Chapter Forty-Three
If Love Should Die, It Must Be Slow
A/N: Very sorry to the many fans of Kay's novel, but you may have noticed I'm not drawing from that it in this fic...because I haven't read it! I'm sorry! I know many consider it to be basically canon. To make it a little less jarring in case my Daroga is inconsistent with hers, I haven't used the name she gives him—or any name, actually. But in Leroux, the only reason he's not named is because it's a "true story" and his identity must be protected, so it's getting a little weird for him not to have a name at all.
In order to name him, I did the absolute bare minimum of research into Persian names in the 19th century, so apologies if it's not accurate, and if there are any Iranian readers who would like to educate me, please do! But from what I understood, Iranians did not have surnames until 1919, and prior to that, people were distinguished by suffixes, often referring to where the person was from. (Seems like this was common practise in the Middle East, i.e., you had Jesus of Nazareth or So-and-so, son of whoever. Actually that was a thing in European cultures as well.)
So I did the lazy thing: I saw Mazanderani in a list of examples of place-related suffixes, and I said "sounds good to me."
His first name will be Kazem, because I don't think anybody has tolerated more crap with better patience than the Daroga! So, Kazem Mazenderani.
In the days that followed, it made Éponine feel warm inside, seeing the happiness of Cosette, Marius, M. Valjean, and M. Gillenormand. All the while, she sensed a distinct suspicion and dislike coming from Mlle. Gillenormand towards her, and she wasn't entirely sure why. She continued to try her best to learn her tasks, and push through the tiredness and pain, and not make Olympie too cross with her. And she tried very hard not to think about anything else.
One afternoon, when Cosette had asked Éponine's help with her hair (which was ridiculous—Éponine was not much help at all, but Cosette seemed to want her ear more than her hairdressing skills) she confided that they almost hadn't been successful in convincing M. Valjean to return to the house with them. "He seemed so determined to deny himself happiness, as if he didn't deserve it! He, who has always been so very good."
Cosette could surmise that there was something that both men knew, but were keeping from her, and that this was the obstacle. So, when it was clear they weren't going to get anywhere with convincing him, she had finally demanded that Marius tell her what it was. "And what do you think? My father was a convict, years and years ago. He stole a loaf of bread! And then he got more years for small things. Something about parole—oh, it doesn't matter, does it? When I think of how he has lived his life afterwards—! And that was so long ago, long before he became a father to me."
"And he told Marius, but he never told you?"
"He thought I would be in horror of him, if I knew! Can you imagine? There was one day when we saw a chain gang going past, and it upset me. So he thought—" Cosette laughed a little in disbelief. "He told Marius the truth to clear his conscience, and he stayed away from me so that I wouldn't find out! Can you believe it? It hurt so much more when he was acting like we were strangers."
Éponine thought to herself that it was clearly painful to him as well, from what she had seen on a single visit. So much pain for both of them that could have just been resolved by a simple conversation. And all for nothing, because in the end, it had not changed Cosette's love for him a bit! So, Éponine's first thought was that it was very mean of him, not to tell Cosette, and if it weren't for her mouth full of hairpins, she might have blurted that out. But then, she thought about what would happen if the opposite occurred. If, for M. Valjean, he'd had to watch the person he loved most in the world look at him completely differently with the new knowledge—look upon him with horror. If, for Cosette, her entire world had crumbled to learn that the man who raised her was not who she thought, and she would have to put everything back together to fit with this earth-shattering revelation. To tell her was an enormous risk. And it might have seemed, to him, that they were both going to be hurt no matter what he chose. Misguided or not, right or wrong, who could say. But keeping it from her was certainly not selfish.
She took the hairpins out of her mouth and said, "You've got a father who loves you very much."
Cosette smiled, but her blue eyes in the mirror were very grave. "I wonder if there's anything you can find out about someone, when you really love them, that would make you stop loving them? I don't think so."
If you find out that they've lied to you, and you can't trust them, Éponine thought. But, beating in her chest, she held the proof that this was far from true.
She squeezed Cosette's shoulders and said, "In any case, good for you, finally making them tell you."
When she finished with Cosette's hair and found herself alone out in the hallway, she leaned against the wall for a moment, biting down on her knuckles. She loved Erik, harder than ever. She had a proper job, and would earn forty francs a month, plus food and a bed. She also had people who were kind to her. In Cosette, she sort of had a friend, despite her best efforts to stop that happening. She should be perfectly content. But the absence of Erik was acute, and a future without the kind of closeness and warmth and love she witnessed every day around her looked so meaningless, and she was in agony.
