A/N- The whole time I was writing about Musichetta, I had the song 'Popular' from Wicked playing over and over in the back of my head. I can't help it. Somehow 'Chetta and Galinda have become inextricably linked in my mind. I think I am mentally disturbed.
Chapter 6
November 22nd, 1830
Musichetta, as it turned out, was Joly's mistress. Though, truth be told, judging by the amount of flirting that had gone on between her and Laigle, Éponine had to wonder whether she wasn't a little bit shared. The pair of best friends had brought her to Musichetta's doorstep despite the late hour, and pleaded with the young lady to open her home just for a few weeks.
The first thought that entered Éponine's head upon seeing Musichetta was to marvel at her beauty. She was utterly petite, with perfect porcelain features and thick, honey-colored hair. What was really striking, though, were her eyes which were a deep shade of violet and framed by long golden lashes. She was dressed in a gown of fine cut and plain fabric. The only thing that distinguished her as a grisette rather than some bourgeois doll were her hands, which were red and dry about the knuckles.
"Alexandre, what on earth are you playing at?" she demanded. "I can't take her in! There's hardly room here for me!"
Éponine thought about protesting that she didn't take up much room, but kept silent.
"Please, 'Chetta, it would just be for a few weeks, just long enough to get a few things in order..." Joly pleaded.
"Who is she, anyway?"
"My name is Éponine."
"She's Enjolras's fiancée," Laigle added. "You remember I was telling you about that whole funny situation?"
At this, Musichetta's pursed lips relaxed into a reluctant grin. "Of course! Oh, what an amusing dilemma." Éponine suspected that Antoine would be furious to know that a grisette he had never spoken to was entertained by his private affairs. She pictured his blue eyes narrowing in annoyance, and smiled to herself at the picture it presented.
"Please?" Joly begged. "She has nowhere else to go."
Musichetta sighed. "I wish I could help, but I can't!"
"Come on, 'Chetta," Joly pleaded. "It would only be until the wedding." Then his eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "Just think! A poor girl like Éponine isn't really suited to Enjolras. She needs someone to tidy her up in preparation. It would be a project. Wouldn't that be fun for you?"
Musichetta's smile widened. "I hate that you know me so well. Alright, I suppose you leave me no choice." Though her words were those of grudging concession, her sparkling eyes indicated otherwise. Clearly he had hit on the one inducement guaranteed to make her accept Éponine into her home.
Once the two men left, Musichetta took to studying Éponine, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her lips thoughtfully with a fingertip. "Well, you're not very pretty, are you?" she said at last, and it wasn't really a question. "Still, I think we'll be able to make something of you. You've rather fine eyes, at least."
"Nothing to yours," Éponine said enviously.
Musichetta laughed gaily. "My eyes are rather lovely, aren't they?" she said. Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, "To tell you the truth, that's how I snared Alexandre. He's quite convinced it was his idea first- men always do- but I saw him long before he saw me. I caught sight of him one night across the floor in a dance hall, and he seemed so sweet and so handsome... well, I wasn't going to let him slip away, now was I? It's easy, Éponine, when you have beautiful eyes, to make a man yours."
So saying, she took Éponine by the arm and guided her into the little parlor, where she pulled the pair of them down onto the little settee. "Oh, I know Alexandre and I aren't forever, of course. I can hope that I'll be the lucky girl he marries, but I know it's not likely. For now, though... for now he is mine and only mine and that is perfectly good enough. You, though- Oh! You are the lucky thing, aren't you?" she exclaimed. "I'm very sure every grisette in Paris has tried her luck with Antoine Enjolras- and more than a few of the bourgeois ladies, too- and not one has received anything better than that haughty stare of his. He's a man of marble, he really is. How someone so handsome can be so cold-blooded is beyond me! But one little letter from his father and suddenly he's scrambling to find a substitute wife! How on earth is it that you, of all people, came to be the one he's settled on?"
Éponine felt she probably ought to be offended, but Musichetta was as gay and utterly guileless as her lover, and she was finding it difficult to be annoyed with her, no matter how frank she was. Besides, what she said was true: Éponine was probably the last girl in Paris that a man like Antoine ought to ally himself with.
"Probably," Éponine replied, "because I am the only single woman in Paris with no designs on him."
Musichetta's stunning eyes widened. "None at all? Oh, I can't believe that! Every woman who ever sees him desires him."
"Well, not me," she said firmly. Then, after a slight hesitation, she continued, "Though I suppose he is very handsome."
"That he is!" Musichetta giggled. "Come now, you're lucky, admit it!"
"I suppose I am," Éponine confessed. "But somehow I don't think he is, being stuck with a girl like me."
"This is Paris!" Musichetta replied. "Stranger things have happened. Besides, I have my instructions. When I'm finished with you, you'll be a proper beauty! Now, we had better get some sleep, because I have all kinds of ideas for tomorrow."
As it transpired, those ideas consisted of Éponine being quite thoroughly scrubbed. Musichetta gaily declared that she had no intention of working that day, as "fixing Éponine up" was more pressing business. Officially her trade was that of the laundress, hence her rough hands, but since becoming involved with Joly her actual participation in that line of work had become sporadic. Her customers, she said, could wait another day. Instead, she put the large washtub situated in the otherwise empty back room of her flat to a rather different use.
Éponine couldn't recall being so clean in years. Running outside in the rain in an attempt to wash away the grime was really not the same thing. Once she was washed to Musichetta's satisfaction, the older girl presented her with one of her own dresses, a plain and serviceable gown in blue, which Éponine readily changed into. She was fiercely glad to be free of her own clothes, which she had worn constantly for maybe two years straight, and which most certainly did not fit anymore.
