sideways without turning her head. She laughed. Not that anyone would recognise her now, dressed up like a lady and with a little bit of flesh on her bones, but even if they could, they'd never even be able to catch a glimpse of her face! She wished she had a mirror to see how she looked. But now, she had a pretty good idea of why there were no mirrors in the house.
—●—●—●—●—
She had wanted to walk—it seemed like it had been such a long time since she'd walked on a street and felt the summer sun on her face. But she was still too weak, and so he insisted on hiring a fiacre. They arrived outside of a seamstress's shop, and Erik strode in confidently, carrying the dresses so that Éponine could carry her skirts and not trip headlong over them. They entered the shop, which had mirrors through which Éponine caught a glimpse of the ridiculous picture she made. There were also counters, behind which girls sat busily sewing here and cutting out pieces of fine fabric there. It was dazzling to Éponine.
The proprietress, a formidable wedding cake of a woman, glowered at them over a pair of wire spectacles.
"Good afternoon, Madame," Erik said. "We have three dresses here, and should like to have them altered to fit, if you please."
She fixed her sharp eyes on Éponine, then addressed Erik with a sniff: "This is a respectable establishment, Monsieur. I'm afraid you will have to take your little hussy someplace else."
This was exactly why Éponine hadn't wanted him to buy her anything. Her right hand balled into a fist, and she opened her mouth, preparing to tell that snooty old hag exactly what 'this little hussy' thought of her. But Erik, whether because he sensed her fury or just anticipated it, had side-stepped so that he was slightly in front of her, with his arm just slightly out to block her.
When he spoke, he did not raise his voice, and there was no anger—at least, none that could be heard above the surface. But it still sent a hush over the room and sent a chill through Éponine. "Listen, for I shall say this only once, Madame: you are never to refer to my wife that way again."
Oh, Éponine was going to have words for him later. But for now, she just did her part to look like the respectable, deeply offended wife.
The proprietress opened her mouth, but then, upon meeting the eyes of the masked man, seemed to think better of it. "Very well," she said with a sniff.
"Excellent. Now, to return to the business at hand: my wife has been very ill, so these clothes no longer fit her. They will need to be taken in considerably. Also, she should be fitted with all of the necessary..." He waved his hand vaguely, apparently unable to come up with a word, or unwilling to utter it.
Éponine stepped forward, slipping her arm around Erik's. "My silly husband. He still can't bring himself to say 'corset' or 'chemise' or 'petticoat.'"
A couple of the seamstresses giggled, but the proprietress looked supremely unamused. Éponine dared glance up to meet Erik's eyes—she had to crane her neck thanks to that ridiculous bonnet—and she gave him a conspiratorial grin. He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. And it was hard to say for sure with the mask covering so much, but it looked like his face might be a little bit flushed.
