A/N: Thanks to those again who read, reviewed and sent me messages per PM.
It's really appreciated and should always be encouraged to be done more :-)
Thanks to judybear236 for comments
As a side note: I am aware that the brick rather hints that Cosette does remember her past with the Thénardiers, at least at some point. I am taking liberties willingly. Sue me.
Also I point again to the city of glass side story - if anyone wants to know more details and background behind Joly's and Musichetta's background they're welcome to look at my story "Ma tendre Musette", which ties in with this canon.
Never fear though, I will also recall the main points here.
And now: I hope you like it. Dawn is upon Paris and things are picking up...
Chapter 24: Waking up to specters past
"So from now on I guess the operational phrase is 'Trust no-one.'"
She was dreaming in random images.
Her father, standing in front of her, and she was cold, so cold, but his smile was warm like a memory of summer far away.
"Hey mademoiselle…?"
Carefully she stepped towards him, placing her hand in his, trusting, calm, and he took it, coarse, strong fingers wrapping around hers and everything would be well. He pulled her towards him with surprising strength, tearing on her arm, turned her around, brutally almost, so that she was facing the wooden wall of the house again, and she felt his breath along her ear, merciless and cold and smelling of wine.
She tensed and winced, but never stood a chance against his strength as he shoved her down to the floor and she hit the wood, hard and dry and foul smelling and curled up into herself as if that were able to save her.
"Alouette, gentile alouette, alouette, je te plumerai…"
She flinched, at the sound, so well-known, so dreaded, and tried to crawl under one of the tables as the brawl in the tavern room got louder, singing and cheering and wine dripping from the tables onto the floor for her to sweep up later.
She avoided the feet of the customers, trying to find a way to the stairs to the first floor, where she could hide from the brawl, hide from their faces, hide from the…
"Sweep the floor, dreamer, d'you think you're here for nothing?"
A hard hand tore her from beneath the table and pulled her to her feet.
It was the slap to her face that woke her.
Cosette shot up to a sitting position, brutally awakening from a dream that she could barely make sense of. The room was unfamiliar and dark; carried the same sort of furniture that she was used to - a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, a writing table, a bedside table - but all in unfamiliar shape and hue as the early morning light broke through the curtains and did not mind that she felt, as if she had slept much too little and dreamt to strongly.
Her hand went up to her cheek where she had received the slap, but the ghost of the pain vanished the moment skin connected with skin and revealed the imagination for what it was.
It did not help.
The vivid images of the night were not so easily spooked away, resilient and unyielding, the sounds and sights hidden just behind the next blinking of her eyes.
Cosette drew up her knees to her chest and considered to cry.
It would probably have brought her some relief. But there was something inside her, a fear deeper than tears, like a center inside her going cold unceremoniously, icy and contemptuous and unyielding.
She took deep breaths and tried to recall where she was and what had happened the day before…
One step at a time… count your blessing… and there is the castle on a cloud…
The vivid imagery of towers and windows, all in white, a kingdom of its own and as familiar as the buried favourite toy of a more fortunate child.
The memory was so strong that for a moment, Cosette could not place where she was or what she was doing, curling together between the sheets
Between the dirty rags that served as her bedding, behind the counter where the air was drafty….
And she was surprised at the warmth, so surprised that she forgot for a moment it had been like that for such a long time. She had forgotten how it felt to be warm…
Cosette felt the onslaught of something she did not, could not understand, her thoughts incoherent and jumbling.
Light, she thought vaguely and stumbled out of bed, almost toppling over her long nightshirt in the process, and opened up the curtains for the light to fall in, the summer sun of late may burning into the room with ferocity through the slightly dirty windows…
The windows were dirty and the rooms shabby, but it was the safest she had felt since she could remember….
She opened the windows to let the summer air in, felt the stench of the city – so much clearer to recognize here than in the idyll of Rue Plumet – engulf her, tear her back to reality, as disgusting as it was in the end.
"No", she said, to herself, her fingers wrapping themselves around the windowsill before her, the wood grounding her, rooting her in reality. "No."
She took deep breaths and willed herself awake, wide awake, before she dared to turn back to the room itself again, towards the mirror, looking at herself.
The blue eyes that stared back from the glass were haunted, fearful and wide, blond curls mussed and tangled from sleep, the white nightshirt in disarray, her face pale. There was little beauty in her now, as she was sitting there trying to sort out her thoughts, and she tried to take comfort and strength from the simplest things.
She took up the comb and loosened the braid that she had woven for the night. Methodically, she began to brush out tangles, carefully, with long, practiced strokes, her fingers slipping through the woven strands of the color of spun gold.
