Chapter Thirty-Seven

Unfamiliarity Amdist the Familiar and Familial

A/N: Forgot to mention this in the chapter where she talks to Montparnasse, but obviously I took the liberty of massively condensing the time line, in order for Marius to already be married when she found out what happened to everyone in chapter 21. In the brick, it wasn't until February of 1833 (so several months later) that they got married, and some time after that when Thénardier comes to him trying to blackmail him and ends up exonerating Valjean. If you're mad about it, I'm sorry!


The last time Éponine had changed in an alleyway, it was when she swapped her ragged skirt and torn chemise with some boy who thought it would be funny to dress up as a woman, so that she could go to the barricade in his working man's attire. Now, behind some crates, in the pale moonlight, she exchanged her evening gown for the dark blue dress. Then, she slumped down in a shadow. When she had to sleep rough like this, she always sat up, because laying down seemed too vulnerable, and being asleep was already vulnerable enough. The dull, earthy smell of the wet wooden crates was a little too suffocating if she leaned her head there, so her only other recourse was to lay her head against the rough bricks of the wall. She put her valise between herself and the wall and curled around it slightly so no one could interfere with it without waking her, and she closed her eyes to try and get a little much-needed sleep.

Funny. It wasn't the soft bed or the comfortable little couch that she missed the most, as she tried to sleep there, with the cold cobblestones pressing into her tail-bone, the mouldering crates and other questionable smells filling her nostrils, and the wall her only pillow. What she really missed was the sound of Erik's breathing, and just his presence. Knowing he was near.

When she woke up, it was still dark, and she did not feel rested. She couldn't fall asleep again, because she was plagued by the question: what now?

There was never any chance of finding decent employment before, when she had been filthy and shivering in her rags. And now she was well-dressed, and clean for the moment, but what could she do, with only one good hand, and still very little strength in her? Well, with a thousand francs, that needn't be a problem—she didn't need to find a job right away. The Gorbeau tenement had cost ten francs a quarter, forty francs a year. With a thousand francs, she could have lodging for quite a long time in a miserable dump like that, or even some place a bit nicer!

But, how would she pass her time, all by herself? Stare at the walls? Sing to herself and stare at the walls, like a mad woman? She would drink, probably, which would certainly make the time—and the money—go much faster.

When she first started watching Marius, back when they all lived in the Gorbeau, she was deeply touched, to see someone who was so poor, but so good. He worked hard, shut away in his little room. She would listen sometimes behind the door, and hear him muttering in different languages, and the furious scratching of his pen. Every sou that he had, he earned that way. And not only did he earn without taking from others, he gave to others. He was so generous and kind. And the more she watched him, she started to feel so ashamed of herself, and the things she and her family did to get by. She wanted to be different, and the best she could really do was to stop speaking argot, and to say the house in the Rue de Plumet was a biscuit to protect Marius and the girl he loved.

So, for Erik, who was so magnificently brilliant, who had so many talents, who she knew to be capable of goodness, who had been kinder to her than anyone else ever had been in her entire life—for Erik to choose to extort twenty thousand francs every single month was sickening to her. She just couldn't believe there truly were no other ways for him to make money. And even if this was his only way, he didn't have to take such an enormous sum every month, did he? It was unnecessary. It wasn't just about survival, was it? He must feel that he was owed. And maybe he was owed, in a way, for how badly he had been treated all his life. But did that mean he had a right to steal such a large sum from other people, who hadn't personally done anything to him? Did being treated like a monster make it right to be a criminal? She didn't know. Maybe it wasn't her place to say.

All she knew was, she herself wouldn't feel right, living idly off of the thousand francs represented by the bank note hidden in her bodice.

And thinking of Marius, that gave her a small idea. A ray of hope. But unfortunately, this idea meant there was someone she was going to have to find.

—●—●—●—●—

The sky was just showing signs of beginning to lighten. If this didn't work, Éponine wasn't sure where else to look. She tried not to think about the smells emanating from behind the grate. When the sun began to come up, she sighed and turned away. Either her father didn't have the key any more, or he had found a better place to hide.

