Ugh. Day 2 of being home sick and a very lazy Saturday/Sunday = new chapter.
I don't own "Life Sculpture" by Doane.
Enjoy!
The next day, Feuilly brought two square packages home. Eponine looked at them curiously.
"What are those?" she inquired.
"Presents for you," he replied with a smile, "here, open them."
She looked delighted, and went for the smaller one first. It was a small book, maroon with gold print. She read the title,
"Poetry? Why poetry?"
"Because poets not only have impeccable grammar, it will give you something to make small talk with customers about," Feuilly explained, "Poetry is always fashionable and proper in discussion. Open the other."
Eponine smiled and unwrapped the second. It was a dress, the same color green as her ruined one. It was a little simpler, but was just as pretty in her eyes.
"I couldn't afford shoes," he admitted, a little ashamed, "so you'll have to make do until you can. I'm sorry."
To his surprise, Eponine laughed. She got up from the bed for the first time since she had been ill, and kissed him.
"Thank you so much," she said softly, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking up into his eyes. Feuilly kissed her forehead and held her, smiling.
"I didn't think you'd want to go to your new job in one of my shirts," he teased. Eponine pushed his shoulder playfully, stepping back and holding her arms out.
"I don't think it looks so bad," she said, looking down at herself. Feuilly followed her gaze, taking in her hair that hung loose around her shoulders, down to her skinny ankles and back up her thin legs, past her knees, to where the hem of his shirt barely covered…he blushed suddenly and cleared his throat.
Eponine, who had followed his gaze, blushed too and slid back into bed.
"Here," Feuilly said, to cover up their mutual embarrassment, "pick out a poem you want to read out loud to me, and I'll be back in a minute, all right?"
Eponine just nodded and opened the book, leafing through the pages and reading bits of poems here and there, finally selecting Doane's "My Star". The book was open in her lap when Feuilly returned.
"Did you find one?"
"Yes. It's called 'Life Sculpture' by George Washington Doane."
"I've not heard that one. Read it to me."
"Chisel in 'and-"
"Hand. Pronounce the h."
"In hand stood the sculptor boy,
With his marble block before 'im-"
"Him."
"And his," she over pronounced the h, but it was an improvement, and Feuilly kept quiet. She continued,
"eyes lit up with a smile of joy,
As an angel dream passed o'er him. Why o'er and not over? Do I 'ave to say o'er?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
"You say over. Poets shorten words sometimes. And it's have," he reminded her patiently. She read again,
"He carved the dream on that shapeless stone,
With many a sharp incision;
With heaven's own light the sculptor shone,
He'd caught that angel vision," she stopped there for a minute, and raised her eyes to Feuilly.
"Is that what happens when you paint?"
"Well…no, not really. Not my fans anyway," he explained, "it's not much of an 'angel vision' when someone's telling you what to paint."
"Oh," Eponine looked a little disappointed, and read the rest of the poem in a sort of monotone.
"That was good," Feuilly said when she had finished, "I think as long as you remember to pronounce your h, you will be fine. You're a quick learner, and I think you'll pick up on the way your employer and customers speak. Read me another."
And so they passed the week. Eponine would have poems ready when Feuilly came home, and would read out loud. By Monday, her grammar wasn't perfect, but it had improved greatly. She had also been looking through newspapers for drawings of women, and had been practicing pinning her hair up.
The first of December had brought a beautiful snowfall, but the pretty white fluff didn't bring the usual joy for Feuilly. All he could think of as he walked home were Eponine's bare feet, trudging through the cold the next morning. Sunday was always a slow day, but he had hoped that with Christmas approaching, he could earn a bit extra to get her a pair of shoes. But the snow had discouraged shoppers, and it had been a cold, unprofitable day.
When he opened the door to his house, an acrid smell filled his nostrils. Smoke! He ran into the kitchen, where he beheld the source: a pot in Eponine's hand. She was staring at it in horror, her eyes filled with tears, as it excreted thick smoke. Whatever had been in the bottom was charred and black.
When Eponine saw Feuilly, the tears in her eyes spilled over, and she nearly dropped the pot.
"What happened?" he asked kindly.
"I jus'… wanted to make dinner," she sniffed, "I wanted to do somethin' nice for you, since you've been so kind to me."
"Oh, ma chère," Feuilly said softly. He took the pan from her hands and set it back onto the stove. Then he took her into his arms and kissed her gently, hugging her tightly. Eponine looked up at him curiously.
"You're not mad at me?"
"How could I be?"
"I ruined dinner," she seemed baffled, "Me…my father would be horribly angry."
"You tried to do something sweet for me. I can't be angry with you for that. We can eat some bread and cheese and cold meat for dinner. I don't mind."
"All right, go and sit in the living room," Eponine said, happy again, "and I'll bring it in to you."
"All right," Feuilly replied, laughing. She kissed him on the cheek as he left the room, and he heard her humming happily, if out of tune as she bustled around. It didn't take her long to bring out the tray, and they sat together, eating by the fire rather than in the chilly dining room.
After dinner, Eponine read aloud, and they went to bed. Although Feuilly was sad that he would get less time with her, he was a little excited about getting his bed back. Since she was feeling better, he had moved onto the couch, but it was hard.
Eponine was up and dressed when Feuilly awoke the next morning, and was pinning her hair up in the little mirror he had hanging on the wall. He gave her a pair of thick wool socks to wear in place of shoes, and an old jacket that he had outgrown.
"Oh, Feuilly. You've done more for me than anyone. You're ever so good at taking care of me," she said with a smile, laying her fingers against his cheek and smiling up at him.
"You're going to be late, 'Ponine!" he said, giving her a hug, "I'll see you tonight, all right?"
"All right. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, ma chère," he said, giving her a kiss, "have a good day."
Eponine looked nervous, but she went out the door with her head held high despite her lack of shoes and man's coat. Feuilly watched her, vowing to himself that someday she would dress as fine as any lady in Paris.