Chapter Forty
Morning in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire
A/N: Content warning for more vague allusions to Éponine's past and her father not protecting her.
There was someone shaking her shoulder. "Erik..." she murmured sleepily. Why couldn't he let her sleep in a little? She was exhausted; she felt like she hadn't slept at all, even though she had not woken even once since her head hit the pillow.
"Who?" That was a woman's voice.
Éponine opened her eyes and saw Olympie looking at her through narrowed eyes. She was already fully dressed, and there was the weak light of the sun just beginning to rise filtering through the window.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Éponine struggled to sit up. "Good morning."
"Are you ill, Éponine?"
"No. Don't think so." She was only very tired, she thought, and the best way to get over it would be to get moving.
"Well then, you'd better get up, and hurry."
Éponine pulled herself out of bed and hurried to dress. Her dark blue dress from the day before was quite dirty from the street, and she was a little embarrassed to think how she must have looked when she arrived yesterday. She had been so tired, and a little out of her mind, and hadn't even given a thought to her appearance. She opened her valise to pull out a different dress, and Olympie told her she had better move her things into the chest so they wouldn't get so wrinkled up. So, she quickly moved her clothes into the chest at the foot of her bed, and as she did so, the piece of fabric her father had given her fell to the floor. She picked it up, glancing to make sure Olympie hadn't seen, and then hid it away amongst her clothes. She put on the green plaid dress. "I'm ready."
"Your hair."
Éponine clutched at her hair. It had already been quite dishevelled yesterday, and it was all coming undone now. She had been so tired the night before that she had gone to bed without letting it down. "I don't have a hairbrush," she realised aloud, with a little dismay. She was really not doing so well, was she, on her first day?
Sighing, Olympie took a hairbrush from a little table that stood next to her own bed, and passed it to Éponine. Éponine thanked her and sat on the bed, pulling the pins out of her hair and dragging the brush through it, somewhat frantically, conscious that Olympie was waiting on her. As she began to pin her hair up again, finding some of her pins on, under, and around her pillow, Olympie asked a question.
"Who is Erik?"
Éponine's face remained deadpan. "Who?"
"When I tried to wake you just now, you said, 'Erik.'"
Éponine shrugged and shook her head, keeping her face perfectly impassive. "Did I? How odd."
"Odd indeed." Olympie, seeing that Éponine was done with her hair, went over to the chest at the foot of her own bed and pulled out a white apron. "They'll have aprons made up for you, but until then, here's one of mine."
"Thank you," Éponine said, tying it on.
"Now, we must hurry down." Olympie flew down the stairs, with Éponine following behind her. Only, she couldn't go so fast, or her vision would start to darken.
Basque was already in the kitchen, but Éponine hardly had time to say good morning to him, because Olympie, wringing her hands that they were behind schedule, was showing her how to light the stove, which she was to come down and do every morning, and then she shooed her up the stairs to go and clean the salon and the dining room and everything else on the main floor before the family woke up. Éponine, biting her lip, did her best to tidy, sweep, polish, and dust. She kept needing to pause, letting the black spots clear from her vision before continuing.
"You're not done yet?" Olympie managed to make these words come out in a screech that was somehow also a whisper, which, despite the low volume, caused Éponine to jump. She had been leaning against a wall in the dining room, closing her eyes for a moment.
"Sorry, nearly."
"Well, when you are done, I beg you to hurry back down. I could use your help in the kitchen."
—●—●—●—●—
"Bring this up for Monsieur Gillenormand, if you would. Basque is in there already, getting him up."
Éponine took a tray, which held a warm cup of chocolate, from Olympie. By the time she made it to M. Gillenormand's door, she was a little dizzy and out of breath. She was about to knock, and then she heard the old man's voice, talking, presumably, to Basque.
