Chapter VII
~I Dreamed That Love Would Never Die~
The girl was lying in his arms, and he was holding her close to him. Her hand, clinched in a fist, was gripping his coat. She was clinging to him as tightly as she could, as if she was afraid to let go. His arms were wrapped tightly around her body, keeping her safe and close. Her head rested against his shoulder, her face was looking up to Heaven, and her eyes were fixed upon the face of the man who was holding her.
Night had fallen over Paris. The sky was dark and hidden under thick clouds, the blanket that enveloped the world on this night. Stars and moon were gone and they shed no light. The only light was that of the torches, a dim light that shifted and changed every second and casted a glow like candlelight out into the street. It was raining. The pavement of the Parisian streets was wet, and the streets shimmered in the light of the torches as if they had been paved of gold.
The barricade stood in the street before the Café Musain, creating a blockade that would protect the young revolutionaries from the grapeshot and cannon fire of their enemies. There had already been two battles. The guns had fired, the cannons had roared, and men had fallen on both sides of the barricade. The air still smelled of smoke. The people still shuddered and trembled at the horrors of what they had seen that remained etched before their eyes. The wounded and dying still lied upon the cold stone of the streets, looking up into the back sky as rain fell down upon their faces and waiting to die. But now, the barricade was silent. The battle had left and now death had approached the barricade.
The girl was lying in his arms just beyond the barricade, the rebel's side. He was leaning against the barricade to steady himself as he held her. A soft rain was descending out from the darkness above and falling down over these two young people like teardrops, hitting their faces and running down their cheeks, sinking through their clothes, catching in their hair, and glimmering in the light of the torches like dewdrops in the light of the sunrise. Heaven was weeping. Yet, these tears, while of sadness, were not of darkness. Somehow, beneath the grief of this moment there was some solemn holiness. All that beheld this sight could feel it, sense it. Not one of them would have been able to explain it, but they all, without question, would have confirmed it. The presence of a greater divine being was standing among these two children who sat upon the pavement on this dark, raining night at the barricade. Some heavenly being was watching. In the tranquil music of the rain that fell softly to the earth, all who witnessed this moment almost perceived that they could hear within the song of the rain the voices of the angels. The angels were looking down upon these children from Heaven and singing a low, mournful, yet beautiful hymn. No doubt, God was watching, as well. Not only watching but He was present. He stood amongst the onlookers, sat beside the dying, held this girl in His own arms. Anyone who was there at this moment would have said that all of these things were so, and they would have believed it.
The girl's face was white, and every moment, one could see the life draining out of her body. Her skin began to fade as if a grey shadow was falling over her. Her lips were pale but slowly moving as she whispered dying words to the boy who held her, but none save this young man could hear what she was saying. Dirt and ash discolored her face, her hands, and her clothing, the tangled state of her long black hair, and the thinness of her starving body betrayed her to all who looked upon her that she was poor. Yet, she was beautiful. Even in dying, she was beautiful. Death was standing before her, his grim shadow had fallen over her, and it grew darker as he approached her and stretched out his hand to take her. The boy held onto her, keeping her tightly in his arms, rousing her whenever she closed her eyes, making every desperate attempt to keep death away from her. If he held onto her tightly enough, perhaps death would be unable to wrestle her from his grasp and take her away.
But death would come. It was too late to escape him. Along with the rain that soaked her, the girl's body was covered in blood. It soaked the clothes of this young girl, which had been men for a man. It soaked her black coat, her white shirt, her bare chest, and the ends of her long black hair glistened red in the light of the torches. The boy held her closely in his arms; perhaps, if he held her close enough, her soul would be unable to escape. He grasped one of her hands as tightly as he could; perhaps, if he did not let go, death would be unable to take her from him. Her other hand, however, he did not dare touch. There was a hole in the center of her palm, from which blood was freely flowing. It appeared quite alike the holes in the hands of the Christ, after nails had been driven through them and he had been hung on a cross. The hole in this girl's hand had been made by a bullet, but despite the pain that it no doubt caused her, she clung to this boy as tightly as she could, using her wounded hand to grip his coat. He would not let go of her and nor would she let go of him. She had been shot in the battle. The bullet had first pierced her hand but had then pierced her chest, as well, moving deep into her, damaging and cutting up her lungs. Perhaps, her heart, as well. If there was ever any hope of surviving such a wound, it was gone now, as she had lost too much blood. Now, she was going to die. Now, she was going to die, because she chose to take a bullet in the place of her friend, Marius.