Musichetta had a mirror in her bedroom, which Éponine ran to the moment she was dressed, eager to see how she looked.
She was disappointed. Though she was clean, her skin was still tanned from the sun and sallow from malnourishment. The color of her hair was no longer concealed beneath a heavy later of dirt and grease, but she hadn't taken the time to comb it yet, and it was still a mass of tangles. Although she looked better in Musichetta's dress than she had in her own clothing, the fact was, they were not the same size. Musichetta was a good six inches shorter than she was, and where malnourishment had left Éponine with a body like a young boy's, Musichetta had a full womanly figure, with curves in all the right places. As a result, the gown was too short in some places and far too loose in others, and left her looking stringy and awkward in it. It might be considered improvement, but just barely.
"No need to worry," Musichetta exclaimed, not discouraged at all but noting Éponine's disappointment. "This is only temporary. We'll have you dressed properly in no time. But we certainly couldn't have you running around in those rags any longer!"
Éponine sighed. "It is silly. I have been ugly for years. I just thought..."
"You thought one bath and a clean dress would make all the difference?" Musichetta asked, amused. "Rome was not built in a day, mon ami. Never fear, we shall certainly make you fit to stand up next to your future husband, but you didn't think it could happen overnight, surely!"
She had, and now felt foolish.
Musichetta pulled a little rush-seated chair up in front of the mirror, and with a push on the shoulders, encouraged Éponine to sit. "Now," she said, "On to the next step! We have simply got to do something about this hair of yours." She ran her fingers through the long tangled locks in question. "I must say, I envy you this color!" Éponine's hair was beginning to dry, revealing it to be a light, vivid red, just like her mother's. She felt that Musichetta's blonde locks were prettier, but there was something striking about the strawberry color all the same.
The older girl picked up a comb and began working through the knots in Éponine's hair. She seemed to try to be gentle, but the tangles were too thick and too long set in to avoid some rather strenuous tugging.
"Has anyone ever taught you to pin your hair up properly?" Musichetta asked as she worked through one particularly tenacious knot.
Éponine shook her head (which did not help the process in the slightest).
"Well, it's time for your first lesson."
Enjolras returned to his apartment in the afternoon. He only meant to leave his schoolbooks inside before going immediately to the cafe to meet with Bahorel and Courfeyrac. He had not expected to find a beautiful girl waiting outside his door.
"Monsieur Enjolras," she said, looking up at him through her golden lashes. "My name is Musichetta. I am here on your fiancée's behalf."
He vaguely recognized the girl who had once greeted Joly (rather exuberantly, if he recalled) outside the Cafe Musain, and nodded. "What is your business?" he asked, trying not to cringe at her reference to Éponine as his fiancée.
"I want to take Éponine to a seamstress. She is going to need some proper clothing, obviously. The difficulty is, I have no money to spare, and of course she has none at all." Musichetta gave him a meaningful look with those striking violet eyes.
Enjolras nodded. "Of course," he said tiredly. Dear Lord, if these women who were apparently invading his life made a habit out of bothering him about this sort of trivial thing, he would go mad within a month! He filled her hand with coins, and her eyes widened at the amount. "Here, buy whatever you think she needs. If you should need more-"
"No, this will be plenty!" she said hurriedly. "Good day to you, Monsieur!"
She curtsied and hurried away. He watched until she reached the bottom of the stairs, then shook his head and unlocked the door of his flat. "Women..." he muttered irritably.
He deposited his books, stopped to retrieve a collection of Locke's writings from his bookshelf, and hurried to the cafe as originally planned. Once there, he discovered that his haste had been entirely unnecessary because Bahorel was plainly late (as usual). However, he spotted Feuilly chatting with some other workingmen in the corner and approached him, thinking it might be a good opportunity to ask if he would be able to help with the problem Éponine had pointed out the night before.
"Feuilly, might I have a word with you?" he asked.
The young man nodded and rose to his feet, following Enjolras to a table out of earshot of the other men.
Enjolras said, "You were present the other night when a great deal of discussion went towards finding a solution towards my difficulty with my parents."
"If you're worried I'll tell anyone who wasn't there-" Feuilly began, but Enjolras shook his head.
"No, that's not it. I've put Pontmercy's idea into action, but for this to be a suitable solution, we may have to fix the dates on some of the paperwork."
Feuilly looked at him intently. "What has that got to do with me?"
"I know you paint fans for a living," Enjolras said. "You have an advanced understanding of ink and paper. Is it possible you would be able to alter the documents?"
He thought long and hard for a minute. "I'm not entirely sure I like this," he said slowly, "But depending on the sort of ink used, I think it would certainly be within my skill. Yes, I will assist you. Never let it be said that Patrice Feuilly will not help a friend in need!"
"You consider me a friend?" Enjolras asked, surprised. He had spoken very little to the other man.
Feuilly nodded. "All mankind are brothers," he said, "And as for us? We think and feel alike, that all men have the right to be equals in that brotherhood. That common thought alone makes a basis for friendship, does it not?"
Enjolras smiled. It was the sort of thing he himself might say. "I must agree," he said. He extended his hand, which Feuilly took. They shook hands, and Enjolras said, "Thank you for your assistance, my friend."
A/N- I fully hate this chapter. Musichetta's a dear, but I hate this chapter. Still, I know from experience that fiddling is only going to make me frustrated and help nothing.