"...a wonder no one was hurt! Ghastly! The Opera house, of all places! No respect for these estimable institutions, the brigands!" There was the sound of paper rattling. "Disgraceful. That's what I think of it! Scoundrels! Blood-suckers! It was meant to look like blood you know—a threat, I think. Oh, they'll not be satisfied until they see 'eighty-nine repeat itself. Assassins! And most of them so young they have no idea. Villains! The fall of the barricades wasn't the end of it? Outrageous! Ghastly, I say! —Only, you must not tell young Marius that I thought so."
"Of course not, Monsieur."
Éponine put together what they were talking about, and breathed a sigh of relief that no one was hurt. Erik hadn't lied about that much, at least. And it seemed that the papers were putting the incident down to another revolutionary plot. Well, of course, no one would seriously go looking in the cellars for a ghost. She knocked on the door.
Basque opened it and took the tray from her, and she slipped away quietly.
She had to then go back down and get another tray to take to Mlle. Gillenormand. Coffee and bread. She found the lady sitting at a rather austere dressing table in a rather austere room. She was fully dressed, and tucking her hair into her cap. She gestured for Éponine to set the tray down at a little table, and then before Éponine could turn to leave, she turned to look at her, rather sharply.
"What was your name?"
"Éponine."
"Éponine. Dear me. What a name."
In a forcedly flat voice, Éponine asked, "Do you need anything else?"
This earned her a still sharper look from the old woman. She continued: "That is an exceedingly well-made gown."
"Thank you," Éponine said simply, although fully aware that the words were more an accusation than a compliment. "If that's all, Madame—"
"Mademoiselle! I never married." The lady sat up even more stiffly, fiddling with the high collar of her dress.
"If that's all, Mademoiselle, then I must go. Nicolette will be needing me."
She hardly waited for the lady's assent before hurrying back down.
"You look pale," Olympie said with a frown as she handed Éponine a tray for Marius and Cosette.
"I'm all right. Maybe—" feeling faint, she pushed the tray gently back into Olympie's hands. "Maybe I should sit for just a moment."
"Are you sure that you aren't ill?"
Éponine nodded as she sat at the kitchen table. "I just don't have all of my strength back yet."
"From your hand being ripped open? I shouldn't think that would be such a long recovery."
Éponine responded by tugging the gently-scooped neckline of her gown as far as she could, so that Olympie could see her more serious wound.
"Oh my!" Olympie placed the tray down on the table, and reached out her hand, stopping short of actually touching the site of the injury.
"It went out my back."
Olympie's outstretched hand went to her mouth. "You've seen a doctor? Of course, you must have. But it has been only a month since! Monsieur le baron is still not recovered, and he had more wounds, to be sure, but none went so deep."
Éponine shrugged and stood up. "I need to get on. What else can I do?" She picked up the tray and went resolutely up the stairs to bring it to Marius and Cosette. She found them in their charming, light-filled room, sitting as they had been when she first arrived. She set the tray down on a table that stood near. She noticed Marius had a newspaper on his lap and was staring out the window with a deeply-furrowed brow, while Cosette looked distressed and confused. Marius was in his dressing gown, and Cosette wore an elegant peignoir.
"Good morning, Éponine!" Cosette said, beaming at her. "How are you this morning? Green is such a becoming colour on you."
Éponine couldn't help but smile genuinely, although she felt Cosette really was persisting in treating her more as a friend than a servant.
"Won't you stay for a moment? My husband is being so dismal this morning, and this is what I have for company! He's dreadfully mean to me, you know." Cosette's eyes sparkled merrily.
"Cosette—" Marius looked at his wife with an indulgent expression.
"Well, you won't show me what it is in the paper that has upset you so, or tell me about it!"
"This cannot be of interest to Éponine, who, no doubt, has much to attend to." As he spoke, he seemed in conflict as to whether or not to meet Éponine's eyes. She wished things didn't have to be so uncomfortable, but then, she supposed she really had made a nuisance and a fool of herself, where he was concerned. That seemed like such a long time ago, now.
"Yes, Nicolette will be after me—"
"No, stay, please! I wish it." Cosette implored.