"Monsieur Marius…" Éponine was whispering as her voice faded and became so soft that Marius had to strain his ears to hear her.
"Yes, Éponine?" His voice was soft and weak, as well. He was fighting to keep his voice even, and he was struggling to hold back tears in his eyes.
"I'm so glad that you are with me," she whispered, and a small but beautiful smile appeared upon her colorless lips. "It does not hurt anymore. I am happy now."
Marius felt tears flooding into his eyes, and his heart began to ache so terribly it seemed that the bullet that had pierced this young girl had pierced him, as well. A weak and mournful smile appeared at the corner of his moth, and he slowly nodded to let her know that he understood.
"You will stay with me, won't you, monsieur?"
"Of course, I will!" he cried, at once, his voice breaking in sadness. "You did not think that I would leave you?"
"No. I know that you will not leave me." She smiled again, and it was then, at this moment when she was closest to death, as if the dark shadow over her fled away and was over come by a great, all-powerful light. All of the glory of Heaven came upon her, reflecting off of and illuminating her face. At this moment, she appeared to have the face of an angel. At this moment, all who stood watching, standing silently in the rain amongst the dead and the dying, beholding this strange, mournful, yet glorious sight, knew that God was present. It was not the cold clutches of Hades that had come to snatch this girl and drag her into the next life. The warm and loving arms of Jesus would embrace her and carry her home.
Éponine closed her eyes, and let out a soft sigh of happiness. Ever since she had laid eyes upon him, she had loved Marius. He was the only one who she could call her friend, and she loved him. She had always loved him. But not until this moment had she been free to lie in his, her holding him and him holding her. Not until this moment had she ever known such joy. The price of this joy, however, would be her death. It was a price that she would happily pay. Yet, she had still not told him… She had never told Marius…
Enjolras felt his heart becoming dark and cold, as he looked down upon his friend's pale face, and he thought that she had died. She opened her eyes again. "Marius?" Éponine said. Her voice was so weak and so quiet that he leaned closer to her face so that he could hear her.
"Yes, Éponine?"
"I need to tell you something…"
"What? What is it, Éponine? Tell me…"
She hesitated for only a moment longer before she parted her cold lips to respond, and her voice was so sweet it seemed as if her soul had already departed into Heaven and the voice that spoke was one that stood in the presence of the Almighty. "Marius… I love you."
Marius felt his heart drop into his stomach, his throat suddenly tightened into a knot, a chill like the breath of death came over his flesh, his body went limp and numb, his chest and lungs were constricted, and he could not breathe. He did not know what to say. Or what to do… But he did not have time to say anything. Éponine smiled at him, and he could see that she really was happy, and he could see for the first time, as if he had been blind before but had now been healed, that she really loved him. Éponine lay back in Marius's arms. She closed her eyes, and, a faint smile—the light that lingers on the horizon even after the sun has set—still upon her lips, she died.
For a moment, Marius did not move. He did not react. He did not know what to do. He did not feel anything. All he could feel was cold, dark, and forlorn emptiness. When this his friend died and her soul departed, it seemed as if his soul had gone with her. Now, there was nothing left to fill him save for hallow barrenness and broken desolation.