She was beautiful, she knew, but she knew it in the manner that she knew that the sun was hanging in the sky. It was a perimeter of her life, a fact to be assessed and accepted. There was no reason for pride or rejoicing.
She stared at the reflection of the beautiful girl in the mirror, long and hard, feeling how the daily rituals she went about slowly soothed her spirit and left room for the one question that mattered.
Who am I?
"Good morning, poppet, rise and shine…"
The singsong tore her out of black nothingness into the light of day.
She felt as if she had barely slept an hour, but as it turned out later it had been closer to four at least, which, if not accounting for a decent night's sleep, at least provided some of the dearly needed rest.
Still the wake-up call, however gentle it was, was unwelcome, and Éponine turned around towards her sister, trying in a bout of childishness to hide from both sun and voice, but a hand placed itself on her shoulder and shook her softly.
The touch roused her to full wakefulness, and she reacted on impulse before even having the opportunity to reconsider. In a quick movement she shoved aside the hand, slapping at the intruding fingers while pain shot up her shoulder again, reminding her that the injury was neither fully forgotten nor forgiven.
Laughter responded to her fierce gesture, all too familiar laughter, as she turned again to the person that had woken her. Slowly recognition setting in, she opened her eyes and took in the scenery.
He was unruffled. Éponine knew that there were few things that could unsettle him – for a man as capricious as he was, it seemed odd to have such an even, unshakeable spirit, but she had to admit that he had learnt to shield his thoughts and wishes so well, that there was no telling what went on behind his forehead.
His clothes were slightly dirtier than the day before, his coat torn at the left sleeve – something which Éponine knew would jar him greatly, as taken with his appearance as he was – but apart from that he seemed unharmed and quite the same as before.
Montparnasse had a way of coming out on top of every situation. And thus he appeared cheerful as the summer sun as he crouched beside the cot that she and Azelma were sharing, seeming for all intents and purposes as if he had just returned from a pleasant stroll and not spent time in prison.
Prison…
The thought roused her as memories of yesterday's adventure with Enjolras in La Force floated back. Éponine turned around fully and propped herself on her good shoulder, as Azelma beside her slowly stirred, torn from sleep by her sister's rapid movements.
"Parnasse!"
Montparnasse flashed her a smile and managed to exert a bow despite his crouched position without looking utterly ridiculous in the process.
"No other", he confirmed proudly, yet the twinkle in his eyes was full of play, full of mirth. "At your service, Mademoiselle. As always."
Eponine fully sat up and rubbed over her face with both hands in an attempt to clear her thoughts from sleep and weariness. The strain and lack of rest during the last days was starting to take its toll.
Nonetheless she was very aware that his appearance here was unusual to say the least.
"What are you doing here?" she asked the logical question, and Montparnasse sat down in a gesture that almost looked graceful, stretching out his legs before him, propping himself on his arms. He had a distinctively smug manner about him, and this put Éponine on the edge knowing that her father and the rest of Patron-Minette were still in prison, while Montparnasse himself had managed to escape by in the very least dubious means.
"Paying a visit to a friend?"
His manner was grating on her nerves and she wondered if he had always been that exasperating, or if the overall situation just put things in a different perspective. She felt a snappy response wishing to be born on her lips, one of the snarky replies that already by habit dominated her conversation with Montparnasse. But she was well and truly cross, and apart from long familiarity felt no inclination to joke with him at the moment.
"Why are you not in prison?" she therefore asked, fairly bluntly and quite at odds with her former dealings with her friend.
He pouted and gave an exasperated sigh.
"You say that as if you regret it, poppet", he responded, sounding slightly offended as he threw her a quick gaze.
"I say that", Éponine clarified, "as if I'm wondering what happened."
Montparnasse's grin returned, and he cocked his head.
"Tools of the trade, 'Ponine", he evaded her question and Éponine exploded.
"Stop it, 'Parnasse and be serious for once!" she snapped, eyes blazing, and she felt Azelma flinching beside her, saw from the corner of her eye how her sister retreated further towards the wall to escape her fury. "You can hardly expect a warm welcome after you left my father in prison so will you – please – tell me what happened?"
Montparnasse raised a well-shaped brow.
"Why this sudden concern for your genitor?" he retorted, but at her angry snort he reconsidered and sighed. "It's actually no big secret. They took both me and that dwarf for interrogation. The dwarf seemed to know the guards that took us there, and the rest was a few coins changing hands and us going free. Blame me for jumping at that chance." He shrugged. "Sorry, it doesn't make up for such an interesting telling. I'd invent something, if not for that glare of yours."
