Ch 7
Lamarque's funeral was marked for the next day. Enjolras' revolution would begin during the funeral. The day was so close, and he still had not returned to her. Did he not wish to see her? Did she mean so little to him? Did she fantasize what he said to her on the night sparks and gunshots broke the sky?
Éponine lay curled on her side on her bed beneath a thin blanket, the red coat left on the side of her bed. Her bones felt like slabs of stone, her eyelids just as such, hair a rat's nest and shiny with grease. Her mind was vacant of any thoughts, and all she wanted was sleep.
It was dark in her room, the afternoon sun's light unable to breech the thick clouds. She turned away from the widow to stare at the door. She imagined Enjolras walking in, imagined his strong arms wrapped about her. She shut her eyes, trying for sleep. She didn't know if she had any before a knock came at her door.
"Get up girl!" The Madame barked from the other side. "You have work to do!"
Éponine groaned, rolling over.
"A man wants to see you."
Enjolras, she thought. She was slow to react, her heart pounding her body to wake and move. She rose from her bed, hope lifting with every step she took, straightening herself, and quickly taking a brush to her hair. But her door opened before she could finish, and she turned, her hands dropping to her side, bitter disappointment temporarily rendering her motionless.
"Making yourself pretty for me?" Montparnasse sneered.
She threw the brush at him. "Leave."
He dodged it with ease and smirked, "Oh no, my dear. I'm not going this time." He approached her, leering down at her.
She straightened, glaring at him. Here in the brothel, here in her room he could not intimidate her. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm merely a messenger," he said nonchalantly.
"I brought you the money yesterday. Why are you here? You know you're not allowed to come here."
"Your father wants a word with you. He's a little upset with your lack of performance."
"Tell my father that if he wants the money he can wait," she snapped.
He clicked his tongue, his lips tugging with mischief, "That's just it, Éponine. You've come up short this week."
He then gripped her arm hard enough to bruise and pulled her toward him, yanking her hair down, forcing her eyes on him. His mirth turned sour, his expression becoming dangerous, threatening, but she was not afraid. Her bruises healed then, and they would again.
"You're stealing from us." He accused.
"I haven't the money," she said, wincing. "I didn't keep any of it."
"Why haven't you been working?" He demanded.
She saw his eyes shift, looking at something behind her and then back to her. Her insides twisted.
"Ah, ah!" She yelped as he pulled down harder on her hair, his fingers biting into her skin.
"Is it him now?" He barked, furious, "That pretty-faced bourgeois. You fancy him now? Is that why there isn't enough?"
His coat, she realized and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
Montparnasse shook her, "You let him fuck you without paying!"
Éponine said nothing and stared up at Montparnasse, her jaw clenched tight, her eyes narrowed, challenging. She had been afraid of him then, afraid of what he'd do to her. But whenever she thought he'd harm her, truly, only harmless words spouted from his cruel mouth. A show, a farce. The bruises he inflicted were gentle kisses compared to those of her father. Montparnasse cared too much to hurt her that much—Éponine understood that—no matter how many knives he held to her throat. He snarled, showing his teeth. His eyes did not leave hers, and the longer he stared the less harsh his expression became. He then removed his hand from her hair. His eyes moved from her breasts to her lips and then to her eyes. He licked his lips, hungry, jealous, and passionately enraged. She recognized the desire in his eyes. His lips were rough and dry where Enjolras' were soft.
"Well," his teeth clicked, "he used you up. And for free. You're a bigger fool than he is."
His words slithered up her spine into the back of her skull, gnawing through her mind like a parasite. It's not true, she told herself. Enjolras is loyal. He'd never act so cruelly. He'd never betray her.
She told herself this as Montparnasse led her from the brothel back to the Gorbeau House. How long had it been since she'd returned there? Before the jail? After? She could not remember. Her mother will not be there. The miserable old wretch was luckier than she. Will Azelma? The rest of the Patron-Minette? She trailed behind Montparnasse, slowly walking up the steps to the second-floor balcony.
The flat was not the same as last time, surprised the landlord would allow them residency again. Her father must have done something, bribery, intimidation, something in order to rent a room. Perhaps the Minette had a hand in it. She held her breath as Montparnasse opened the rotting wood door, listened as it creaked on the hinges, and followed him in. Despite the different apartment, familiar smells crept into her nose, the stink of rotting wood, of sweat, and the lingering smell of sickness. The one room, windowless flat looked like it had been abandoned before her father and sister raided it. Inside it was cold, trash and papers were scattered about, the floorboards creaked, and the only source of heat came from the tiny fire in the oven. Her father stood by it, dressed in the same rags she had left him in, his dark hair tangled and knotted, a frown stuck on his face. Azelma sat in the corner on the only bed in the room. On the floor, it looked less of a bed and more like a pitiful lump with a thin blanket over it. She hugged her knees, her eyes fixed on Éponine as she walked in. None of the other Patron-Minette members were here, which Éponine was thankful for.
"There's my daughter." Thénardier's greeting was gruff.
They did not embrace. Instead he pulled up a chair for Montparnasse to sit. He and Éponine remained standing.
"You know why I've asked you here?" There was no fatherly affection behind his voice.
"Montparnasse made it clear enough." Éponine retorted. "Though I've committed no crime."
Thenardier chuckled, "Ah, yes. Innocent Éponine. But last week's dues seem a little light to me."
"She's hasn't been working." Montparnasse said as he cleaned his nails with a knife, "She's been screwing some bourgeois boy. The same one preaching about citizens' rights."
"That priggish twat?" Thénardier eyed Éponine suspiciously.
"She's been fucking him for free too."
