Chapter Thirty-Nine

To What Purpose?


Why?

To what purpose had all of this happened? What was the meaning of it?

Erik was lying face down on the floor, at the threshold of his funereal bedroom, with his legs still in the drawing room. He was not even sure how long he had been there. Quite soon, he would get up, go lie in his coffin, and never come out again. But at present, he could not motivate himself to move.

If he had not gone up to the surface that night, he could have died having tasted all of the happiness life could ever offer. He had been so very close. But Éponine had come along and interfered with all of it, to what purpose? If it was to end like this, then what was the point in finding her and having her bring him back from the brink of death? What did she mean in causing him to dare, once more, to hope? What was the object of these experiences which were unlike anything that came before in his pitiful existence that passed for a life?

Éponine was nothing like the sun. She was not Juliette, high up on her balcony. A star may be adored, but never up close. What of the moon, placid and serene, so far removed from the secrets she silently witnesses? No, Éponine was nothing like the moon. Éponine was simply a person. A real person of flesh and bone, with a soul, and a heart, and a history. A person with scars, a person with things she felt very strongly about. And if he did not take great care, she would bruise.

Yet what could be better than a person? Especially when, for the first time in his life, he had experienced such closeness with another human soul. He had stood before her and removed his mask, and she had touched his face without fear, declaring she liked him better than anyone she had met in her entire life. For her part, she had shared so much of herself, as well as shown that she trusted him to behave as a gentleman, not a monster. They had spent so many wonderful little moments together—they'd been very happy, hadn't they? Yes, she was a person, and so was he, and they had enjoyed unprecedented intimacy and understanding, which just seemed to deepen with each day that passed. It had been at many points overwhelming, especially since it felt so strong and so fragile all at once. What existed between them had been so open, and honest, and real, had it not?

And yet, she accused him of lying to her. Had he lied to her?

No. He had not lied to her. She misunderstood, and had not given him a chance to explain. He tried, and she commanded him to be silent. She wouldn't let him speak. So, he had been silent; he had respectfully given her a chance to say her piece. But she had never accorded him the same respect in return, and then she left. She assumed she knew, and understood, what he was going to say, but she did not understand at all. She contended that there were other opportunities, other prospects for him to earn a living. Foolish. Because his face did not frighten her, she didn't see the reality of the obstacle that it presented when dealing with other people. She did not comprehend the way it had marred the course of his entire life, and the impact it had on every relationship, including their own.

Oh yes, he had been an ordinary contractor for a time. Working so much harder than another man need have done, in order to try to earn some respect. He had endured the stares, the vulgar curiosity, the open derision and the veiled contempt. And he had been faced with the choice to either act as though he were insensible to their treatment, or else react by giving them the satisfaction of proving that he was exactly what they thought he was: a monster. Was this the lot he was to be content with? Was he to be grateful for the chance to play by the rules of a society that viewed him as less than human?

"Sometimes I think that everything that happens to us makes a difference," she had said, on the bank of the Seine. She had very insightfully observed that, with a different face, he would have been a different person. But she truly did not understand the extent of how very true that was.

Éponine had led a very difficult life, he would never deny it. And he felt sure she had not told him everything. But they were not the same. She was outside of society, trapped in the underworld, this was true. For her, though, the barriers were those of money, education, and circumstances of birth. All outside of her own ability to influence, but still, rather accidental. With those things in place, she could have ended up in any sphere.

But Erik? Circumstances of birth would not have mattered. Erik could have been born into the royal family, and still he would have been shut away as a shameful secret. Education? He had gone to great lengths to improve his mind and cultivate his talents, and he had all the manners of a gentleman. In the eyes of others, these things only made him more of an oddity, a grotesque pretence, a joke. Money? He could acquire all the wealth that he wished, but it would never buy him regard from his fellow man, let alone love. If anything, it would only make him all the more hated, an object for resentment. The obstacles were insurmountable, and with any rearranging of circumstance, his life would be fundamentally unchanged, as long as his face was what it was. Éponine did not understand this.

So, yes. He had seen for himself, in the cellars of the Opera, a chance to exercise all of his artistic whims and fantasies, and to amuse himself a little. To make what he could out of life, which had given him very little joy or peace. To embrace his darkest dreams and hide himself away from the world's scorn, and bury himself in his music. Why should he be bound by the constraints of a society that would never accept him? She couldn't understand that? She couldn't allow that?

He clawed into his scalp with fingers that shook of rage and hurt. Then, he dragged himself forward a little further into his room, and fell face down again. He lay there for some time, he didn't know how long, until his breathing began to slow a little, and his heartbeat was no longer painful.

It occurred to him that Éponine had not been in the right frame of mind, quite. She was exhausted, probably in pain. And then she had been panicked over the explosions, which he hadn't even warned her were coming. She was not in the best position to understand. But she still had to work out what she thought was right, and act upon it. Perhaps, if she hadn't been so tired and overwrought, she would have chosen differently.

And then, was she actually upset about the twenty thousand francs? Wasn't it more the fact that he had pulled her into it? She didn't ask him not to do anything, as she said, "underhanded or dishonest." She asked him not to involve her in it. And that is what he had promised. That is where, in her mind, he had betrayed her. Of course, she didn't understand properly, and had not given him a chance to explain. Still, she had been hurt. She felt as though he had used her and lied to her.

"That's all I am, right? That's all I am to anyone." Those were her words, and that was how she saw it.

Erik had been used, many times in his life. As a source of amusement. As the architect of marvellous palaces filled with tricks. And when he was no longer useful? Well, then he would have to be exterminated, wouldn't he? Like vermin. Holding no worth. Not meaning anything as a person. Disposable. Extinguishable, without a second thought.

Oh.

He should have told her, shouldn't he, that he did not see her as something to be used and then discarded. He should have told her that she had so much worth, should have told her what she meant to him. But even if she were before him right now, what could he say? What were these feelings? How could he make her understand something which he himself did not?

At the very least, he owed her an apology for how she felt, rightly or wrongly.

But she was gone, and he did not know where to look for her. And she would not want him to.

He dragged himself a little further into his room, and let his head drop back to the floor with a hard bang. Really, what was the point of all of this? Why did he need to die even more brokenly, and without one ounce of happiness? Before he found Éponine, he had reached the end. There was a finality to it all, and a sense of peace. Now? This was not even an ending. This felt unfinished. She had left exhausted and panicked and upset, without giving him a chance to speak, and now they would never see each other again, and he would die empty and alone. What was the meaning of it all?

And yet, he could not regret it. Had he not found her, she might well have died, alone in the dark street. He was happy that had not been her fate. He could not regret the memories which he now strove vainly not to recall because they brought him nothing but pain. Regretting their time together meant wishing her dead, and he could not do that, although she probably hated him now. Must hate him, to leave him like this.

What was he expected to do, now? He did not want things to end this way, so dreadfully unfinished. But there was nothing that he could do, was there? And even if there had been, he was too broken to do it.