No, nothing you could find out would make you stop loving a person. To the love, it could add anger. To the anger, pain. To the pain, despair. But underneath, there was still love. You could find out something that would make it impossible to be together, something that would have to drive you apart physically. But the knowledge that you must stay away from each other was going to hurt, and that was because you still loved. Could you find out something that would make you stop trusting a person? Of course. Trust could be broken in an instant. But love? No. Love had to die slowly, like a plant that you stop watering. It might take a very long time. And it would get uglier and uglier as time dragged on.
—●—●—●—●—
On her fifth day there, Éponine was polishing the dining room table early in the morning, before the family had gotten up. "Nos amours ont duré tout une semaine, Mais que du bonheur les instants sont courts," she sang softly to herself.
"That looks wonderful! I've never seen the wood on that table shine quite so brightly!"
She jumped. She hadn't even heard Olympie come in. And even as the word, "thank you," fell from her mouth, she was eyeing the table confusedly, because it looked the same as it always did.
"I'm very impressed with your work. I can't believe that you've never been a maid before."
Really? It seemed that, even after a few days, new things were constantly arising that Olympie was shocked to find Éponine couldn't do. "Well, I do learn quickly," she answered carefully.
"I've forgotten: what was it you said you did before coming here?"
"I never said." Éponine looked down at the rag in her hand, twisting it nervously. "I should get to the salon before they wake up, shouldn't I." She flashed a smile at Olympie and hurried past, singing under her breath. "S'adorer huit jours, c'etait bien la peine! Le temps de amours devrait durer toujours!"
Later that morning, when Éponine finally had a chance to sit down at the kitchen table and drink her coffee (which was so weak in comparison to the coffee she had come to enjoy in the house on the lake), Olympie sat down beside her, and for a moment Éponine dreaded that she would have more questions for her. But instead, the woman just chatted pleasantly, and Éponine felt a little easier.
Until later that day, when she was passing by Mlle. Gillenormand's door. She again heard the sound of voices in there, and caught her own name. Frowning, she hugged the wall beside the door, and listened.
"...won't say what she was doing before, but she wasn't in service, that much is clear." That was Olympie's voice. "I've got to show her how to do everything, only for her to make a mess of it."
Honestly! Despite never feeling quite easy around her, she'd liked Olympie. And now to find out that she was running her mouth like this.
"Her dresses are too good in quality," said Mlle. Gillenormand. "And too new to have been handed down."
"Oh, you should see the fine linen of her chemises. And her stays—exquisitely made. I also spied a silk evening gown in amongst her things!"
Éponine was made aware of how hard she was clenching her fist when she felt the sharp pain of her own nails in the centre of her palm.
"Do you think perhaps..."
"Here's what I know. When I was trying to wake her one morning, while she was half asleep, she let slip a man's name! Some foreign name—oh, it escapes me now. But what do you think of that? She thought a man was trying to wake her. As if that was the most natural thing in the world, that a man should be in her room, trying to wake her! Well!"
There was a scandalized gasp from Mlle. Gillenormand. "The thought of sharing a roof with a young woman of such character!"
"And me, mademoiselle! I have to share a room with her!"
Éponine rolled her eyes. She really should just keep walking and leave the gossipy-goose Olympie and the collar-clutching Mlle. Gillenormand to their ridiculous speculations, but she couldn't tear herself away.
Olympie lowered her voice still further. "Another thing. You've seen how pale and unwell she looks?"
"She does look rather ill."
"Yes. But she told me with her own mouth that she's not ill. And yet, she's always having to pause and rest in her work. I shouldn't think it at all unlikely if..."
"If what, Nicolette? What are you saying?" Mlle. Gillenormand asked breathlessly.
Yes, what was she saying indeed? She knew full well that Éponine was still recovering from being wounded at the barricade. Éponine had shown her, just days before.
Olympie's voice answered, "I wouldn't be surprised—and perhaps she doesn't know it herself—if she were with child."
Hateful cow! Éponine flushed with indignation. And then, she flushed still further at the thought of carrying Erik's child. Imagine—no, better not imagine.
Mlle. Gillenormand gasped again. "Oh! Pray, do not speak of such things in my presence!" she said with absolute delight. "Good heavens!"