Marius never knew. He never knew that she loved him. Yet, now it seemed so clear, so plain, so simple… How foolish, how ignorant, how selfish he was never to have seen it! How did he never know!? The way she looked at him, the way she smiled at him, the way her face lit up when ever he spoke even a simple word to her, the way he could see the joy in her sad eyes whenever he was with her… Of course, she loved him! How stupid he had been! How had he not seen!? How had he not known!? If he had known… What? What would have happened? Things certainly would have been different. Marius would have done everything so much different. The things that he would have said to her, the things that he would not have said to her, the things that he would have done for her, the things that he would not have done, the things that would have changed… Things would have been different. Yet… Marius began to wonder, would he have loved her in return? Now, he loved Cosette… whom he would have lost had it not been for Éponine, who found her for him. But he knew Éponine long before he knew Cosette… years before he even met Cosette. If he had known… If he had known, maybe…maybe… he could not know for certain, he could not know at all, but maybe… maybe, Marius would have loved Éponine instead…
O, Éponine! She loved him, yet she still brought him to Cosette! What grief, what pain! it must have brought her to do it! And Marius—how selfish was he!—went on to hold, and embrace, and kiss Cosette without even a glance back at his friend, forgetting about her the moment that he saw Cosette before him. O, how ignorant he was! How cruel! Poor Éponine! Poor child! Precious child! She was so selfless, so kind, so good to him. Even while it destroyed her to see him with Cosette, she brought him to her, rejecting payment, because she would rather for him be happy than to be happy herself.
O, Éponine! My Friend! My Angel! You have given me so much, and I have given you nothing! Marius mourned. Even after I betrayed you, abandoned you, and broke your heart, you gave your life to save me! The tears that had been swimming in Marius's eyes finally spilt out and began rolling down his cheeks, becoming one with the gentle rain, and as he looked numbly down at Eponine's pale face, which remained asleep in his arms, his tears began to fall onto her cheeks. "Éponine…" he heard his own voice whisper before he knew even that his lips were opening. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" His head collapsed and fell forward onto Eponine's bloody chest; his arms tightened around her lifeless body; and he broke down, weeping bitterly and violently over the corpse of his dead friend. Several long, painful minutes had past before he was able to find the strength lift his head off of her chest. Her blood covered his face. "Éponine…" he finally managed to say. His voice was soft, weak, strained, raspy, and broken by sobbing. "Forgive me." His head fell and he began to weep again, hugging the poor girl's cold body against his own, as if trying to keep her warm, clutching her head against his chest, as if to let her hear his heart beating. He cried. His heart throbbed; his lungs quaked; his breathe came thin and rapidly; he choked and gasped for air as he wept; his body shook; his limbs trembled; sharp pains like knives stabbed his chest, his sides, his stomach; tears steamed from his eyes and down his face, falling onto the face of the dead child in his arms.
"Marius…" a soft, sad, compassionate voice finally said after Marius had wept for what seemed a very long and very painful time. With much effort, Marius lifted his head off of Éponine's bleeding chest and raised his tear-filled eyes to see the man standing before him. It was Enjolras. His usually grave face and stern eyes were now soft and gentle, filled with pity and sorrow. Combeferre stood only a step behind him, beholding these two piteous friends, the girl dead and the boy holding her in his arms and weeping over her bleeding body, with a mournful face and the glimmer of tears in his eyes. Neither Enjolras not Combeferre had known her. Yet, seeing her, this woman, this girl, die in the arms of their friend Marius, seeing how he wept over her, and beholding the strange, heavenly presence that loomed over them both, they were both of them grieved by what they had witnessed tonight. Marius stared blankly and numbly at Enjolras for a moment, before he understood. Now, he had to let her go. Now, he had to say goodbye.
"I'm sorry, Éponine," he whispered to the girl one last time. His voice was weak, trembling, broken, and so soft that not even Enjolras who stood before him could hear him. But perhaps, this dead girl could. "I will never forget what you have given me. I will never forget you… my dearest friend… Éponine." Then, moving as a dead man, as if his soul were gone and only his body was still alive, he gently took her cheek in his hand, slowly and carefully as if afraid he would disturb her sleep. He leaned over her and placed a long, gentle, tender, first and last kiss upon her forehead. In this kiss, he pored out all of the memories, the joys, the happiness, the friendship, every moment that he had ever spent with his friend Éponine. This was the only time that he ever kissed the girl who loved him so much. The girl who had saved his life by surrendering hers. How happy it would have made her if he had ever kissed her forehead, or her cheek, or even her hand when she was alive! But Marius never knew then. Now, when he finally bestowed to her the kiss that would have brought so much joy to this sad child, she was dead. Yet, perhaps, she could still feel it.
