~4~
He takes her home that night, to the apartment he shares with another of the men, the one with sad eyes and a rough voice, the one who has a crumpled playbill left on the table, announcing a play that she cannot make out the title of.
She stares about herself, frightened and cowed by the sight of an apartment in such condition. The playbill man does not keep things straightened well, and room is chaosed, a different sort of chaos, however, from the chaos of her family's cramped living in the Gorbeau tenant. She cannot help but eye a croissant left solitary on the table beside the playbill, staining it with grease residue, and obscuring the title. The playbill man sees her, and offers it, his hand large and smelling slightly of pinesap, from where she could not imagine. He watches her oddly, muttering.
"O nation miserable, with an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptered, when shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?"
She backs away from him, holding the croissant, as he turns abruptly to Bossuet.
"Should I go out this evening? Will it be convenient if I leave you two to yourselves?"
"Oh, this is your apartment, Bahorel. I shan't force you out. Really, it's quite good of you to let me stay with you."
"Since Joly threw you out. But of course. I have a theatre to attend tonight." And he ducks out the door, casting a look over his shoulder. Bossuet sighs.
"Ah well. He's a good man, my 'Ponine. Believe it."
She will, if he says so, though the man frightens her. His eyes are strange, and his manner, and the things he says.
Musing, Bossuet continues, "I wasn't aware he went to the theatre..."
Then he turns and stands by her. "'Ponine, 'Ponine. What shall I do for you?" Slowly, he places his arms about her, lips brushing hers. She trembles, and returns the butterfly kiss tentatively. He kisses her again, and she give it back to him more boldly. His lips taste of sweet bitter juice, as though he had eaten a rose, and she kisses him of her own this time, searching for the flavour.
~~~
She has slept with men before, with Montparnasse, with other of her father's friends who took her to their beds, but she never has been with anyone who treated her so gently and lovingly. She was enthralled by his touch, thrilled deep inside herself, her fingers and toes pricking, as they moulded. She considers him now, as he sleeps, and feels a warmth in her chest. She isn't afraid any longer, of silly things like living or dying or existing. She's perfectly happy. She'll always be happy. She loves him. Not with, as her father had said, a silly girl's lust, the longing she felt for M'sieur Marius, who was so beautiful and innocent and frightened. She loves him wholly, and truly, with real love. She shall always be happy.
He takes her home that night, to the apartment he shares with another of the men, the one with sad eyes and a rough voice, the one who has a crumpled playbill left on the table, announcing a play that she cannot make out the title of.
She stares about herself, frightened and cowed by the sight of an apartment in such condition. The playbill man does not keep things straightened well, and room is chaosed, a different sort of chaos, however, from the chaos of her family's cramped living in the Gorbeau tenant. She cannot help but eye a croissant left solitary on the table beside the playbill, staining it with grease residue, and obscuring the title. The playbill man sees her, and offers it, his hand large and smelling slightly of pinesap, from where she could not imagine. He watches her oddly, muttering.
"O nation miserable, with an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptered, when shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?"
She backs away from him, holding the croissant, as he turns abruptly to Bossuet.
"Should I go out this evening? Will it be convenient if I leave you two to yourselves?"
"Oh, this is your apartment, Bahorel. I shan't force you out. Really, it's quite good of you to let me stay with you."
"Since Joly threw you out. But of course. I have a theatre to attend tonight." And he ducks out the door, casting a look over his shoulder. Bossuet sighs.
"Ah well. He's a good man, my 'Ponine. Believe it."
She will, if he says so, though the man frightens her. His eyes are strange, and his manner, and the things he says.
Musing, Bossuet continues, "I wasn't aware he went to the theatre..."
Then he turns and stands by her. "'Ponine, 'Ponine. What shall I do for you?" Slowly, he places his arms about her, lips brushing hers. She trembles, and returns the butterfly kiss tentatively. He kisses her again, and she give it back to him more boldly. His lips taste of sweet bitter juice, as though he had eaten a rose, and she kisses him of her own this time, searching for the flavour.
~~~
She has slept with men before, with Montparnasse, with other of her father's friends who took her to their beds, but she never has been with anyone who treated her so gently and lovingly. She was enthralled by his touch, thrilled deep inside herself, her fingers and toes pricking, as they moulded. She considers him now, as he sleeps, and feels a warmth in her chest. She isn't afraid any longer, of silly things like living or dying or existing. She's perfectly happy. She'll always be happy. She loves him. Not with, as her father had said, a silly girl's lust, the longing she felt for M'sieur Marius, who was so beautiful and innocent and frightened. She loves him wholly, and truly, with real love. She shall always be happy.