Oui, oui, le troisième chapitre is a leetle bit long in coming, but here it is, finally. And a large thank-you to everyone for the wonderful reviews; I do indeed try to make Éponine as close to Victor Hugo as I can, and I seriously detest the fanfiction canon Éponine, what with her perfect personality and perfect looks and just a teensy bit of a grimy face…no!! Just…no. Definitely not. And I absolutely love Cosette; I was enamored of the Cosette-Marius affair the very first time that I read the book…and she is definitely not a ditzy little idiot. And Marius is not as fickle as people like to make him out to be…of course, he is quickly growing to be my favorite character for reasons I will not mention here...::snaps back into the reality of the fanfiction world:: Anyway. On with the show!
I hate her. I hate her. I do not mean this in the fickle way of rich, upper-class brats who lightly tap their men on the chests and giggle, "Oh, do I hate you!"—I despise that girl, with all of the ferocity that I did not know existed in myself. Look at her! look at her, then you will see! She—Cosette, that child, coming into our hovel and petting Azelma like a cat! A very kitten, and that is all Azelma is to her.
Good! of course she is! sweet, naturally! kind! how could she not be? Generous! yes, generous! What a vice of nature this is, to show us the society belle that once was under our care as a servant, and to have her look at us, now, when the cleanest clothes we own have not been washed since and before we acquired them.
She is carrying something in her pocket. A handkerchief—and a prayer book. A handkerchief is wrapped around the book, and I can only see the gold cross. But the handkerchief—what excellent care is taken of it! Something is embroidered on it in white thread, possibly her initials, possibly a flower. There is not a speck of dirt anywhere on her clothing, not even on the hem of her dress. How does she do that? to not spatter dirt over her silk dress when dirt is all that exists in this room? Does she float, like an angel, a saint, a sprite? She is more like a sprite than an angel, she is. Her face looks partly wild, as if her mother were not really a human, but a tree-nymph, or a wind-spirit, and as if she would look more natural with twigs in mussed hair.
Je te déteste. Je te déteste! I want to spit on her dress, on her hat; to throw ashes into her face; I want to steal her beauty for myself, for me, for him! What would be in store for me if my features were hers, if my dress were as unsoiled as hers, if my voice were as uncracked as hers! He—what would he think of me then? Monsieur Marius—Marius, Marius, wouldst thou bless the sound my voice made while speaking thy name? Oh, could you ever, ever—
His five francs are in my pocket. I have not given them to my father yet. The coin feels lovely, smooth, and assured…if I could afford it, I would wear it on a chain around my neck. He gave this to me, he did, when he saw how poor I was. He pitied me, but I did not disgust him so much that he threw me out of his place. My heart is beating again, faster, faster, and it is not from hunger, I know; it has never thumped this hard before when I was hungry. I am not dying; everything I see is brighter than before, and I am almost glad to lean against the dirt-caked wall that separates our hovel from his room. On the other side, there, he lives! He lives, he breathes, he writes, he dreams; just think! a few feet away from me, there is life! Life, and of the most promising and sacred kind; his life.
I can hardly see anymore; am I crying? I have not done that in years! what is wrong with me? Wiping the water from my eyes, I hide further behind the door; it would not do to have her see me; after all, she must feel that I want to burst from holding the disgust of her presence inside me.
I do not think that this is all a dislike of Cosette…no, not of Cosette herself. I detest the way she looks down at us, but then she does not sweep around with pride embedded into her corset. I think…I think that I envy her of what she has, of what I will never have. Envy or hate? which is dominant? Envy, I think. She has not done anything to make me hate her, simply dislike her—but I have to clench my teeth and fists to keep from lashing out at her and clawing up her beautiful, wild face. Envy! I am envious of our former servant. Can one sink any lower?
I am pushed aside with the door as they exit, and as she passes, I look at her, squarely. She stares back at me, only for a moment. There is a slight frown on her face, and a sad, pitying look in her face. I throw my head back, glare, and she sweeps out of the door, turning to see her father. I was not friendly, I know, nor did I want to be. She would be drawn and quartered if her life depended on me and my intervention!