Enjolras helped Combeferre lift Éponine out of Marius's arms, and Combeferre then took her into his. He carried her slowly across the pavement, out of the rain, and into the Musain Café, to lay her down beside all the others who had already fallen tonight. Enjolras sat down on the wet pavement—wet in rain and wet in blood—beside Marius. Marius was still weeping, his body shaking, his lungs wheezing and coughing as he struggled and failed to gain control over himself and force himself to stop crying. Enjolras laid his steady and strong hands upon his friend, grasping his shoulder one hand, and placing a firm hand upon his chest with the other, and he held him tightly, attempting to steady and support Marius. "Marius, I'm sorry," a voice that was soft, mild, soothing, kind, and sorrowful, very different from the usual stern, strong, bold, fiery, and fearless voice of the revolutionary leader, said quietly to him.
"Her name was Éponine," Marius heard his own voice whisper. His eye stared torpidly across the dark street, staring at the entrance of the café through which his friend had disappeared. "Her life was cold and dark, yet she was not afraid."
"We will not forget her, Marius," Enjolras promised, and small flame of passion and courage beginning to burn in his words, though his voice remained soft and gentle, flowing with compassion and sympathy for his friend and for the girl who had given her life to save him. "We will fight on in her name, for her and for her memory. We will not betray her, Marius. Because of Eponine, this rebellion is still alive. Because of brave young people like her, France might one day be free."
Marius, for the first time, turned his face to look at his friend sitting on the ground beside him. There was blood all over Éponine as she died. Now, there was blood all over Marius, as well. On his hands, his arms, his coat, smeared across his cheek. There was blood on Enjolras, also, but it did not belong to Éponine. Blood splattered across his bare neck, on his red coat, and sprayed over his face. O, God! Marius panicked, fearing that Enjolras too had been wounded or shot, and that he too was going to die before his very eyes and in his own arms. But, wait! No. Enjolras had not been shot. He had not even been injured. The blood on his body was not his own. Marius did not know who it belong to. One of the other who had been shot and had died beside him. He let out a soft sigh of both relief and heartache. "Thank you, Enjolras," he whispered, as he blinked tears out of his eyes, but at once, new tears replaced them. They spilt out of his eyes, and he began to break down again.
A moment later, Enjolras took Marius into a firm embrace, and Marius wept on his leader's shoulder and in his friend's arms, glad that, at least for now, Enjolras was still alive. Tonight, many of his friends were still alive, many of his friends were still with him. Tomorrow, all of them might be dead. Maybe, for the best. Then, at least, they could all be dead together, and no one would be left behind to suffer the pain of being alone. All who were still watching in sorrow and in sadness, as there were many of them, believed that this was the first time that they had ever seen Enjolras, brave, strong, powerful Enjolras, hug anyone.
Grantaire stood amongst those in the street, those watching, those bleeding, those dying, and those who were already dead. His face was pale but smeared with ash from the smoke of the guns and wet in the falling rain. Not long ago, he had been holding a gun, but now he gripped even tighter and even more desperately a bottle, grasping it in both of his hands. He had not fought in the battle, but he had helped load the guns. He stood on the other side of barricade the behind Enjolras, who climbed up the barricade, kneeled behind a few boxes for protection, and led the rebels in the battle. When Enjolras had shot his rifle, Grantaire handed him a new rifle already loaded and read to use.