Good heavens indeed. Éponine slipped away, unable to stomach listening any further. She was shaking a little, and she forgot what she had even been on her way to do, making her way back down to the kitchen instead. There were a lot of valid things they could say about her character. They could talk all day long about the splotches on her name, without lying once! In fact, maybe she should march back up there and list everything for them. She was a thief. She'd been two weeks in Les Madelonnettes. Modesty—you could give up on that once your clothes became rags. Innocence—had she ever had it? She drank too much and talked even more. She still sometimes slipped up and used slang. She was hopeless at memorising how to set a table properly. She wasn't a lady by any stretch, and had not a shred of respectability left. There was a lot of dirt they could dig up, if they wanted to.
So, to insinuate that she and Erik...when he had always been such a gentleman...her stomach churned. It didn't matter, and the proof that it didn't matter was the ridiculous assertion that she could be with child, when even Olympie certainly knew it wasn't true, and time would prove it. They were just bitter old hags who had nothing better to do.
She took a sort of pleasure in being even more polite to Olympie, not letting on that she had overheard. She remembered what Cosette had whispered to her on that first day—that Olympie had been dreadfully mean to a servant who stuttered, to the point that the poor woman had decided to leave. Cosette had said it as if it were a joke, but now, Éponine felt it should have been a warning that there was something mean-spirited about the servant called Nicolette.
She felt more lonely than ever, and it seemed clear to her that she must always be an outsider.
—●—●—●—●—
On Sunday, she had the day off. Mlle. Gillenormand would be very displeased that she did not go to church, but there was only one place she thought of going. She set off on foot, even though she was still slow on her feet, with having to stop constantly to rest, and at a brisk pace it would have been at least a half hour of walking. She didn't want to take a fiacre, even though she did have some money. Cosette had wanted her to have her wages for the month in advance, but Éponine had protested. She didn't want to tell Cosette, but she did not want to be trapped into staying that long. So at long last, they had compromised, and she had 10 francs, which would cover the week she had already worked.
It was a warm July day. She wore her green plaid dress, but her head was bare, because she hadn't taken a single bonnet or hat when she left the house on the lake, only what belonged to her. So, as she passed a millinery shop, she stopped to purchase a simple straw bonnet.
All through the week, she had thrown herself into her work as much as possible, trying to crowd out her thoughts. But now, as she walked, she couldn't stop her mind from thinking. When she first arrived at the house on the lake, Erik had not looked well, and said he was dying of love. She'd had to convince him to eat something. Was he eating now, with no one there to remind him? Was he sleeping at all? That silly man didn't take care of himself properly. How terribly he neglected the body which contained such a brilliant mind and heart. He needed someone to look after him. And she had left him all alone.
It started to rain. She was becoming rather faint and out of breath, and her pauses to rest became more frequent. When finally she turned onto the Rue Saint Honoré, the knowledge that she was nearly there helped quicken her pace a little. A lot of breathless pauses later, pass the Palais Royal, pause again, drop down the Rue Saint Nicatse, and she was on the Rue de Rivoli. At last.
It was a good job Erik lost his mind and took her there that day, otherwise she wouldn't have seen it in daylight, to recognise the apartment building. She paused halfway up the staircase. Her head felt light and her lungs felt heavy. She ached all over. But she forced herself to keep going, finally knocking on the door.
Darius answered and looked alarmed. She must have been quite a sight, all rain-soaked and breathless. But in his very formal and careful French, he said, "Please come in, mademoiselle. Please sit."
She practically fell onto a bench in the foyer, where she sat trying to catch her breath. She shivered a little because she was wet from the rain, and it was a little cooler inside than in the street.
She heard Darius talking in that unfamiliar language, and the Daroga's voice answering him. Then she heard quick footsteps coming toward her, and she looked up to see the Daroga. She couldn't quite decipher the look in those striking green eyes.
"Mademoiselle Éponine? Come and sit in the drawing room, please."
She pushed herself to her feet, swaying a little, and followed him into the drawing room.
"Can I get you something to drink, mademoiselle?"
"Coffee?"
He said something to Darius, and Darius left the room. Then, the Daroga just stared at her in disbelief.
It was Éponine who was the first to finally speak. "Been over a week since I last saw Erik. I left."
This seemed to bring him out of his daze somewhat, and he sat down. "Yes. I know. Erik told me that he upset you terribly, but he would not tell me what occurred."
"You've seen him?"
"Yes. Once."
Éponine made no attempt to conceal her emotion. "How is he? Is he well?"
The Daroga looked toward the wall, past the side of her head.
