Ch 4
They moved to sit, Éponine on the edge of her bed and Enjolras sitting across from her on a chair he had brought in from the foyer. He was cleaning the object, his pistol that he used to strike the man, wiping the blood from the butt of it. And she stared at him, patiently waiting for him to finish, their silence eating away the candles in the room. Eyeing the gun and his hardened expression, Éponine asked, her voice a near whisper, "Did you kill them?"
He stopped, dropping his hands to his lap to look at her, "No."
Something between a scoff and a sigh escaped her lips as she latched onto that one word. She'd believe it to feel relief, to lessen her worries, that this man before her who is capable of such violence would never resort to murder. He was not Montparnasse. She watched him return his attention to the pistol.
"When will we know about that girl?"
"You're concerned about her?" Éponine asked.
"I didn't defend her for nothing," he replied simply.
"You won't be able to see her. The Madame won't allow it." She said, her tone tinged with bitterness.
His brow rose. "Why is that?" He asked incredulously.
Éponine shifted, hating his question. She in fact, had no idea if the Madame would let him see her. But he could not go to her. Cerise didn't deserve his company. And just like the rest of them, Cerise will try to steal Enjolras from her. They are all envious. They all want him. But he couldn't understand.
So she shrugged, "The Madame prefers to keep watch over hurt girls until they are well enough. She doesn't like visitors."
She wasn't lying, but in truth she did not know how the Madame handled those situations. She never bothered to know, not when it didn't concern her. Enjolras' expression was marble. She could see he didn't like her response, but she hoped it was enough to keep him from prying.
"And besides, Cerise put herself into this situation," she quickly said. "I warned her to stay away from those men. She didn't listen."
"You shouldn't hold that against her."
Éponine looked down at the dusty wood floor, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of her bed. She waited for any more questions, for him to say anything else, but he did not speak as he tucked the cleaned pistol back into the pocket of his coat, along with the bloody cloth he cleaned it with. He stared at her as she bit her lip, a few locks of her dark hair falling in her face. Between those dirty strands she glanced back at him. She didn't want to talk about Cerise anymore. She dug at the dirt beneath her nails, pulled at the cuticle, fidgeted and scratched at the tips of her fingers. The night went on.
"Why did you leave me like that?"
He stared at her blankly.
"Why did you leave me during our last meeting?" She said impatiently, gripping the bed again, "Tell me why."
His sigh sounded more like a hiss, his blue eyes like sapphire stone, "I was ashamed for admitting my fears." He paused as he turned his eyes between her and the floor, "I was hoping to avoid the topic entirely, but I couldn't. And once it was out in the open I wanted to take it back. Of course I couldn't, so decided avoiding you would be best. I'm sorry for the hurt I caused you."
A terrible excuse, but at least he cares enough to apologize. "So why did you come back?"
His jaw tightened and slacked, his eyes softening. He stared at her, hesitant as if struggling to find the exact words he sought.
And then he said, "I wanted to see you. To speak with you for only a moment. I didn't plan to come back here. But after seeing those men hurt that girl—" he paused, his hands curling into fits, "it reminded me of memories I wished I could forget."
He scowled then, at his memories, Éponine surmised. He breathed heavily, and as if regaining himself, he blinked and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
"My father beat me as a child." He said, his voice rasping, watching Éponine who said nothing, "He drank often and when he drank, he grew angry and beat me."
She pitied him, taking in his words, no need to imagine his pain for it was evident in his voice. She had been so quick to judge him, but this bourgeois knew suffering just as she knew it.
"And my mother who loved me and I her," he went on, "knew of my father's malice. She never witnessed it, but I know she knew." His knuckles whitened as his fingers curled, "She looked at me with guilt every day. I hoped that she would love me enough to stand up to my father. But with each passing day, nearly dying at his hands, I realized that my mother loved my father more than me."
He leaned back in his chair while they stared at each other, quiet again, and she tried to imagine a mother's love. But she couldn't. She didn't know what that felt like, to be in the presence of a truly loving mother. But suffering was like an old friend to her, and love accompanied it. And in that sense she could understand his pain, a father that never loved him and physically tormented him, and a mother that cared but not enough to save him, let him down time and again.
"Those men beat that girl," Enjolras said, "I couldn't let them get away with it."
"No," she agreed, "no, you couldn't."
He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes seeming darker with every waking second, as if reliving the memories all over again left him drained. Did it hurt again, Éponine wondered, just as before? It grew quiet again, even the voices outside her room seemed to drift and fade, and he looked away from her. She wanted to reach out and touch him but thought against it, glancing down at her fingers instead.