Grantaire has seen everything. He had seen the man fighting beside Enjolras be shot through the throat. When the bullet pierced him, he let out a terrible choking, gagging sound, tying to scream but unable to do so as his vocal cords were severed and ripped apart; blood burst out through the front and the back of his neck and almost immediately began to flow out of his mouth; he flew off of his feet and hit onto the young man fighting beside him; his blood splattered all over Enjolras, who was knocked backward and stumbled into Grantaire. They stood side by side as they watched the injured man lie on his back upon the pavement in front of them and choke up blood for several seconds before he finally died. When it ended, Grantaire was too stunned and horrified to move, but at once, Enjolras took the rifle out of Grantaire's hands and returned to his position on the barricade to continue fighting, the dead man's blood splattered across his chest, neck, and face. Grantaire, feeling in a daze and not certain that he would remain conscious for much longer, stumbled after him, nonetheless, following Enjolras into the dark, following him to death if that was were her led him. He began looking for another gun to load and prepare for his leader. He could find none. But Enjolras had just fired his weapon, and now he was unarmed. He had to get a weapon to him! Fast! With on other choice, Grantaire bent over, kneeled down on the pavement beside the dead man, and took his rifle, having to forcefully pry it out of the lifeless hands that still gripped it and did not want to let go of the weapon that could protect him. He got unsteadily to his feet—not because he was drunk, but because his body was weak, his legs were trembling, his chest was tight, and his mind was dizzy; he felt as if he were moving through a dream, or as if he would soon pass out—and gave the rifle to Enjolras, who took it without knowing where it had come from and used it to kill a young soldier approaching the barricade.
Only a few minutes later, Grantaire was still standing behind Enjolras, and he saw is friend Marius climbing up the barricade with no gun to protect himself. He saw the soldier aim his rifle at Marius, and his heart turned to ice. "Marius, watch out!" he heard his own voice shout, and it was strained, desperate, and despairing. But Marius did not hear him over the roar of the battle. Grantaire took a sudden step toward Marius, but it was too late. He was too far away to save him. He would never get there in time. Just as the soldier pulled the trigger and the gun went off, the girl threw out her hands and jumped in front of the gun. The bullet passed through her hand and then went into her chest. She stumbled backward, sunk down behind the barricade, and came to lie bleeding upon the stone pavement. At the time, Marius did not notice what had happened. But Grantaire had seen everything.
When the battle ended a short time later, Grantaire stood amongst those who were still alive, and he watched the girl die in Marius's arms. He stood at the end of the barricade where he had remained during the entire battle, where he had been when the man died beside Enjolras, where he had been when he watched Éponine sacrifice herself for Marius, but he was close enough so that he could hear much of what they were saying to each other. He was close enough so that he could hear her whisper, "I love you."
Now, he watched Enjolras tightly embracing Marius, who was weeping bitterly on his shoulder. They both had blood on them. Blood… There was blood everywhere. Blood all over the girl—Éponine, Grantaire remembered the name that Marius had been calling her—who had died, on the streets, on the barricade, on the dead corpses that littered the battlefield and filled it with the sickening odor of death, blood on the wounded, blood on the survivors, as well. Grantaire looked down and realized that there was blood on his own hands, and he remembered when he took the rifle from the dead man it had his blood all over it. As if he had suddenly touched his hand to something very hot, a stove that hurt and burned him, he abruptly drew back his hands and began wiping them on his trousers, trying to get the blood off of them, dropping his bottle in the process. When it hit the stone street, red wine immediately and rapidly flowed out of it and over the pavement. Even the wine looked like blood.
Grantaire stumbled a step backward, backing away from all of this, from the blood and the death that poisoned the hellish world around him. War was terrible, but death is terrible all the more. He had seen far too much death already. Grantaire could bare it no longer. Not looking back, not picking up the bottle that he had dropped on the ground but leaving it there to bleed like everything else, he turned his back on it all and staggered away, moving along the edge of the barricade, running his hand along it to steady himself, moving past bloody bodies and lifeless faces, feeling lightheaded and dizzy, feeling as if the earth beneath his feet was uneven and moving like the ocean's tide, feeling as if he was drunk but knowing that he was more sober than he had been all day, until he found a empty, secluded spot, hidden from the sight of the battlefield, where there was no one living or dead, no blood and no carcasses to haunt him.