Her father scowled, "For free?"
"Papa, if we could speak alone—"
Thenardier slapped her before she could finish. She stood stock still, her cheek taking the sting, her ears ringing slightly from hit. She stared at him, waiting to see what he would do next.
"You insult my future son-in-law by fraternizing with a bourgeois," His voice was low, "And you steal from your father."
"I did not steal—"
"Then where is the money?"
She hesitated, her voice caught in her throat. And it cost her another slap. Her porcelain skin burned pink, eyes stung with creeping tears. Her voice quivered, fighting the pain. "I-I haven't been working."
"Why is that?"
She rubbed her lips together, her hands at her side as she rubbed her palms with her fingers. She wanted to scratch, to pick, her fingers twitching. She could not answer. Thénardier scoffed, irritated by her silence. He glanced at Montparnasse who looked just as annoyed and turned back to Éponine, slapping her again.
"Papa!" Azelma stood to her feet and walked over to them, turning their father's attention away from Éponine. "Maybe Éponine wants to work with us again."
Éponine stared at her little sister, debating Azelma's intentions. She had been with their father for so long, so where did her loyalties lie?
"Let's take her with us in the morning."
"Quiet, girl. This doesn't concern you." Thénardier barked.
"But Papa, she can help us—"
"Stuff it Azelma!" Thénardier stared at her, his eyes wide and angry. Éponine recognized that expression, his warning.
Azelma opened her mouth and then promptly shut it. She glanced at her elder sister, her eyes apologetic. Éponine expected her to slink back into her corner on the bed, but instead Azelma remained standing beside her.
Montparnasse groaned, "That dirty job Thénardier? You still want to go through with it?"
Their father turned to face him. "Why wouldn't I?" He returned, "One last heist before we disappear."
"Call it what it is," Montparnasse said. "Revenge."
"Which makes our profit that much sweeter."
The hooting of a barn owl stole the men's attention. Montparnasse stopped and opened the door, sticking his head out to look around. Careful with the door, he then left the room and so did Thénardier. Éponine went to the door too, her hand on the knob and her ear pressed against the wood. She could hear them just outside the door.
"Éponine," Azelma said.
Éponine waved her hand at her, motioning for her silence, straining to listen.
"Claquesous," the voice was Montparnasse. Of course there was no barn owl, Claquesous' impersonations were always flawless.
"I did as you asked," came Claquesous, "the Amis group and others—I don't know how many—will attack during Lamarque's funeral tomorrow."
"Good." Montparnasse replied, "Join them and kill a civilian. That will blacken the eye of their ridiculous cause. And get rid of the leader of the café."
Éponine's stomach dropped. She pressed her head harder against the door, but it was silent amongst the three men. And then she heard retreating footsteps and a chuckle.
"Very good to know." This time her father spoke. "It makes tomorrow's job much easier."
"It makes things easier for both of us," replied Montparnasse, "I don't have to kill him myself to win Éponine. And if Claquesous fails, soldiers will make easy work of him."
She stepped away from the door, her stomach threatening to heave and heart pounding through her chest. She needed to get to him, but as long as she was with her father, there's nothing she can do. And the truth lay heavily on her.
"They're going to kill him," she muttered.
She felt sick at her own words, her organs, her bones, splintering within her, and she imagined she was bleeding from the inside out. Montparnasse's jealousy was insatiable. By her own heart, she had inadvertently marked Enjolras for death. She hugged her arms about herself and went to the bed and sat on it. Azelma went to the door and listened. She could hear the men outside. They're probably smoking. How gracious of them to spare the room and them the stink of rancid smoke.
Looking back at Éponine, her sister asked, "Why do you care so much for some bourgeois? What happened to that Marius boy?"
"Marius wasn't real."
"And a revolutionary bourgeois is?" Azelma walked over to her, kneeling down to stare at her.
Éponine could see the sincerity in her eyes. Her sister had always cared for her just as she did. Working with their father did not change that. She would not believe it if it had.
"He loves me," Éponine said.
Azelma scoffed. "Did he tell you this?"
She hesitated, looking down at the red of her dress, missing his coat. "No, but he cares. More than Marius ever did."
"Loving someone and caring about someone are not the same," Azelma replied. "What makes him different from the clients you took to bed?"
Éponine looked back up at her, staring into her sister's dark eyes. "Everything."
She rolled her eyes.
"The clients that fucked me were never allowed to kiss me," Éponine said. "I never let them even if they tried." At this, her little sister was quiet, and so she continued, "He was a different sort of client."
"Montparnasse said you slept with him."
Éponine shook her head, smiling lightly at the idea. "We only talked."
She snorted, stifling a chuckle, "What sort of man goes to a prostitute just to talk?"
Éponine glared at her sister, a warning, and Azelma quieted, her features shifting to show that she had her attention, that she was serious.
"An honorable one," Éponine said.
Azelma shrugged, disinterested at the thought. "So what?"
"It's more than that. He cares for me, I know he does," she paused. "I even let him kiss me."
Azelma blinked, her brows furrowing.
"It's the truth," Éponine insisted. He'd come to her that night after pillaging, after murder. We shared a kiss, and he promised to take care of me.
Azelma eyed her, her expression soft despite her skepticism. "Do you love him?"
She said nothing, her heart thumping in her chest. She could not say that was what she felt. She wasn't entirely sure, but Éponine was confident enough to believe there was something. That something made her feel warm, made her feel happy, made her feel human. She liked it. She wished she was away, she wished to be with him, to see him before the fighting tomorrow. She rubbed her lips together, Enjolras' name on her tongue as she remembered that night. He stole a kiss and left me nothing but a bloody coat.