Éponine opened her mouth to protest again, when Marius jumped in.
"Cosette? Do you know what would make me very happy? If you would go and play the piano in the salon. Leave the doors open so that I can hear. Then I won't be so 'dismal' or 'mean' any more."
"Oh, if that's what you want. But you see, Éponine? You see how he treats me? Not telling me what is the matter, and ordering me around." And, leaving a kiss on her husband's cheek, she flitted out of the room to oblige him at the piano. Éponine was turning to leave and go back down to Nicolette, when Marius stopped her.
"I wanted to speak to you, Éponine."
Feeling apprehension in the pit of her stomach, she slowly turned back toward him. The sound of piano carried in from the salon, a merry and delicate tune which was exactly the type of thing you would expect from Cosette. She played well.
"There are two things that weigh heavily on my mind—two people to whom I owe a debt. One saved my father's life, and the other, my own. I have been vainly hoping to somehow track them down, so that I might thank them properly. And now, here you are!"
Éponine opened her mouth, but he was already continuing.
"I hope you might be able to help me find at least one of those men."
Éponine felt a little embarrassed at thinking for a second that she was the one referred to as having saved his life. Of course, until yesterday he'd thought she was dead, so that wouldn't have weighed on his mind for the past month. Pushing that aside, she tilted her head and waited for him to continue.
"Do you know where I might find your father?"
"My father?" She could barely get the words out, so unexpected was the fact that he should want to find her father, of all people.
"Yes. I know your father is Thénardier, and that he kept an inn in Montfermeil."
Éponine nodded warily.
"He saved my own father's life at Waterloo."
She interrupted with: "He did have a story about saving a general."
"A colonel. My father was one of Napoleon's colonels, and Napoleon made him a baron."
She frowned slightly. She used to believe her father's Waterloo story (which she had heard him recount again and again, year after year, to visitors at the inn), but as she got older and wiser, she came to distrust anything that came out of his lying mouth. And given how she knew him to be, the idea that he would risk his life to save someone else on a battlefield, well, if it wasn't an absolute load of rubbish, it made his disregard for his own family a whole lot sadder. Had he really rescued some general—or colonel, whatever—from the heat of battle, only to constantly push his daughters into the line of fire, being, at best, unmindful and negligent when it came to what could happen to them? Éponine had tried to protect Azelma as much as she could, but no one protected her, least of all her father, who just did not care what—no, she was going to lose control of her breathing. Think about something else. Think about Waterloo. Waterloo was Napoleon against the English. A great battle, it was, and Marius's father was there, apparently—
Marius continued: "It was my father's dying wish that if I ever came across Thénardier, I was to do whatever I could for him. I have not yet fulfilled that duty. Please tell me where your father is, if you know."
Éponine gave him a fierce look. "Listen. Stay far away from my father."
"I understand what sort of man he is. I remember what happened at the Gorbeau. But—"
"No. You don't have any idea. Promise me you'll stay away."
"I can make no such promise, as I have already vowed to find him and in some way repay him. He saved my father, Éponine. I have an obligation toward your family now."
She laughed. "There must be a mistake there, and I don't know what it is. But I do know this: last time I spoke to him, he had something bad in mind for you, and I made him promise to drop it. But you need to stay away from him. Please."
Marius looked questioning, but before he could speak, the piano music stopped, and Éponine said, "I'll be on my way to the kitchen, Monsieur." She curtsied clumsily and hurried out of the room, meeting Cosette in the hallway.
"Éponine! You're still up here then?"
"Sorry Cosette, I really must—" she nodded in the direction that would lead to the stairs down into the kitchen.
"Of course. You're so out of breath. What has upset you so?" Cosette was amiable as ever, but there was something rather sharp in those blue eyes. She may be rather sheltered and almost unbelievably good, but she was not a stupid girl, and not incapable of suspecting.
"Nothing." Éponine forced a laugh, and, hurrying past Cosette, retreated to the relative safety of the kitchen.