He collapsed down on the ground beside a broken piano and behind a large heap of rubble that hid him from sight. His legs gave out from under him, his entire body fell limp, and he leaned back against the barricade. Now, he was hidden from the sight of all others, and for the first time since the battle had begun, he felt a weak but nevertheless a sense of security and of safety. He quickly looked around to make sure that there was no blood around him. The only blood that he found was that which stained his light-colored trousers when he had wiped his hands on them. As soon as his eyes fell upon this, he felt his gut twisting into a knot and images of the dead man pierced through his throat, bleeding out through his neck, mouth, and nose, began to flash through his mind. He closed his eyes. At last, in the darkness, he was safe. Leaning his head back against the barricade behind him, he let out a heavily and shaking sigh of relief. His entire body was still trembling. His heart was still pounding in his chest. In his stomach, there was a hallow pit, filled with naught but emptiness. In his mind, he kept seeing Éponine dying in Marius's arms, hearing her final words to him, and then seeing Marius weep so bitterly and violently over her corpse. All of these images were intermingled with images of blood, images of the past, and images of memories that would never stop haunting him.
Grantaire had only been sitting there for a few minutes, in misery and in torment, when without warning he doubled over and threw up onto the pavement before him. A foul taste filled his throat, which burned as vomit and acid came up. It burned even more because most of what he threw up was the hard liquor that he drank that morning. Groaning softly, Grantaire raised his arm to his lips and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, taking care not to let his hand touch his lips because of the blood that had been on it. Let out a despondent sigh, he leaned back against the barricade and closed his eyes. Now, the vile smell of vomit was present along with the odor of smoke, fire, blood, and dying corpses.
As he sat there, he began to think about Enjolras. He was glad that Enjolras had not been hurt in the battle… although, he knew that they would all be dead within a few days anyway. Still, he was glad that Enjolras had not died. They were all going to die, but he hoped that he died before Enjolras. He supposed that Éponine had found the same reasoning when she chose to die before Marius. It is less painful to die than it is to watch a loved one die. Grantaire knew this too well. To loose one's beloved, his brother, his friend: there is no greater pain. Marius wept when Éponine died, but Enjolras would not weep for Grantaire once he had been killed. So much the better, Grantaire thought. He did not want Enjolras to have to be in pain. If Enjolras died first, Grantaire but lost, broken, defeated, but Enjolras would hardly notice Grantaire's death. In fact, no matter how many of his friends died, Enjolras would still keeping going, keep fighting. Enjolras was strong and brave, and the rebels needed him to lead them. Grantaire needed him to lead him so that he could follow. It would be best, Grantaire thought, if Enjolras was the last to die. Otherwise, his followers would be lost, leaderless, hopeless, and they would perish with shame and with humility. Enjolras was strong enough to lead them, at least, to a victorious defeat. Enjolras was so strong. Enjolras so much stronger than Grantaire. It was Enjolras who had been fighting in the battle, Enjolras who had been splattered with that man's blood, Enjolras who had lifted Éponine's blood-covered body off of the street, and Enjolras who stayed with Marius so he could grieve on his shoulder. Yet Grantaire knew that Enjolras would not throw up, or almost pass out, or run off and hide somewhere by himself. Enjolras was strong. He was not like Grantaire.
Grantaire tried not to think about any of this, about the battles that were to come, about the battle that had passed, about the horrors that he had witnessed, about the blood and the death that he had seen, or about the girl who had died in Marius's arms. He could not keep any of it out of his mind. It kept returning to haunt him and torment him. He soon knew that he would not be able to get any rest tonight unless he had a bottle to numb his senses and dull his mind. He needed a drink. Alcohol was the only way that he knew, the only way to escape sorrow, and grief, and pain. He needed alcohol now. Yet, he was too exhausted and too afraid to move. So he continued to lie there alone.
"Grantaire?" a quiet voice said, perhaps hours later, and Grantaire opened his eyes. Courfeyrac had found his hiding place. Courfeyrac did not appear to be injured. Thank goodness. Grantaire's heart sighed in relief. Courfeyrac's face, however, was very sad and very concerned. "Grantaire, are you alright?" softly he asked as his eyes took in the sight of his despairing friend.