There was a gentle look in her eyes that I know was not mirrored in mine. A gamine! gentle? Bah! whoever heard of such a thing! But it, too, I want; I want the ability to look untouched by crime and filth and beggary. I do not think that she remembers staying with us. Hah! all to the better.
What would he think, truly, if I tried to see him again? Would he see a friend in me, a messenger,—who? I—I want to see him again, to speak to him. I can thank him, can I not, for the bread? I have not thanked him yet; he must think that terribly rude. Yes; I will thank him.
I wait a few moments, until I can hear my father's footsteps on the far end of the hallway, and I slip out of the room. Maman has not noticed; she is stroking Azelma's head in the same way that Cosette had done, just moments earlier, though I do not think that she knows it. Azelma will likely have a large scar on her hand, there, thanks to my father. I slip into the alcove across from his door. There is no light under his door; he must be out. I can wait for him.
My father is the first to step by; of course. I settle down, for I may be here for a long time. It is time for him to eat, or he is with his friends; no doubt he has many.
But no!—there he comes! He is out of breath, and the darkness hides his face, but he walks slowly, resentfully. What has happened? is something wrong? No! do not let that be; give misfortune to me, I can bear it! I have borne it for years; there is nothing left to ruin. But his back—it should not be bent under cares, it is straight, handsome—and his dark hair has snow in it, that I can see—it glows in the gloom of this hall. Never again will I wish for a light here, not when I know that I can see him unobserved.
I leap to my feet just as he enters his room, and I arrest the door as it falls closed. He cannot help but notice that; his hand is on the door. To think! he touched this wood just moments before I did; it is not yet cold.
"What is it?" his voice asks through the door, "who is there?"
Oh! to think that those few syllables could send a shiver into my stomach and eyes! I open the door, but do not step inside; he has not asked me, after all.
"Is it you?" he asks, his voice different. How different? is he surprised? intrigued? annoyed? No, no! not that last! He cannot, cannot be annoyed—no, something is wrong. He is agitated; something must have happened to him. Sad. He is sad, yes, and dimly bitter.
"Come now, will you answer? What is it you want of me?"
He is not really cruel; of course not. He has perhaps had an argument, or he has fallen short of money. I raise my eyes to his; can he see that they long to sparkle?
"Monsieur Marius, you look sad. What is the matter with you?"
He is puzzled. No, taken aback. "With me?"
"Yes, you."
"There is nothing the matter with me," he says quietly. But I know better; if his words can make me docile, then his eyes can reveal his mind to me. They can, I know they can.
"Yes!" I insist.
"No."
"I tell you there is!" He will tell me, he must—he will throw this burden away if I can have anything at all to do with it.
"Let me be quiet!" he exclaims finally, trying to close the door.
No. I am quiet, gentle—is Éponine Thénardier trying to be gentle? The Apocalypse is at hand, Paris! I will never admit it anywhere else, but I am trying to imitate the Lark—Cosette. She is all that I could hope to be, and it can never hurt me to aspire towards my ideals, can it?
"Stop," I say, "you are wrong. Though you may not be rich, you were good this morning. Be so again now. You gave me something to eat, tell me now what ails you. You are troubled at something, that is plain. I do not want you to be troubled. What must be done for that? Can I serve you in anything?"
Listen to me, I sound as though I am offering to take the place of a servant. But it is only just, is it not? Cosette was our servant; now I am playing Cosette and begging to be a servant.
"Let me," I plead. "I do not ask your secrets, you need not tell them to me, but yet I may be useful. I can certainly help you, since I help my father. When it is necessary to carry letters, go into houses, inquire from door to door, find out an address, follow somebody, I do it. Now, you can certainly tell me what is the matter with you. I will go and speak to the persons; sometimes for somebody to speak to the persons is enough to understand things, and it is all arranged. Make use of me."
His eyes grow softer, and he steps closer. "Listen," he says kindly.
"Oh! yes, talk softly to me!" I cry, joyfully, "I like that better."
"Well," he resumes, "you brought this old gentleman here with his daughter."
"Yes." I nod. He is all-seeing; all-knowing, almost like a fairy-tale genie!
"Do you know their address?" he asks.
"No." Oh, how I wish I did; then he might smile again.