"Thanks", Éponine replied drily, only slightly appeased. She pulled her legs up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair in an attempt at straightening it out rudimently. He watched, a pensive smile on his lips.
"Can I help?" he offered, and Eponine remembered that there had been a time where she would have said yes, but that time was long ago and she had no desire to return.
"No", she replied therefore, wincing as she dealt with a particularly vicious tangle. "You can tell me something about that dwarf."
The young man turned his head away from Éponine, offering another shrug that was just a trifle to nonchalant.
"The questions you ask, 'Ponine." Something flittered through his eyes, and Éponine, for all her tiredness and anger, felt a notion of fear and unrest that was harder to shake than she would have it. This was exactly the same reaction she had gotten when she had asked about the assassin at the market, and it was no less unpleasant to see.
Éponine frowned and could not help a flash of worry.
Montparnasse and herself had shared a lot of times, both good and bad. He had been one of the first people she had met – and gotten to know – in Paris; and it was still in parts thanks to him that she had survived those horrible first years. There had been something of Gavroche in him or rather Gavroche had something in him that reminded her of a younger Montparnasse. But life and wrath had roughed off the smoother edges of the gamin, and now, looking into his eyes, she could see very little of the young boy she once knew.
That, if anything, made her glad that Gavroche had made friends at the Café Musain. There was still hope that he would be spared a similar downfall.
And still, Éponine was not indifferent to the part of Montparnasse that had once been a cheerful gamin.
"Are you in trouble?" she asked, her voice a trifle softer than before. He smiled surprisingly honestly and turned towards her, shaking his head.
"No, 'Ponine. But you might be." There it was, the remnant of the boy that had welcomed her in Paris ("This is my kingdom. Take a look around!"), the boy who had told her about those things one needed to know in this city. He had shaped her into what she was today, and she could not fully forget it.
She wondered, if the concern in his eyes was genuine.
"The dwarf is no man to trifle with. He's seen you, 'Ponine. Whatever you're doing, you best lay low for a while."
Éponine heard her sister's frightened gasp behind her but she ignored it, stunned at the expression in Montparnasse eyes that seemed to her like a window into a time five years back.
It made her want to cry for innocence lost. In both of them.
But time had turned and now, both of them were so different from what they had been then. Actually, Éponine felt as if she were already different from how she had been a week ago.
There was nothing she could say to Montparnasse's words of concern. She had made a decision, and she had no intention of taking it back. This, however, she felt, she could not share with him. While she believed that he was genuinely worried, she also suspected that he would not understand why she had joined forces with Enjolras and his sort. On the other hand, she was fairly certain he would not share more than what he already had.
He had always tried to keep her away from the darkest of his dealings, about which Éponine actually knew very little. For all his dash, Montparnasse knew how to keep a secret.
Even from her. Especially from her.
"Will you help us get them out?"
She changed the subject rather abruptly, but he adapted, lightning quick. A grin flashed. The well-known Montparnasse was back.
"By all means", he said, and again Éponine heard uneasy shuffling from her sister sitting at her side. "You have a plan?"
"In the making", Éponine answered and pulled herself slightly back, as to create a circle between herself, Montparnasse and her sister.
Azelma was sitting, back leaned against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest. She watched the exchange between the two with widened eyes. As Éponine retreated, she saw her sister's fingers clenching briefly, but she remained where she was, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully as she turned to her.
Éponine quickly relayed the results of yesterday's discussion with her brother to Azelma and Monparnasse. Her sister gave no outward reaction even though Éponine was certain she was listening attentively, but on the face of the young man a grin appeared that was halfway between cocky and annoying.
"See, Ponine?" he said and made a move to shove her in the side, but after a quick glance to the shoulder that was still bound in clean linen – the work of Combeferre yesterday evening – he reconsidered and just gave her a wink. "That's what I like you for. You're mad, but you dare things."
He began to fiddle with the threadbare cover that had slid from Éponine's legs to the floor, nimble finger twirling it around in his hands, around and around, as he seemed to ponder this.
"I like the part of stealing other people's linen", he admitted then. "I have just the place, in fact, for that sort of undertaking."
Éponine was not sure she wanted to know the particulars, and so she nodded.
"Well", she said. "Then you could do that. Azelma and I will try to get the tools we would need."
There was a curt nod from her sister, more to her than to Montparnasse, but Éponine knew well that Azelma had understood despite all her silence.
Montparnasse shrugged.