Grantaire swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded. Courfeyrac slowly approached and sat down on the ground beside him. It had stopped raining, but Grantaire did not notice until this moment. "Are you sure?" Courfeyrac questioned again. "You do not look well."
"I'm fine," Grantaire muttered, but even as he said it, he thought it a senseless statement. Of course, he was not fine. None of them were fine. They had just endured a battle and had seen so many people killed, had killed some of these people themselves. How could anyone be aright after this? "I'm not hurt," he added a moment later, thinking it a more suitable answer.
Courfeyrac nodded. He did not look all too well himself. His skin was pale, his face scared, his eyes empty. Grantaire did not see Courfeyrac during the battle, but he could guess that the boy was fighting like Enjolras. He was as brave and courageous and he was kind and compassionate. New fret suddenly came into Courfeyrac's eyes, and he said, "There is blood on your clothes."
"It isn't mine."
He nodded. He had seen the battle. He understood. "Are you sick?" he asked after a brief silence. Of course, he had noticed the vomit in the street.
"No," Grantaire dismissed the question as if he did not know why it had been asked. "Just… thirsty."
"Here," Courfeyrac said, and he held out to Grantaire a bottle. Grantaire gladly accepted it. He was even gladder when he discovered that the liquor inside of it was colorless and not red like the wine he had been drinking earlier. Good. Now, he did not have to be bothered by the illusion that he was drinking blood. Grantaire immediately opened the bottle, raised it to his lips, and took a long sip. It burned his throat as it went down, but that did not bother him anymore. It never bothered him, really. He remembered so many years ago—it seemed decades ago—when he first began drinking, how the alcohol had burned his throat, how it made him gag, how it made him vomit, how sick he would be when he awoke the next morning. Yet, none of that bothered him much then either. Sometimes physical pain can help one forget the internal pain that he is enduring. Pain of the body is much easier to bear than pain of the heart.
Courfeyrac lifted his own bottle to his lips and took a sip. For several long minutes, these two friends sat on the ground in silence drinking, both of them consumed in thought that they did not wish to share with the other. Or with anyone. "Did you know her?" Courfeyrac finally asked, breaking the silence.
Grantaire did not have to ask for clarification. He knew that Courfeyrac was talking about Éponine. He shook his head. "No."
"Neither did I," Courfeyrac said sadly. Even deeper sorrow and misery came upon his face and filled his voice as he went on, "But little Gavroche told me that she was his sister."
"She was Gavroche's sister?" Grantaire repeated, greatly surprised and deeply saddened by this news. "I did not know that he had a sister."
"Nor did I. He never told me…" Courfeyrac trialed off and fell silent. The silence remained for nearly a full minute as Courfeyrac gazed emptily across the street and at the shops and houses that surrounded the barricade. All doors and windows were tightly sealed and locked. Tonight, the people had hid behind the cover of their doors, hiding in the safety of there homes, hidden from the battle and from the horrors that came with it. Tomorrow, however, perhaps they would rise in triumph and in glory and fight for freedom and for France with the Friends of the ABC. Courfeyrac, even in this bleak and tragic time, was hopeful. Grantaire knew not to hope for something that was impossible.
"She was Marius's friend," Courfeyrac said, at last, not looking at Grantaire but still gazing out across the street. He spoke as if in a trance, slowly and emotionlessly. "I saw them together quite a lot. I remember her waiting for him after out meetings in the café…"
"She loved Marius," Grantaire said bluntly, surprising Courfeyrac and hitting him off guard with this blow. When Grantaire said this, the bitterness, the grimness, and the sadness seemed to have greatly increased in his voice, in his face, and in his eyes.
Courfeyrac turned to meet his friend's eyes. "She loved him? Meaning…"
"Meaning she was in love with him."
"How… How do you know?"
"She said so. She told Marius before she died."
"I could not hear what she was saying," Courfeyrac said quietly, his voice growing even quieter as even greater sadness came over him.