As the city woke up, Éponine wandered somewhat aimlessly, scanning for familiar faces, or familiar disguises. She had to stop often, leaning against a wall or sitting down a moment. Besides the weakness and tiredness, there was also a gnawing pain in her stomach, but she didn't dare bring out a thousand franc note, and she couldn't buy some bread with her cab fare, because she needed it for when she finally got the address.

She heard laughter and saw the blur of a little gamin running past, and her heart leapt for a moment, and she opened her mouth to call out to him. But then she remembered, and it hit her like a punch to the stomach. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and walked on.

She retraced steps that were so familiar, and found herself so unfamiliar. Sellers who used to eye her warily, expecting that she might try to steal something (and they were not always wrong) now looked at her curiously and with something of concern. She looked like a young lady, but she was unaccompanied, and possibly lost. She refused to make eye contact with any of them and simply trudged along like she knew what she was doing.

After walking for what felt like a couple hours at least, she found herself completely worn out, despite her frequent pauses to gather her strength. She was near a stable that was easy to sneak into, where she and Azelma used to sleep sometimes, quite comfortable in the soft hay. She willed herself to keep going a little further, using up the last of her strength to reach it. She went around to the back of the building, where, sure enough, the window of the loft was still left open, and could be accessed by stepping up on some precarious stacked crates, stretching and jumping until your fingers managed to reach the window ledge, then pushing and pulling yourself up with all the strength your arms could muster, all the while doing your best to grip the wall with your bare feet, and finally, exhausted, tumbling into the loft.

Éponine grimaced at her mangled hand, and eyed her voluminous skirts warily. She took off her shoes and stockings and put them in the valise. The first thing she was going to have to do was get her bag in the window. She was loathe to blindly throw it in there, but leaving it behind in the alley wasn't an option, and she couldn't climb up with it. So, she stood up on the crates. She lifted the bag above her head, wincing at the pain in her chest. Her arms shook uncontrollably under the weight of the bag. She jumped and slammed the bag toward the window, but she missed.

Trying again, she jumped and this time it nearly went in. On the third time, she jumped, threw the bag forward, this time letting go of it, and it slid through the window. Before she could celebrate her success, she heard, "Hey! What—"

She recognised that voice. "Azelma?"

A gaunt face framed in messy black hair with pieces of straw sticking to it appeared at the window. It took a moment before realisation dawned on her sister's face. "'Ponine? Is that really you?"

Éponine nodded vigorously. She hadn't dared to hope that her sister would be here, and certainly wasn't prepared for how overwhelming it would be to see that face again.

"Can you come up?"

Éponine tried, but her skirts were in her way, and she couldn't grip the ledge with her left hand, and her arms definitely didn't have the strength to pull her entire weight.

"Hang on, I'll come down."

"Throw my bag down first, will you?"

In answer, her valise came out the window and nearly hit her on the head. She tried to catch it, but it thudded onto the ground next to her. Azelma descended out of the window. Éponine slumped against the boxes, exhaustion finally overtaking her.

"What's happened to you? I didn't believe Montparnasse when he said you were living with some creepy man at the opera house, but look at you, all dressed up and some meat on your bones."

Éponine did her best to ignore the ache in her heart. "Not living there any more," was all she said. "And now, I'm looking for Papa."

Azelma wrinkled her nose. "What do you want him for?"

"I need to find out where someone lives."

"Who?"

"Does it matter?"

"That's no way to treat your sister. But I s'pose you're too good for me now." Her voice was glum.

Éponine looked sadly up at her sister, who was standing in front of her. She seemed to have gotten even more rawboned since they had last seen each other. Back then, she'd still had a trace of softness to her. A small remnant of the little girl that she was. Now, she stood before Éponine on frail legs which showed through the massive tears in her skirt, with the knobby knees being the widest part, and the bones of her ankles jutting out sharply. Her crossed arms were absolutely skeletal, and her face was all eyes and the hollows and shadows which were traced around them. Éponine reached out her hand weakly, but Azelma stood there stubbornly.

"Please," Éponine said softly. "Come sit beside me. Don't you know that I've missed you so? Please come sit here, close."

Reluctantly, Azelma sat on Éponine's right, with a few inches of gaping space between them.

Effortfully, Éponine scooted closer, closing the gap. Azelma didn't move, except to shift her weight and turn her shoulders just so slightly away from Éponine.