"My maman never truly cared for me or Azelma. She never loved Gavroche," she said, looking for a shift in his expression. "My papa used his children, beat them if necessary to do his biding to strengthen his station in life." She paused, her index finger scratching at her nail. "But I still care about my papa. I've helped free him from jail. Most of my share of the earnings here go straight to him." She said too much.
"You helped a criminal escape?"
"He's my father. My family. Don't, Enjolras."
He licked his lips, his brow creasing, but he held his tongue. A moment passed, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I have no one else," she said.
He nodded, and she was thankful for his silence. She too had nothing else to say, only wanted to let him know that he wasn't alone. They sat in silence for a while, and in the quiet Éponine enjoyed his company and wondered if he enjoyed hers as well. She glanced at his bandaged hand and imagined how he looked as he beat those thugs. He was brave, no doubt, but in her mind's eye, seeing his enraged face, his determination thrilled her. He'd defend a stranger, he'd defend her too if she should ever need him.
"How is your hand?" She asked.
"It's alright," he said, glancing over at the nightstand where she had left her money and more importantly, the letter from Marius.
"You haven't delivered it," he said.
Her lips tightened to a line, "Is it of your concern?"
"That is unfair, to Cosette yes but even more so to Marius."
At the mention of his name, after hearing it Éponine's back straightened. Her palm itched.
"He entrusted you with the task, and you betrayed him."
She crossed her arms, grimacing, "You wouldn't understand."
"I know more than you think." He returned evenly.
"No you don't." She retorted. Her hands curled, nails digging into her arms, her jaw clenched tight, "You don't know how it feels to love someone who doesn't see you."
Enjolras frowned, and Éponine scoffed at his expression, watching him as he stood to his feet. "You've told me many times France is your only love. Your beloved Patria. But Patria is not human."
He stared down at her, the candlelight reflecting in the dark of his eyes, "And what about your love for Marius? It's not real if it only exists in your mind. Love is not like songs and fairytales."
He then removed the francs from his pocket and placed them on the chair. He glanced back at her before leaving her room, "Bonsoir, Éppie."
Lamarque is dead. He died on the morning of June 1st, and all of Paris appeared to die with him. And this afternoon as she trailed behind Marius to the Musain, she could feel the weight of thousands of mourning citizens. She glanced at Marius, uneasy by his silence but could only see the back of his head and side of his face. She wondered how affected he truly was.
"Marius—"
"I do not think coming today is such a good idea, Éponine," Marius said.
Her heart dropped, and her blood seemed to pumped solely from her stomach, the bile in it bubbling.
"Why not?" She matched his speed to walk beside him, her black hair billowing behind her, her eyes fixed on his.
He looked down at his feet and then ahead of him as they came closer to the building. But he did not answer. He looked afraid. What could he have to fear?
"Marius?" Her voice lightly trembled.
He said nothing and did not stop her as they walked into the shadow of the Musain, Éponine's stride slowed as she stared up at the window, suddenly feeling unwelcome. Marius had left her behind and walked inside, but she did not care at the moment to be away from him. Did Enjolras not want her there? Did Marius?
She swallowed, and struggled to calm her nerves, to still her heart to prevent impending panic. So she walked inside. If Enjolras wanted her gone, he could tell her himself. She walked up the stairs, her head turning to look into the room. From between the pillars of the railing Enjolras spied her, his eyes softening at the sight of her. Slowly gauging his reaction as she took a few steps up, and he turned away from her, looking back at his friends. And that's when she saw the Amis. They sat silent, every one, including Gavroche. Her footsteps echoed as she treaded across the wood floor to sit in a chair at the corner of the room. The room was cold, the tension thick, and everyone was sat still except for Enjolras who stood, his expression harsh, the crease deep.
"How did he die?" Combeferre's voice was so low, Éponine was scarcely sure she heard him.
"Cholera, they say," Grantaire said before he took a sip of whatever alcohol was in his bottle.
"It was only a matter of time," said Joly. "It was bound to happen."
"But not now. It wasn't supposed to happen now when France is so vulnerable," replied Feuilly.
Éponine watched Marius as he nibbled at his nails, his sorrowful eyes fixed on the floor. It was strange to see him wear this face. She had only seen it on him in regards to Cosette, back when he had lost hope in finding her, when Eponine hated that look on him so much that she went out of her way to lead him to his dearest Lark. It surprised her at how indifferent she felt at his distress now, possibly it was the circumstances of his upset, but this time she did not obsessively wish to comfort him.
She chose not to think about it. Instead she looked over at Enjolras, whose expression was grim, brows knitted, arms folded across his chest. His chest heaved, sighing heavily as he began to pace. "This is not the end of us."
Éponine's eyes scanned each face as their eyes turned to their leader.
