"You've been brooding like that for most of the day. What's the matter?"
Heracles shrugged. He couldn't really name the feeling that seethed within him, and he certainly didn't want to discuss it with anyone. Quasimodo was looking at him, his misshapen blue eyes calm and unblinking. His hands moved quickly over the piece of wood he was holding and wood shavings littered the ground by his feet; he was forever carving things. "Oh, it's nothing."
"Is it because we're staying here for another week?"
"No. I like this town. We make good money here."
Quasimodo shrugged. "You seemed excited about heading back to France, to Lyon in particular."
"It doesn't matter," said Heracles. He said it more to himself than to Quasimodo. It didn't matter whether or not he ever returned to Lyon. Rosalie would never look at him in a romantic light. She'd made that perfectly clear. She was content to see him whenever he happened to come into town, and she was content to share a meal with him, but she would never want anything more.
He knew that something horrible had once happened to her. It was a dark sort of knowledge that hovered in the back of his mind, and he did not like to contemplate it. She'd been raped; that was probably the reason for her distance. The first time he'd seen her, she'd been disheveled and covered with bruises. There had been a wild, defensiveness in her eyes, something dark, protective, and almost feral, as though she'd rip his throat open if he even so much as looked at her.
The fierceness had faded for the most part, but sometimes he still saw it. If he touched her or stood too close he saw it rise up within her like a reflex. He hated it. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't like the men who'd raped her. He would never hurt her. He wanted to hold her and be tender with her, he wanted to show her that he could be gentle and loving.
Perhaps it wasn't the soldiers, though; perhaps she refused him out of loyalty to her deceased husband. Someone had told him that Pierre was the spitting image of his late father, and he could see it in the way Rosalie sometimes looked at him. Sometimes, her eyes filled with such sorrow when she saw Pierre, like she was looking at a ghost. Perhaps Rosalie had locked her heart after her husband died.
"What are you carving?"
"A gift for Frieda." Quasimodo handed him the carving. "Her birthday's next week."
"Damn, I'd forgotten." The carving was only half-finished, but lovely nonetheless. It was a carved portrait. Frieda's smiling face was perfectly outlined. It seemed to spring out of the wood. "This is amazing."
"Oh, it isn't finished yet," said Quasimodo, taking it from him. He ran his hand over the carving, trailing his large fingers along the ridges that would later be shaped into Frieda's wild red curls.
"I'm sure she'll love it."
"I hope she does. Did Rosalie like the gift you gave her?"
"Yes." He doubted it, though. She had smiled, of course, accepted the little nesting dolls graciously. She had treated the dolls the same way she treated him, like nothing more than a friend.
~xXx~
Katarina was sleeping when he arrived. Esmerelda was sitting by the window, rocking the new baby in her arms while Dante played on the floor by her feet. Phoebus lifted his grandson, scooping the little boy up into his arms. Dante laughed, only to be shushed by Esmerelda.
"It was a difficult birth," she whispered. "She's asleep."
He hated the idea of his daughter being in any sort of pain. He went to Katarina's room now, still carrying Dante. He eased the door open. The room was dark and peaceful. Katarina lay on her side. The bed sheets were bunched around her waist. Phoebus entered the room slowly, trying his best to be quiet. He adjusted the sheets, pulling them up to Katarina's shoulders.
Her eyelids fluttered. "Father?"
"I just wanted to see how you were," he whispered.
She smiled weakly. "I'll be all right."
"Hello, Mama."
"Is that my little Dante?" Katarina reached for him, and Phoebus placed the little boy beside her. Dante snuggled close to his mother, kissing her cheek. "Are you being good for your grandfather?"
"Yes, Mama."
"My darling boy…" she kissed his face now, ruffling his hair. Phoebus sat down on the edge of the bed. Watching Katarina and Dante made his heart swell with happiness. Despite her pain and exhaustion, Katarina was happy. Despite everything that had happened to her, everything she had been through, she was here with him, cuddling with her son. Phoebus sighed, rubbing her shoulder. She looked at him, smiling. She had her mother's eyes and her unbreakable spirit. He loved her so much.
"Where's Giovanni?" she asked.