"Find it for me," he requests.
Find the address—Oh! No, no, this cannot, cannot be! God—good God, why are you so merciless? No—if he knows her, then—then—!
"Is that what you want?" I say, lowly, as a servant would.
"Yes," he answers, repeating what I said before. When I spoke, it was with the musicality of a rusty nail scraping itself on a stone brick; his voice defines perfection.
"Do you know them?" Please, please, please make him say no!
"No."
Thank God, thank God—oh, God, why does he want to know the address, then?
"That is to say," I repent, "you do not know her, but you want to know her."
Her—her—her! She, always she! Cosette, the Lark, the servant, the brat, the rich society belle—all that I have thought of her condenses into one word: her! I cannot cry now, I must not, but how I long to! I long to throw myself from a roof in this mess of despair; what, 'Ponine, did you honestly think that a good, upright, wonderful man could have wanted anything to do with you? Bah! you sicken me!
"Well, can you do it?" he wants to know. Of course I can! but could I bring myself to? Could I possibly bring myself to show her door to him, to stand across a street, behind a gas lamp-post, while he is shown into their house?
I do not care. I do not care. Now, I do not care about anything anymore. It will make him happy. Yes, happy! I want him to be; he was sad a moment ago, and I wanted to make him glad again. I will do so; I will! if it kills me, I will.
"You shall have the beautiful young lady's address," I answer, with some bitterness, true—would that I were that beautiful young lady!
He is uneasy; I have made him so, I believe. I am sorry, truly, I am!
"Well, no matter! the address of the father and daughter. Their address, yes!"
"What will you give me?" I ask. And what will he say?—a kind word, directed solely at me, would bring me more joy than the crown jewels of France.
"Anything you wish!"
I inhale slowly; it is painful to breathe. "Anything I wish?"
"Yes," he confirms. His hand is shaking in the same way that my chest is; does he love her, then? Do I love him? No! don't answer that. You do not matter; only he does, and he loves her, I think. I—yes, he loves her. Look at his eyes, at the eager, sweet expression in them; yes, he loves her. Yes! he loves her!
"You shall have the address," I say. And I will break into tears at any moment; I look down quickly and leave the room, closing the door behind me. For the second time that day I sink to the floor outside his room, but now I am truly crying, crying silently, but nonetheless desperately. Desperate; that is a good word! I am the desperate messenger of my God, the one desperate for him, for his voice, for his care—for his love. Yes, for his love! He loves her, I think—but I…
My thoughts come to mind slowly now, as if they were weighted down by those heavy sacks of coal hoisted over one's back that break one's shoulders—
I love him, I know.
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Translations—this is the only one, I think:
Je te déteste—I hate you
So much for this chapter, then; the next one will vaguely feature the attack on Monsieur Leblanc and much of Éponine and her reflections and thoughts. Until then!
And, again, a blissful thank you to all of my reviewers:
Sweet775—oui, oui, la petite pauvre. I almost feel guilty about intending to make her suffer even more later…
~*MusicalTwinSiStar1*~—Thank you very, very much! Yes, Éponine's character is wonderfully interesting…and I will try to write more as quickly as I can…which may be somewhat off, as I'm in the middle of IB finals…still, will try!
Tattered sparrow—Really? ::re-reads parts of the story:: Oh. Very, very good. I keep thinking "God, this is too unnatural; would Hugo write any character like this?" You have given me hope!
Kang Xiu—Thank you very, very much. I am quite glad that this little ficlet has helped you relate to her…after all, I believe that was my subconscious intention when I started it. My conscious…well, my conscious intention included the thought: "There are no bloody Victor Hugo Éponines out there, so I'm going to make one, dadblast it!"
Elyse3—Ohhh, yess…::twitches:: The ditzy Cosette. May I be able to leave the room before puking on the computer desk. Cosette is not a bloody ditz, thank you very much! Just…urgh.
Winter-Lady—I am currently grinning like a right idiot, thanks to your review. Fanks!
Mlle. Verity le Virago—The "right idiot" grin is not going away, and it is ALL YOUR FAULT!! Hee. My kitty, I think, is somewhat unnerved by it. Thank you very much.