"No offense, though, poppet, I have no intention of going back into that wretched prison. I'll leave that to you if you don't mind."
Éponine frowned slightly at that, but it was not fully unexpected. Apart from the fact that Montparnasse had just left la Force – well, in truth so had she; but she had come as a visitor – he also had a sense of self-preservation that sometimes played in his advantage.
Alas, it usually played to the disadvantage of those working with him.
There was not much discussing with him, though, as Éponine well knew and thus she resorted to accept it.
"You don't have to. You can watch from the outside. Warn us. Give us whistles. We should agree on some signals, though."
Many of them were already fixed between them, commonly used by Patron-Minette. One had to say, that Montparnasse was especially skilled at this art, producing a multitude of strongly varying sounds which they accounted to various items and events.
There was of course always the odd chance of the Police catching onto the odd piping, but experience had proven the suitability of that kind of system time and again.
A comfortable hour was spent sorting out signals, Montparnasse demonstrating and the girls memorizing the sounds and attributing them to events (single patrol, small patrol, too many – you have to hide, coast is clear, someone is watching you…). Éponine actually started to have fun in this venture, but it was of course only until shuffling could be heard from the kitchen and her mother, in bad humor and hung over, slouched her way from the kitchen to the girls' sleeping room. She loomed in the door, nearly blocking out the light in the process and glared at them, vexed by their presence, their noise, angry at being woken and generally discontent.
Interrupting the planning session she took in the scenery, squinting in bad humor and snorting in anger.
"About time", she growled, guessing at what her children and their comrade were aiming at, and she reserved the nastiest glare of hers for Montparnasse who greeted her with exuberance and seemed unfazed by her ill-tempered appearance.
"Madame Thénardier, the very best of mornings to you!"
"Get lost, brat", she snarled at him, completely ignoring her own children, and turned back to the kitchen, to work or to drink or to just sit around at the table staring into nothingness.
Éponine willed herself not to care.
"There won't be breakfast", she called out to the three, as if anyone had been expecting otherwise.
"Too bad", murmured Éponine, voice heavy with sarcasm, thinking how different this morning was from the one before. "And I was counting on apple tarts…"
For a moment Bossuet wondered, how one might have the atrocity of rattling at Joly's door at this early time in the morning, but then he remembered that technically it was not morning at all.
It surely felt like it – they had drawn all the curtains and closed all the blinds to ban the summer sun for as long as possible – Joly's apartment went out south, so there was a chance to last until noon at least – and the quarter was thankfully quiet, the inhabitants of the house either workers long gone to their positions or students who had already left for university.
So, in all fairness, it was probably almost noon when the visitor came, and that was on the whole an entirely sensible time.
Bossuet was keeping the last watch and desperately tried to stay awake. They had decided on a five hours sleep for everyone, and he already had had his and did not feel rested at all.
The darkened room did not help. He could dimly make out the shapes of Joly – curled in his bed that was standing in the room at a slightly haphazard angle, following the exact north-south axis – and Jehan, who had taken the couch after he had woken Bossuet and was obviously sleeping soundly.
The table at which he sat was littered with writings – Jehan had apparently passed the time in his watch by trying to piece together a poem, but from what little Bossuet had looked at in the first minutes of his watch, being overtired did not necessarily lead to an enhancement in verbal skills. Knowing Jehan, all of these scribblings would tomorrow probably fall prey to a particularly unmerciful hearth.
Bossuet had not found an occupation to bring him through the watch yet. He had considered reading – by candlelight – and found he was too tired to concentrate, or even cleaning up the room, which clearly showed that during the last days they had only crashed into the apartment to sleep, eat a little, and leave again. Finally he had not bothered with that either.
So he was watching the clock standing on the sideboard and willed the minutes to pass by when the knocking at the door announced an unexpected arrival.
They had of course discussed what they would do, but Jehan had just gotten to sleep and Joly had taken the first watch and slept the littlest of them last night to allow Feuilly some precious minutes more before he went to work. Therefore Bossuet ignored their planning and opted against waking both of them to find more strength in numbers. Instead, he grabbed the pistol that was lying before him on the table – loaded and ready – and stepped towards the door on his own.
His concern was unwarranted though.
The visitor was a young man, probably sixteen years of age, dressed well but simply, a cap hiding well-cut blonde hair. He was carrying a very familiar basket and a second, not so familiar one, holding both out to Bossuet as the latter opened the door.
"Bonjour Monsieur", he greeted Bossuet politely, bowing his head slightly in deference. "Monsieur Joly, I presume?"
