Ch 3
She hated how long she'd been keeping track. A week. She hated that she missed his company—more than she'd prefer to admit—regardless of his moods. She hated that the few times she returned to the Musain, the same dismay, the same hurt, the same rage returned when she saw he had not donned his coat. She went to the café to be with Marius, she reminded herself. And she hated the money Enjolras sent. She was sure it was him. The money came in a sealed envelope with her name on it, always slid underneath her door. It came at random times when she wasn't at the brothel or while she slept, the envelope filled with money that would equate to more than a full night's pay. No one would do such a thing, except Enjolras. She looked with distain every time she laid eyes on the envelope. Each envelope marked the days he would not return to her. But nevertheless, by keeping the money he sent, she felt compelled to uphold her part of the silent contract. She took no other customers.
Except tonight there was no envelope. And so, dressed in velvet and red, she was out and alone again tonight. Éponine wrapped her shawl around herself as she stood on the corner hoping to entice customers. Two men stood in the dark behind her, smoking as they leaned against the wall of a building. Their faces were partially shaded from the hats they wore that, along with the rest of their clothing, were ragged and dingy, the dull colors faded from use, grime, and time. They reeked of smoke and alcohol. They murmured, smirking as puffs of gray billowed into wisps from their mouths, and one finished off a bottle of wine before throwing the empty bottle.
She did not like the looks they gave her, their low chuckles and leering eyes made her feel exposed, uneasy. She covered herself as best she could with her shawl and walked away from them, but the distance did little to prevent their ogling. She did not walk far before she saw a familiar young face approaching her, her blonde hair pulled up into a bun.
"Cerise," Éponine said.
"Éponine, he is looking for you." Cerise said lowly.
"Someone is looking for me?"
Cersie looked around her to see the two shifty men Éponine sought to avoid. The men whistled at them, and Éponine shuddered in disgust at the one that touched himself as he stared at her.
"Are they with you?" Cerise asked, dusting off her dress.
"No." She replied shortly. "Tell me who is looking for—"
"Oh perfect!" She brushed past her, flashing her teeth at the men, "I'll show 'em a good time."
Éponine grabbed her upper arm, "Don't be a fool. They're dangerous. You could get hurt."
The blonde scowled and wretched her arm free, "You have little room to talk."
Her head tilted, eyes narrowed, "What are you implying?"
"The other girls resent you," Cerise said, her voice hinted with indignation, "We don't have gentlemen callers to support us. We can't afford to pick and chose who we take to bed. And I'll take whoever I can get."
"At the expense of putting yourself in harm's way?" Éponine challenged.
"We're whores Éponine," she said. "Pain is nothing new to us. Don't pretend any other way."
Cerise turned her back to her, waving and calling after the two men. She walked between them, no one touched, no one spoke, but a contract was made in their silence as they disappeared into the alley. Éponine turned away, pushing Cerise's words from her mind. Instead while she searched out potential customers, slowly walking down the street, her eyes scanned for that mystery "he". She refused to allow herself to hope for Marius, he was never out this late. Thinking of Enjolras resulted in her blood to rush and her stomach to churn; she had no desire to see him any more than he did for her. Montparnasse or her father were more likely considered. She rolled her eyes at the thought of Montparnasse, her father's spy, a thorn in her side to say the least. Nevertheless, Éponine braced herself for the possibility.
She leaned against a lamppost, and staring up at the candlelight, she wished to be in her room, a safe haven, she pretended, alone with herself and some feeble sense of comfort. Her hand tucked inside her pocket, she felt the letter she never delivered. Marius asked her, and this was the first time she'd not fulfilled his request. Yet she had seen him since he tasked her with delivering the letter. Had he forgotten to ask after it? In any case, she kept it, read it and reread it, pretended it was addressed to her, and when she couldn't imagine anymore, when she couldn't keep herself from crying, she considered burning it. Yet here it was, safe and then again not, in her pocket, not in Cosette's hands. Marius will hate her for it. Enjolras would chastise just the same. She frowned at the thought and chewed on her lip.
"Éppie."
The corners of her lips twitched. No one else called her that. Ponine had been a nickname of hers, though at the moment she could not remember who had given it to her. Éppie was something soft, something gentle, something that lifted her heart. She turned to see Enjolras stepping into the faint light of the lamppost, her heart beyond her control as it thudded with relief. He was wearing his red jacket, his white cotton shirt unbuttoned at his chest. Éponine's elation, as quick as it came, dissolved into anger. She considered slapping him.
"What are you doing here?" She barked.