"We will use his death to bring the people to our side. This is fodder for the flames." Enjolras' voice was fiercely passionate as always, and Éponine saw it in his eyes too. His rage and faith, his grief and fervor, his love for Patria ablaze, his eyes bluer than she'd ever seen. "We will continue with our strike as planned. Tonight is merely the beginning. Lamarque's death only strengthens our cause."
His footsteps stopped, and he dropped his arms, the man of marble, the golden revolutionary carrying the weight of his friends on his shoulders as he attempted to dissolve their worries. Éponine could see the devotion in every friend, the unyielding faith in him and the cause. Grantaire hadn't taken a sip once Enjolras began speaking. But Marius, Éponine noticed, did not hold that same hope, the same sense of encouragement. Instead he looked frustrated, conflicted, and sad. Glancing back at Enjolras, she felt almost lighter as she listened to him. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and she thought she felt her heart still and then pound again. She scratched at her finger with her thumb.
As the afternoon faded to dusk, the Amis had turned silent. They glanced between each other as the tension hung in the air like smoke. Marius scratched at the wood armrest, tapped his finger against it, and then scratched again. He then nearly jumped to his feet, his hands shaking.
"My friends, we should not go through with this." His voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, was tinged with panic.
The men looked at each other, doubtful and even somewhat annoyed. Enjolras was scowling.
"You have another plan to secure the guns and ammunition, then?" asked Bahorel.
Marius blinked. "Well, no, but I—"
"Then how else are we supposed to succeed without them?" Lesgle interjected.
Let him speak, Éponine thought, leaning forward in her chair as she stared at Marius who sweated where he stood. She wanted to reach out to him.
"I have no alternative plans." Marius began hesitantly, staring at each of his comrades. "I don't believe it is best for us to go through with this. What if we are caught? The fight ends then and there!"
Caught? What exactly were they planning? Éponine thought back to past meetings, trying to remember what the men had discussed, what they planned to do. Was it really so secretive or had she just not paid attention?
She glanced at Enjolras whose expression was hard and eyes fierce. He was vicious in his silence.
"Marius you cannot think so cynically," Joly said, "We are already on edge. You're making matters worse."
Marius paused and then as he glanced at his friends, he scoffed. "How can you all be so eager to throw your lives away? With both hands!"
"Marius."
Everyone's attention shifted to Enjolras, and it was only then that Éponine noticed his red coat. Her heart lifted a moment, her lips pulled at both corners to a smile. But then it dropped, and she felt fear slowly crawl up her spine and spread through her veins to her fingertips and toes. What's to happen to Marius? To Enjolras? What will they do?
"Our lives matter very little in this world." Enjolras said, his voice iron as he walked around the table to stand in front of Marius, "But we, as France's citizens, have a duty to those who have no voice. They are the forgotten. And we must prove that we have not forsaken them."
"I understand but—"
"You're afraid," he said simply, "We all are. We are men, not gods. And tonight, we may die."
Éponine's blood turned to ash, and her heart became knives in her chest. Marius may die tonight. Enjolras may die. Why? For what? She stared at Enjolras in horror, fiercely hoping he was lying. But he never turned her way. She scratched her wrist.
He went on, "But we die knowing we are part of something greater. France's citizens will not forget us."
She could see his words had little effect on Marius. His fear was blatant, and she saw the name of his lips before it escaped his mouth.
"Cosette doesn't know." He replied while shaking his head, "She doesn't know, and I can't abandon her."
Enjolras scoffed and shook his head. The argument ended with an ultimatum. Eponine watched silently as Enjolras made him chose between Cosette and the revolution. Eponine could see it in his eyes, Cosette, Cosette, Cosette, and Éponine held her breath.
"Go to her tonight and leave us to our fight. No one here will hold a grudge against you," Enjolras said.
Marius swallowed, waiting for him to finish before considering.
"Or aid us tonight and send her your farewells, though you may not need to."
Marius stared at Enjolras, their eyes meeting, and he knew how serious his leader truly was. The blond broke contact to glance at Eponine and said, "I'm sure Éponine would gladly deliver the letter."
She stiffened and flushed as she glanced between them, as they both stared at her. She felt the sting of Enjolras' insult and the burn as he turned away from her, from them, his red coat retreating downstairs. She should hold that against him, but she found herself lacking the energy. It was his calm, collected voice. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed that tone coming from him. How long had she wasted her time being angry with him? But then she saw Marius' pleading eyes, and she thought of his previous letter and could not deny her guilt. She nodded, and they walked to the back of the room, separating themselves from the Amis as Marius wrote his last letter to Cosette. Éponine glanced outside the window and watched as the red of Enjolras' jacket faded with him into the night.