"Please, Monsieur—oh, I don't actually know your name, do I? 'Daroga' seems like a sort of title, isn't it? And surely your name isn't 'booby,' for all Erik calls you that."
He smiled. "Kazem Mazenderani. Forgive me. Becoming acquainted through Erik can make one forget the usual conventions and manners."
She returned his smile. "Nice meet you properly, Monsieur Mazenderani." The name was a little tricky on her tongue, but she liked it. "Well, please tell me plainly. How is he?"
With some hesitancy, Kazem replied, "He looked unwell when I last saw him. And he spoke of dying."
Éponine swallowed. It was just as she feared.
"He came to ask a favour of me, that is why I was so surprised to see you. He asked me to find you, but not to tell him where you were. I told him it would likely not be possible to find you in such a big city. Still, he begged."
There was a deep, falling pain in her heart. "Why'd he want you to find me, and not tell him where I was?"
"Because he was worried for you, and yet he knew you would not wish to be found. It is very honourable, is it not?"
Éponine had to look down quickly, blinking to prevent any tears. At that moment, Darius entered with coffee, and Éponine had to swallow back even more tears, because she knew from the aroma that it was the same sort of coffee Erik made in the house on the lake. She struggled to keep herself composed, and accepted the cup, drinking from it while trying to stem the flood of memories that it evoked.
"When was this?" she asked finally, hazarding a look at Kazem.
"I believe it has been a week."
A week. Erik had looked unwell a week ago, and spoke of dying. By now, he must be in a terrible state.
"Can I ask, mademoiselle, what occurred between you?"
Éponine set her coffee down on a table and removed her wet bonnet from her head, smoothing the wet strands of hair away from her face. "Do you know about the twenty thousand francs?"
Kazem folded his lips together. "Yes, I have heard it said that the Phantom of the Opera demands this as a monthly salary from the management, and that it is paid. Erik has refused to speak to me about it."
"He got me to help him collect it, and he promised it wasn't anything dishonest—he actually promised me. I don't know why I believed him—I suppose it felt good to trust him. I didn't want to think he'd lie to me."
He frowned.
"He made all sorts of excuses, when I found out." She sighed. "Well, I thought they were excuses. Now, I wonder whether—I mean, maybe he believes it all."
"Yes, sometimes I think Erik believes his own lies."
"I don't mind telling you, monsieur, even though you were a cop. I've been a thief most of my life—not because I wanted to. And I just don't understand. He's so brilliant, good at so many things. He could do anything he wants to do."
"I think you forget, mademoiselle."
"Forget what?"
"His monstrous face."
She looked down at her lap. "I've gotten used to his face. People can get used to anything."
"That is admirable of you, mademoiselle. But not the case for most."
It was not even the case for his own mother, Éponine thought sadly. How had she expected him to go out and face the world every day, a world that from birth had treated him as a monster? It was not so simple. She had tried to make it too simple, and that wasn't fair.
"When he first came to Paris, he did try. He was an ordinary contractor for a time. He did extensive work on the foundations of the Opera House, in fact."
No wonder he knew the place so well, and looked upon it as his own.
"The design owes much to him, but he was never credited," Kazem continued. "Not that he would wish to be named publicly, I don't think. But the omission might, perhaps, help him think he is owed something."
"Why did he not continue as a contractor?"
Kazem scratched the side of his face thoughtfully. "It must be very hard, don't you think? To live the life of a normal person, without any of the joys? No woman would ever look at him. He could never have a family. The more normal he tried to be, the more freakish he was. We can try to understand, can we not? He wanted to hide himself away."
Éponine thought about her own situation. How lonely she felt, and how meaningless the future looked, even though she had honest work to do. How, if she let herself pause in her work too long, she would question the point of continuing on, and it had only been a week. She was surrounded by people who were kind to her (for the most part) but she was removed from them, and the loving bonds they shared with one another. She tried to imagine that feeling being many times compounded by also being treated like a monster. Being made to feel, every day, as though he were less than human. Even his friend, sitting here in front of her, spoke of his face as monstrous and bluntly described him as "freakish." Who could bear it?
Erik had insisted he was not really a wicked man. "If you care for me just a little, we could have an ordinary life. Perfectly respectable. I would do whatever you say, I would find whatever means of living you approve of." At the time, it had seemed a pathetic excuse. A ploy to get her to stay. A promise that things would change, by a man who probably didn't intend to change. But thinking about it now, she wondered: was it true? Could he endure a normal life if he had the things that made it worth living? If he had someone who loved him, would he be an honest man? Was this something she could do for him? Should she?