His eyes narrowed, his tone turning bitter, "Why else would I be here?"
"I don't want to see you."
"You're lying," Enjolras said, his voice low, "You wouldn't sacrifice our meetings for a stranger's cock."
She grit her teeth, "Go home Enjolras."
His eyes flashed with irritation, hard and unrelenting defiance. She could not force him to go anymore than she could ask him to stay. But he continued to stare, his eyes boring into her and fury burned beneath her skin.
"I'm not leaving," he said forcefully. "Why are you so piqued?"
Her hands curled into fists, knuckles white, "You left me!" Slap him. He deserves it. "And you treated me so cruelly! You never spoke to me afterward, no explanation, no apology, you never wore your coat! And then you expect to buy my compliance with money!"
She stiffened entirely, swallowed, licked her lips, and breathed to regain control of herself. His eyes remained on her, his expression unchanged, stern, as if her words only fueled a fire that would engulf him.
"You didn't even consider my feelings." Éponine went on, slightly calmer now, "You only care about yourself. You're hateful."
"Don't!" His voice was steel, eyes burning fierce and bright with ire, "You don't know. Don't try to turn me into a monster to fit your imagination. You know damn well what that money is for."
"You don't like what I am. I'm a whore, Enjolras. It's my job to sleep with men."
He shook his head, "It's more than that, Éppie. I've seen the bruises they leave you with. I've seen the scars."
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing. "I have nothing more to say to you." She went to leave, to go anywhere but where he was.
"You need this just as much as I do."
Éponine stopped and folded her arms across her chest, lifting her chin as she looked back at him. "I do not." But the fire in him seemed to have dimmed, his eyes duller, the passion fading. What happened?
"If you came today you would have seen." His voice seemed to struggle between annoyance and neutrality, "I wouldn't have had to search for you."
"Ah yes, instead of having things come easy for you, you struggled for once in your life. Tough isn't it, bourgeois?"
"Don't patronize me, Éponine." He growled, a spark.
"Everything has been made easy for you." Éponine returned, "The wealthy have always stepped on us, spat on us, turned us into lesser people. For once you had to search me out, because I have to work to survive. Because of this little inconvenience for you, you come and complain to me."
She watched him grit his teeth.
"You did not follow Marius to the Musain today." He said, "You were petty due to some imagined slights. But if you came, you would have seen that I wished to see you. And you would not have to be out here tonight."
"Yet before today, you continuously came by to give me money instead of an explanation?" She snarled.
"I didn't have to come at all."
She shifted and frowned, pulling her shawl tighter around herself, "I don't need to see Marius every day just as I am under no obligations to return to the Musain. And even if I saw you I'd tell you not to come. You aren't some sort of golden savior to save me from my life."
"I never claimed to be anything of the sort."
His face was hard, lips tight and hands curled into fits. But his eyes held such mixed emotions that Éponine could not decipher a distinctive one, expect what she knew too well, grief. It was there, brief flickers of it, but she did not care enough to ask of it; if he wanted to confide in her, he would do it without her encouragement. But still, what could it be that he desired to keep it hidden? He expressed to her his fears, his rage, his passion, his hope, but what brought about unhappiness? The bourgeois had more than she could ever hope for, every want, every desire, no worries or cares. What would he know about suffering?
"Do you want me to leave?" He asked, frustrated in his defeat.
Her eyes narrowed, skeptical of his changed behavior. "You are only asking me now? Why do I suddenly matter to you now?"
"That has never been the truth."
Éponine could see his sincerity, and her rage faded. She realized then how dry her throat was, how cold the night became. Enjolras' gaze lingered on her, watching as if to figure out her thoughts. Then the quiet of the streets shattered apart as a sharp scream filled the air. Cerise's name escaped her lips, the name heavy on her tongue while fear surged through her. They turned in the direction it came from, and before Éponine could caution him, Enjolras ran towards the screams. She called after him, hiking up her dress and following him, having no desire to be left alone. They ran down the street and turned the corner into the alley, the same one Cerise had gone down with those men. They slowed their pace to a stop, panting lightly as they saw a figure moving in the shadows, crawling on the ground, gravel scraping on stone. And two more appeared, standing tall above the one beneath them.
"Bitch," a male voice spat, and the woman below him sobbed.
"Cerise," Éponine whispered, glancing up at Enjolras who stiffened; they were spectators to a beating, the two men across the way punching and kicking the young girl for only God knows what. She was a whore, rented property that the men paid for. They could do as they pleased. Enjolras reached for something within the contents of his coat and quickly Éponine placed her hand on his upper arm.