"Are you angry with me?"

Azelma didn't say anything, but she sniffled, and Éponine craned her neck to look at Azelma's face, which was turned slightly away from her. Heavy, fat tears were falling from her sister's eyes.

"Azelma..." Éponine grabbed her sister's hand, and Azelma tried to wrench her hand away, but she didn't try all that hard, and Éponine's grip was firm. She pressed their clasped hands against her cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" Azelma's voice was thick with tears.

"For leaving you behind. For going to the barricade to die, and leaving you with no one to protect you."

Azelma buried her face in her knees. Éponine let go of her hand and instead put her arm around her sister's frail back, where she could feel every bone of her spine. "Where's Montparnasse? Doesn't seem like he takes very good care of you."

"He hardly concerns himself with me. You know you were always the one he really liked." Azelma's voice was muffled.

Éponine pressed her lips together so hard that they went numb.

Azelma raised her head, and there was a hardened look in her eyes, and her voice was careful and flat. "You want to see Papa. I can take you to him."

Éponine leaned her head back against the crates behind them. "In a moment, please."

"What's the matter? Are you sick?" Azelma's face went pale. "Oh, you're not...?"

Éponine shook her head quickly. "No. No, not that." She showed Azelma her hand, and then traced where the musket ball had gone through her chest.

"Oh, Montparnasse told me you got hurt. Is it still very bad?"

"I'm just more tired, that's all. And it hurts a bit. I'll be fine, it's just that I've been walking all morning."

"What happened, 'Ponine? Did that man throw you out?"

"No," Éponine's voice was dull and sounded far away. "I left."

"Why?"

Éponine shook her head.

Azelma was quiet and let her rest for a while. They held hands, and Éponine drifted off to sleep for a bit.

—●—●—●—●—

"Who's that?"

Her father never was very good at recognising his own children, even when she didn't look so drastically different. "That's a fine way to greet your eldest daughter," she said dryly.

They were standing out in a fairly busy street, where no one would pause too long to pay attention to them.

"Éponine?" He spat out her name like it was a curse. "I have nothing to say to you." He crossed his arms and turned away.

She was well beyond being hurt by this. "That's fine. I just need an address."

He looked at Azelma like Éponine was not there. "Here she comes, a fine lady now, no concern for her poor old father, and has the gall to ask favours!"

Azelma looked down at her feet.

"Papa, please. I think you can tell me where Marius lives now. That Baron Marius Pontmercy, who used to live next door to us? He got married, and Montparnasse said you were there."

Thénardier sneered. "He won't want you. You're right, he's got a wife now. A pretty little thing."

Éponine clenched her teeth. She wasn't even going to dignify that with a response. "All the same."

"I might know the address. I have some business there, but they won't let me in yet. They say he's still recovering. Not taking visitors."

Éponine stepped forward and impetuously clutched at her father's arm, a sinking feeling in her stomach. "What business do you have with him?"

"You don't concern yourself with my business any more," he said, extricating his arm from her grasp. "And as I said, I have nothing to say to you. We're going, Azelma." He turned and started to walk away, and Azelma hesitated, looking between her father's back and Éponine, unsure.

Éponine's brain worked quickly, finally landing on a course of action that would satisfy all of them. "Wait! You won't talk to me, but will you talk to a thousand francs?"

He spun around, his eyes glittering, but his face suspicious. "Who has a thousand francs?"

Éponine squared her shoulders and jutted out her chin defiantly. "You'd have to tell me the address, and promise you'll abandon whatever business you had with the Baron and his wife."

"Fine, done. Only, I don't believe you really have a thousand francs."

Éponine reached into her bodice and pulled out the bank note. Her father sprang forward, but she held it over a sewer grate. "Any closer, I drop it."

Her father stopped and stared at her in horror. "You're mad. I thought so, after you stopped our business that one night. And Montparnasse told me about your stunt at the barricade. Wouldn't say where you've been since, though. How did you come by a thousand francs?"

She laughed. "What does that matter to you, anyway? All that's ever mattered to you is money. Well, I've got the money here. What's the address?"

Thénardier stood there a moment, his beady little eyes considering her. "Fine. What do I care? It's in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Number six. Now—" he reached out a grasping hand for the bank note, but Éponine held it still more threateningly over the grating.