"I think Pierre took him out to celebrate."
Katarina chuckled. "Well," she said, "when he gets back, will you tell him I've decided on a name for the baby?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"Either Musetta or Eponine. I haven't made up my mind yet."
"Well, I hardly call that deciding…"
Katarina laughed again. "Which do you prefer?"
Phoebus stroked her hair now. It was soft and somewhat damp with her sweat. "I think I like Musetta."
Katarina nodded. "Then Musetta it is." She kissed Dante's forehead. "Have you met your new sister yet?"
"A little bit," he said. "She's sleeping, and Grandmother says I mustn't wake her."
"Babies spend most of their time sleeping," said Katarina. "When you were a baby, it was all you ever did!"
She yawned now, her eyelids drooping. "Come on, Dante," said Phoebus, lifting the boy. "Your mother needs her rest."
"Feel better, Mama."
"I will soon, darling boy, I will."
He left, carrying Dante. Esmerelda looked up at him, smiling. For a brief instant, seeing her holding the small blonde child was too much for him; it was how she must have looked when she'd held Katarina. Phoebus knew that it was pointless to think about the past, that it only hurt him, but he wished that things had turned out differently. He wished that he had been able to marry Esmerelda when they were both young, he wished he could have raised a family with her. She smiled at him, and he wondered if she harbored the same wish.
Still, painful as the past was, the present was all that mattered. Esmerelda was here, and their daughter was in the next room asleep. Their grandchildren were here too; Dante was wiggling in his arms, eager to get down and resume his play. "Come on," he said to the squirming child, "let's go outside."
~xXx~
Marching was dull, monotonous, and silent. René supposed that the silence was what he hated the most. He didn't have much to say, but he longed to be able to at least talk to someone. Jean-Claude was ahead of him, marching in the front with the captain and the other high-ranking officers.
Jean-Claude was truly the perfect soldier, and this was why he was the youngest lieutenant in the army. At this rate, he'd become Captain of the Guard before he turned twenty. Jean-Claude followed orders. He did this almost mindlessly, which René found a bit frightening. He was quick on his feet and incredibly smart, but he did whatever he was told, almost as though he couldn't think for himself. It was eerie.
He liked talking to Jean-Claude, though. Unlike everyone else in the platoon, Jean-Claude was educated. He'd read most, if not all, of the classics and was actually fluent in Latin. This, of course, was absolutely useless, but it impressed others nonetheless. Jean-Claude was very serious. René could count the times he'd seen him smile on one hand, and was certain that he'd never seen him laugh. He wondered how lovely Cosette could be attracted to such a stern, serious man.
René had met Cosette Valjean once, and he'd known from the very start that she and Jean-Claude were meant for one another. She was thin and pale, and, like Jean-Claude, she rarely smiled. She was beautiful, though, and René secretly wondered what it would be like to make love to her. She was so chaste, so reserved, nothing like the prostitutes he and Jean-Claude had visited. Jean-Claude, of course, had been appalled the first time René had taken him to a brothel. He knew that Jean-Claude hated brothels, that he hated prostitutes, but he visited them anyway. He let the whores satisfy him, then he went to church afterwards to confess his sins. If Heaven existed, then Jean-Claude would be the only soldier there.
René found his thoughts drifting to the pretty little Gypsy prostitute he'd been with less than five hours ago. She was nothing like Cosette; René had noticed that Jean-Claude would occasionally go after prostitutes who resembled his beloved. René himself was not so picky, but he had been surprised that Jean-Claude had gone with him to see the Gypsy prostitute. Jean-Claude tended to avoid Gypsies. They lied and stole, he said, which was true; the women, though, made excellent whores. They were quick, efficient, and above all, cheap. Some of them were even good-looking.
~xXx~
She loved dancing. She felt so free and alive, like one of the twirling birds that flitted through the forest. It always thrilled her when people stopped to watch her or threw coins into the hat by her feet. She knew that her father didn't much care for it. He worried that she was "provocative," whatever that meant. Theresa didn't care. Her father didn't control her, after all, and he never complained when she handed him the hat filled with coins at the end of each day.
"You're young," he told her, "and you're very pretty. I worry about the way men look at you."
