The winter of 1833 was harsh, many of the less fortunate Parisians perished in the freeze, as they did every year. Marius Pontmercy passed the worst of the season sitting stoically by the fireside in his Grandfather's parlor, with servants who had known him since childhood and who discreetly passed through the rooms as though neither he nor they existed. His cane always rested nearby and he continued to use it until one day when Monsieur Gillenormand directed Basque to dispose of the superfluous object that his grandson no longer needed, but insisted on using still. A fine walking stick with a sculpted silver head mysteriously appeared in its stead.
In the nights, Marius dreamt of Cosette.
Elsewhere in Paris, a young woman grown old by hardship spent her last winter of mortality begging strangers to pity her enough to cast a coin at her frozen feet. She took up new haunts and would shoot a look of wild suspicion at anyone who mistook her for a girl who was once called Eponine. Children hid behind their mothers' skirts when they saw her disfigured hand. When the night finally arrived that she gave in to the luxury of death, this miserable creature did not depart with thoughts of a dark haired man who once kissed her forehead. Instead, her thoughts turned to a younger sister who was lost in the ether, of a looming mother who knotted ribbons into tight bows with swollen red fingers, and of a kitten warm in her lap as she cradled it before a roaring hearth.
In life, Marius had been the catalyst that had brought her to this icy avenue at the end of her life and not even his memory could be troubled to visit her deathbed. He was not missed.
In the nights, Marius dreamt of Cosette.
Elsewhere in Paris, a young woman grown old by hardship spent her last winter of mortality begging strangers to pity her enough to cast a coin at her frozen feet. She took up new haunts and would shoot a look of wild suspicion at anyone who mistook her for a girl who was once called Eponine. Children hid behind their mothers' skirts when they saw her disfigured hand. When the night finally arrived that she gave in to the luxury of death, this miserable creature did not depart with thoughts of a dark haired man who once kissed her forehead. Instead, her thoughts turned to a younger sister who was lost in the ether, of a looming mother who knotted ribbons into tight bows with swollen red fingers, and of a kitten warm in her lap as she cradled it before a roaring hearth.
In life, Marius had been the catalyst that had brought her to this icy avenue at the end of her life and not even his memory could be troubled to visit her deathbed. He was not missed.