"I could. But beside that," Grantaire went on, "couldn't you tell simply by the way that she was looking at him?"
Courfeyrac answered uncertainly, "No…"
Grantaire shook his head. He was not looking into Courfeyrac's eyes any longer but staring at the bottle in his hands, speaking to his liquor rather than to his friend. It was easier to talk when he was not looking into anybody's eyes. It was easier to talk to his bottle. "She loved him," he said again. "It is easy to see when someone is in love with someone else. It is obvious. There is probably nothing more obvious. It is easy to hide feelings of hatred, and evil, and darkness, but love is difficult to hide. Nearly impossible. It was obvious to see that girl was in love with Marius. Éponine got in the way of the bullet and chose to be shot instead of Marius, because she loved him. She chose to die in his place, because she loved him." Grantaire fell silent and did not speak for a long time, but kept his head bowed and continued to stare at the bottle in his hands. At last, speaking as if to himself, he shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Love… Love is a cruel thing. It ruins you."
Courfeyrac stared at Grantaire as he listened to him speaking, bewildered and astounded by what he heard. Once Grantaire had said this, Courfeyrac did not know how to reply. He opened his lips, but then closed them again. At last, he cautiously asked in an emotionless tone, "What do you mean by that?"
Grantaire did not answer.
"How do you know that?" Courfeyrac tried instead.
Grantaire still did not answer for a moment. Although his face was looking downward, Courfeyrac could see that Grantaire was thinking, considering what or what not to say. At last, he let out a heavy sigh and raised his eyes to meet Courfeyrac's. There was something very different about Grantaire, about his voice, about his face, about his eyes… Courfeyrac had never seen him like this before. It made him afraid.
"I was in love once," said Grantaire, and his voice was like that of a dead man. Cold, dark, lifeless.
Courfeyrac had not been expecting this, at all. "You… you were in love once?" he repeated confused and afraid.
Grantaire nodded. Then he took a long drink from his bottle.
"But you…" Courfeyrac began reluctantly and uncertainly. "You are in love with women all the time…"
"Not like that," Grantaire said, shaking his head. "I really loved this girl."
Courfeyrac understood.
Grantaire sighed heavily and burdensomely. Courfeyrac could hear the pain that he was feeling. Grantaire looked down at his bottle again, unable to look Courfeyrac in the eye any longer. "Christine was her name," he whispered to his bottle, speaking this name for the first time in nearly nine years. When he said this, his voice was so different. It was weak, mournful, dark, cold, broken.
"Christine?" Courfeyrac found himself repeating without meaning to do so. "I don't remember you telling me about—"
"I never told you about her. I never told anyone…" He swallowed the knot in his throat and quietly went on, "We were going to be married. I was sixteen. She was sixteen also. We were young… We were too young to be married. But we were in love… and love blinds you." Now, he was talking and he did not even know why. The words were flowing out from his lips without restraint, yet he did not know why he was saying them. Perhaps, it was because he had kept all of this secret bottled up inside of him for so long, for all of these long years, and he had never spoken a word of it to anyone. Now, before he died, he had to at least tell someone. He had to tell someone so that he could be free and go to his grave with nothing to hide.
"What…what happened?" Courfeyrac asked quietly, when Grantaire failed to go on. His voice was already filled of sadness, pity, and compassion, because somehow he already knew the answer.
Grantaire hesitated, staring sadly down at his bottle. He blinked his eyes hard, because he feared that tears were beginning to fill them. He wanted to tell Courfeyrac. He wanted to tell, at least, someone. He had to tell someone… But some truths are too painful to speak of. He could not bring himself to do it. So instead, he let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. "Why does is matter what happened?" he murmured, his voice becoming hard and unfeeling, like rock. The heart turns to stone after it has been broken. He raised his bottle to his lips and took a large gulp, swallowing too much too suddenly. The alcohol and the burning of his throat and nose made his eyes begin to water. He sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve. Then, at last, he raised his red eyes to look into Courfeyrac's. "It does not matter what happened. She's gone now. I lost her."