"What? I gave you the address!"

"I want you to tell me what your business was, too. You weren't going to break in, because you wanted to speak to him. What about?"

Thénardier only grumbled. "Only...There's a chance, isn't there, that this business is worth more than a thousand francs? I had a mind to ask him for ten thousand."

Éponine laughed contemptuously. "Come, Papa. You know he'd never give you that. Tell me, and get your thousand francs, and go some place else."

Thénardier hesitated another second, then said, "Well, a thousand francs in front of me are better than any number across town, especially if he won't see me." He drew a piece of torn cloth out of his pocket. It was black, stained with questionable substances, amongst which was something that looked like blood. "It's a long story."

"Please make it short." She shifted her weight impatiently. No one could make more drama out of a small piece of information than her father could, dragging it out forever. And she was too tired for that.

"You know the girl he married—a fine Baronne now, she is. The Baronne Pontmercy." He sneered.

"Well?"

"You know it's just that snivelling Cosette. Fantine's bastard daughter."

"That's not news, and he won't care. He loves her."

"No, no. I wasn't going to tell him that. That would get me a boot in the backside as the door slammed behind me. But her 'father,' the man who calls himself her father. You know he's nothing but a convict? He's no Fauchelevent, nor Madeleine either. He's Jean Valjean."

Éponine shrugged. "What are names? We've had a few. And you were in La Force until you got busted out. Again, he loves her, which means he's bound to love her father too."

"But this will ruin them. This piece of fabric right here. I could use it to ruin them all." He smiled deviously in a way that made Éponine's stomach turn. "This is a new crime, one that no one but me and the perpetrator know."

"Well? Get on with it."

"I'm trying, but you keep interrupting me, insolent brat. One night, on the sixth of June, I met a man in the sewers. It was none other than Jean Valjean, and he was carrying a dead man on his back. A dead man that he had killed, and robbed, and was trying to dispose of in the river. And he wanted my key!"

Éponine's mind spun as she thought of that kindly-eyed man who had given Cosette such a beautiful doll and taken her away to a better life. Who, later, had come to the Gorbeau with clothes and money and the very coat off his back. It didn't make any sense that he would be an assassin and a robber. Sure, it made sense to her father, because he was corrupted to his core, and he thought everyone else was too. But for Éponine, it did not add up. Still, that's what he saw...

"Making this short, we came to an agreement, and I gave him the key, but not before securing a bit of evidence. This is a piece from the dead man's coat. I was going to take it straight to Valjean, but I hear he has nothing now to buy my silence with. So I thought I'd see the baron. But I'm not sure it's worth the trouble. There, you know it all. And if ever I find out that you use this, and you get more than a thousand francs for it, you're going to rue the day!" As he spoke, he held out the scrap of fabric, and Éponine took it, trading him the thousand franc note.

She wrinkled her nose at the soiled piece of fabric, finally wadding it up and putting it inside her valise. "That's all, then. Goodbye, Papa."

"Yeah. C'mon Azelma."

Éponine looked sadly at her sister. She couldn't take her with, but to leave her behind—what would become of her? "'Zelma." She held out her arms.

Azelma looked at her with hardened eyes, but then slowly stepped toward her and allowed Éponine to enfold her in a desperate, tight embrace.

"I love you," Éponine whispered against her sister's jutting shoulder. She didn't know when was the last time any of them had ever said such words to one another. She let a couple of tears fall as she reflected on the fact that she'd never get to say those words to Maman or Gavroche ever again. And perhaps this was the last time she would ever hold Azelma close, either. "Please be good, take care of yourself. Don't let anyone make you do anything you don't want to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry things aren't different."

Azelma was stiff, and she pulled ever so slightly away. Finally, Éponine let go.

"Yeah," Azelma said roughly. "Thanks. I...yeah. Love you too."

And then she was gone. Running to catch up with their father, who had not stopped to watch the sisterly scene. And that was it.

Taking a shaky breath and squaring her shoulders, Éponine hailed a fiacre. "Number six, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire."


A/N: Marius would have given him quite a bit more than a thousand francs actually, because he did in the book. Tough luck, Thénardier!