"Whatever you're thinking, stop. Your revolution ends if the police catch you."
His face turned fierce and determined as Cerise's screams of pain rang out into the night that shunned her. Éponine stood back, seeing she could not convince him otherwise, as Enjolras approached the men from behind, unnoticed, pulling out whatever he carried in his coat and struck a man over the head with it. The man grunted and fell forward, and the other shouted curses and attacked Enjolras as Cerise struggled to get away. Quickly, Éponine went to Cerise who wept and moaned in her agony, gathered her at her arm and pulled her to her feet. Éponine wrapped her arm about the wounded girl and led her away from the alley, but not before glancing back at Enjolras. He was too occupied with punching the man on the ground to look back at her. The girls rushed together, their footsteps echoing like slaps on cobblestone as she kept Cerise on her feet who limped at her side. Éponine's thoughts raced. What would happen to Enjolras? Will they kill him? Will he kill them? Don't think about that. Don't think about him. Don't worry. Just get to the brothel.
When the two returned to the brothel, a few other girls and customers watched as Éponine brought Cerise to the Madame. The Madame, tight lipped and stern, did not ask questions, did not scold or berate the poor girl and took the bloodied Cerise upstairs. Éponine looked back at the brothel's entrance. She wondered if Enjolras would return to her, if she should go look for him. She picked at her nails.
"What happened to Cerise?"
Éponine looked to the voice that came from beside her. A girl of twelve, doe-eyed and plump, too young by Éponine's standards, an apprentice by the Madame's, stared up at her with an expression that lacked concern.
"An accident." She replied, her tongue threatening to stutter.
"Clients." The girl was no fool.
"Yes."
The little one's expression shifted to anger, hatred. "I would never let that happen to me." And then she walked away, down the hall and turned the corner, gone. Watching her go, Éponine both pitied the child and at the same time admired her strength, seeing a bit of herself in the girl. She was only a year or two older when she came to the brothel.
The entrance door opened, and Éponine quickly turned her head to see Enjolras striding through, the crease returned to his forehead, a ferocity evident within him still, his clothes and hair disheveled. He looked wild, his body, his expression revealed a dangerous demeanor, and if she didn't know him, Éponine would not think twice about confronting him. His appearance resulted in stares and whispers about the brothel, and Éponine despised every look they gave him. They had no right to judge the revolutionary; they don't know him, not like she did. As he came closer she could see a line of red at his brow and his hand cut and bloodied.
"Come," she said before he could speak, taking him by the hand and leading him to her room, closing the door behind her. She lit candles and tossed the money she collected through the night onto her nightstand, including Marius' letter to Cosette. She gathered cloth and other essentials at hand to tend to his wounds. It was silent between them as she brought out what she needed, and upon glancing at him she could feel his discomfort.
"I've never brought anyone into this room," she said hoping to reassure him.
He stared at her, his expression soft, almost vacant, and she smiled weakly, embarrassed. "It's not much," she said referring to her room, "But it's mine for now. It's better than what most have."
"Most of the poor aren't whores," Enjolras said.
"No." She replied, slowly approaching him, a wet cloth in her hand. She dabbed the cut on his eyebrow—he did not flinch at her touch as she gently brushed away the blood. "Most are dying."
"It will change." His eyes were genuine, hopeful.
"It's not deep," she said as she inspected the cut, "Minor." She then moved to take his hand, feeling his gaze on her as she repeated the process, soaking the cloth in the water bucket beside her and wringing it out, swabbing the blood. They were quiet, too quiet for her comfort as she wrapped his bloodied hand in gauze. His hand is soft, Éponine noted.
Looking up at him sheepishly, his eyes never leaving hers, she said, "It may have been quite idiotic, what you did. But you were very brave, Enjolras."
"I was only doing what anyone else would have done." He replied, his voice low.
"No you weren't. No one would defend a whore."
His eyes, dark in the candlelight almost seemed to shimmer. The recent hostility that overcame him when he came in to the brothel had receded to a calm temperament. His features, charming, Éponine admitted, shifted again to soft determination, courage.
"I will regardless."
She stared at him, silently amazed by his honesty, his reckless desire to stand up for the lowest, the struggling, the dying. All previous anger—what little of it that remained—from earlier that night vanished. What compelled him, a bourgeois, with such righteousness? Such an honorable act, to fight, to face failure, death to defend the poor. It's a selfless act, but what about those he would leave behind? His family, his friends would mourn for him. And possibly, she was almost afraid to admit, she could not help it, she would mourn him too. The thought of his death saddened her. Éponine would mourn for Enjolras.