Men did look at her, but so did women and children. To her, the stares were all the same. She knew though, that her body was beginning to change in ways that men would find attractive. Her monthly curse had started, and she found herself wishing that she was a boy so she wouldn't have to deal with it.
"Are you sure there's no way to make it stop?" she'd asked her mother over and over.
"If it stops, it means that you're pregnant," her mother had said, "and pregnancy is much worse than the monthly curse is." Theresa found that hard to believe, but she knew better than to question her mother about such things. She had vowed never to get pregnant after hearing Katarina give birth to little Musetta; the screaming had been endless, and she'd overheard her mother whispering about how difficult it had been. Her sister, Martine, played with dolls and pretended that they were babies, and she knew that someday Martine marry and have a baby of her own. Not Theresa, though; if marriage led to babies, then she would never marry.
~xXx~
He had never been so drunk in all his life, and he was suddenly very grateful that Pierre was there with him. He leaned against Pierre, struggling to make his legs work properly. He'd stayed in the tavern longer than he'd intended to, and he was certain that Katarina would be upset.
"We're almost home…I think…"
"No, I can see a light in the window. Oh, I'd hoped Katarina was sleeping…"
"What did you name the baby?" asked Pierre.
"I'm not sure," replied Giovanni, "I think it was Musetta."
"That's a lovely name."
Giovanni nodded. The world looked thick and fuzzy. He was beginning to regret several of the beers he'd consumed. Pierre shifted, sliding his arm around his waist, letting Giovanni lean against him. Giovanni approached the small, two-room house he shared with Katarina; he quickened his pace as best he could. It suddenly felt as though Pierre was too close to him. Pierre seemed oblivious to this; he was saying something about his mother now, how she hadn't been in the tavern with them, which had been a bit unusual. Giovanni thought he felt Pierre's hand pressed against his leg. He could clearly feel the thumb and three remaining fingers of Pierre's left hand pressed flat against his thigh.
"Congratulations again," said Pierre. "About the baby." Giovanni managed to pull away from him. He opened the door, smiling back at Pierre.
"Thank you," he said.
Pierre suddenly stepped forward, hugging him tightly. He stank of beer. Giovanni patted his shoulder, slowly easing out of the hug. His eyelids felt heavy, and he desperately wanted to sleep now. "You're a good friend, Pierre," he said.
"I'm a drunk friend, that's what I am," said Pierre, laughing as he turned and staggered off. Giovanni watched as he disappeared into the shadows, then entered the house, closing the door behind him.
He moved through the darkness slowly, trying his best to be quiet. He entered the darkened bedroom and slid into bed beside Katarina. He felt her roll over and move closer to him. "You're back," she said, her voice heavy with sleep.
"I'm sorry I was gone so long," he said. "They kept buying me beer."
"I can smell it."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine," she said. He slid his arms around her, letting her rest her head on his chest. His eyes were beginning to close when he heard the baby cry. He felt Katarina sit up and climb out of bed. He sat up as well, reaching and lighting a candle on the bedside table. He watched as Katarina bent over the cradle, gently lifting the small white bundle from it. On the other side of the room, Dante stirred in his cot, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"Is the baby all right?"
"Go back to sleep, dear," said Katarina. "The baby just needs to eat." She returned to the bed, settling in before she began to nurse the baby.
"Come here, Dante." He motioned, and his son came to him, still rubbing his eyes. He lifted the boy, placing him on his lap. Katarina looked at him; he could see disapproval in her eyes. "I just want to see my family all together," he explained.
"All right."
She leaned against his shoulder. Dante snuggled against him, his little blue eyes closing. He stroked his hair, watching as Katarina nursed the baby. The baby's eyes were large and bluish, and her hair was so fine it looked as though she was bald. She stared up at Katarina and nursed eagerly. "I love you," whispered Giovanni, "I love you all."
"I love you, too," said Katarina. He kissed her on the cheek. He knew that he would have to place Dante back in his cot soon, but he held the little boy, savoring the warmth that seemed to emanate from him. This was his family. He had a wife and two children; he wasn't sure if he could remember a time when he'd felt happier.