Interrupting her musings, Kazem continued, "And, this is not the only problem for him. If word were to make its way out of France that Erik still lives, it would not be good for some of us."
Éponine had somewhat suspected there were people who wished him dead. Apparently, it went beyond that: there were people who thought he already was. "'Some of us,' meaning yourself?"
Kazem hung his head.
"So it's better, is it, that he lives in the cellars of the Opera House and extorts twenty thousand francs a month?" She was suddenly very angry. "Do you get any of that money?"
"You misunderstand, mademoiselle."
"No, I want to know."
"Of course not."
"How do you live, Monsieur Mazenderani the Daroga?"
"I receive a modest pension from the govenrment of Persia."
Éponine's eyes narrowed as she put some things together. "Tell me if I have this right. You allowed Erik to live, when he is supposed to be dead. And now, if word were to make it to Persia that you didn't do your job, you'd lose your pension?"
Kazem's green eyes flashed, but the expression that briefly overtook his features was more hurt than angry. "This is true. But my motives are not entirely selfish. Please."
She believed him, and felt somewhat chastened for how she had spoken to him.
"It is better that he not attract too much attention. But he does not need to be in hiding. It is what he has chosen. Myself, I do my best to ensure that he does not harm anyone. Every person he harms, after I chose to save his life, must fall on my conscience. But I do not pretend that I can control him. The extortion is his own affair. I never meant to say that I approve."
She rubbed her hand over her forhead. "Maybe I was wrong to leave him. I just wasn't sure anymore, what was right. It was all too much, and I was so tired. I still don't know anymore." She shook her head. "Do you have a piece of paper?"
With a puzzled expression, Kazem went into his study, coming back with a piece of paper and a pencil. Éponine took it eagerly and wrote No. 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. She handed the paper to Kazem.
"I know he told you not to tell him, but give him that. Tell him I'm there, and I'm safe and quite well. I'm working. And please, monsieur: see that he takes good care of himself. I had to make him eat and sleep, when I was there. Now that I'm gone—and he was so upset when I left..."
Kazem nodded, slipping the piece of paper into his pocket.
"Thank you for everything, Monsieur Mazenderani."
"Take care, mademoiselle."
—●—●—●—●—
After leaving the Daroga's flat, Éponine wandered down to the bank of the Seine. She found the spot where Erik had found her again after running away from her—that was a mere two weeks ago, wasn't it? She almost laughed aloud in disbelief that so much had happened in such a short time. She stopped and looked at the water, feeling more lost than ever. If Erik's dishonesty really was the enormous betrayal it had felt the night she left, then she didn't want to let go of that or convince herself that it didn't matter. But, on the other hand, if it was something that she could let go of, she didn't want to stubbornly hold onto it. It mattered, didn't it? Did it not matter that he had lied to her? That he had used her just like everyone else did? Or had he used her? Was it true that he didn't see it that way? Did it matter if he didn't mean it?
Nothing was simple where Erik was concerned. Nothing was clear.
"People are not born good or bad," M. Valjean had told her. Well then, when did they become good or bad? When could Erik neatly be placed in one or the other category? For that matter, when could she? Erik did not radiate goodness from the depths of his soul the way M. Valjean or Cosette did. But he did not radiate badness either, surely? There was darkness there, but darkness was not always bad. Being in pain did not make you wicked. And he tried so hard to be gentle and kind. It was effortful, which surely made it more meaningful than if it just bubbled up from the depths of his being without a thought. He didn't quite know how to be good, but he was trying. And so was she. They were learning together.
Love was good. What could be more good than love? So if they loved each other very much, could that cancel out the badness? Would love make them good?
She sighed and turned away from the Seine. For a moment, she had almost hoped that if she waited there, he would appear, somehow, the way he had done before. She started to walk back in the direction of the Gillenormand house.
On the way, she passed a shop, and noticed pens in the window. She went inside, and when she came out she had a pen, a bottle of ink, blotting paper, and a little book of blank pages. It was a whim, not a plan, but it made her feel truly enlivened and pleased in a way she hadn't felt since leaving the house on the lake.
That night, she waited for Olympie to fall asleep. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she slid silently out of bed, taking her new writing supplies with her, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen, where she lit a candle. She sat down at the table, opened up her little book, and stared at the wall a very long time, suddenly afraid to put the pen to paper. But Cosette had told her she was very good with words, and writing was just like talking, wasn't it? Except slower? She began to write.