For a moment Bossuet pondered if he should clear the misunderstanding, but in the end he saw no reason for it and nodded to avoid any explanation.
"Madame de Cambout has asked me to bring you this and convey her utmost thanks."
The boy placed the baskets in front of him. One of them, the larger one, contained a blueish dress, apparently ironed and aired, carefully folded and in at least as good a state as he had last seen it.
The second basket, smaller, carried two bottles of wine and a cloth folded. That again, upon closer inspection, contained two small Alsatian kougelhoupfs and a few raisin breads, simple pastries yet eliciting a wonderful smell. A small note was accompanying the goods in Madame's own, clear writing, thanking for the loan of the dress and stating, that part of the pastries were meant for the emissaries, and part for the lady who had borrowed the clothes to her. Bossuet could not help a grin.
Musichetta would love this. She always appreciated a favor returned.
He thanked the boy and gave him a small coin – the number of coins in his pocket were growing distinctively small again, but that was no excuse not to be decent to a messenger – which sent him on his way again, probably back to the de Cambouts. Bossuet called a greeting to Madame after him, and the boy stopped shortly and nodded in acquiescence before he finally vanished out of sight in the lower stories.
Coming back to the apartment, Bossuet had to realize that Joly was awake.
He had sat up and was roaming his hands through his hair in an attempt to clear his head, as he squinted at him owlishly. His left went automatically to the nightstand, where he had deposited his glasses and replaced them, his squinting lessening even though fatigue was still very clear in his face.
"I'm sorry", Bossuet apologized. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You were supposed to wake me when someone knocks", Joly contradicted without any real reprimand and turned his gaze to the baskets. "Who was it?"
"Messenger from the de Cambouts." Bossuet reconsidered. "Or the Dufrancs, more likely, come to think of it."
"Ah, yes…" Joly turned to get up and threw aside the blanket, apparently giving up on the concept of sleep today. Bossuet wondered, if he should try to make him rest some more, but decided against it. For all his fretting and fidgeting, his friend did not take very well to patronizing – if only because it reminded him of all the things that could, that might happen. "Poor Madame."
"Poor Madame indeed", Bossuet answered, remembering the stony look on her face as they had met her yesterday, so uncharacteristic and different from the Hélène de Cambout he knew. "She brought back Musichetta's dress though. And breakfast."
"Much appreciated", Joly commented and got up, stepping over to the baskets to inspect its contents. "Maybe we can bring it back to her later today."
There was an odd tone to the voice of his friend, and Bossuet barely repressed a sigh. It was depressing to watch this dance even from afar, and his distance to them was not all that great. And he wished that there was something he could do.
He had regretted a thousand times since the story had started, that he had brought Joly with him to the opera that night. To be honest, he had not even thought of Musichetta that day, but she had brought herself to his memory on her own, and even then, he would have never guessed that the situation would unfold the way it did.
Musichetta was a spirited woman, opera chorus girl that she was; capricious and beautiful, funny and educated, knew to make the most intelligent ironic comments about the opera and its inhabitants. She had a clear view of the shadier parts of human beings and was prone to give dry remarks at the most fitting times. She was easy to like, easy to laugh with. Clever. Skilled. Passionate.
And the last person that anyone should ever fall in love with.
For all her good traits, that woman was like a fire alluring moths, and she would not hesitate to burn when touched.
Of course he had told this to Joly. And of course it had been to no avail. Since then he had tried his hand in damage control, but he had to admit that success had been on the whole very limited.
The last months had seen a precarious peace on that front – as far as anything concerning Musichetta was ever peaceful – but to Bossuet's eyes a catastrophe could still happen at any time.
Joly had insisted they asked her for a dress to borrow to Madame de Cambout; and Musichetta had complied grudgingly, but not without harsh words about the early hour of their appearance and the atrocity of her request.
Bossuet had taken her rambling for what it was – Musichetta was able of breathtaking scorn for no apparent reason at all and like any storm, there was nothing to do but ride it out – but Joly had yet to learn this lesson, for all the time he knew her.
"I've told you time and again, you shouldn't…", Bossuet picked up a conversation they had had several times already, including yesterday, after leaving Musichetta's place and coming to Rue Pascal.
"… bait her", Joly finished together with him, having heard that particular litany probably once too often. "I know, Lesgles."
He stepped over to the small washing cabinet that could be reached through a small side door, and for a moment, the only sound heard was that of water splashing and then the rustling of cloth as the medical student readied himself for the day.
Bossuet took the time to set up breakfast in the kitchen; which was fairly large, sunlit to the point that he was squinting and separated from the main room by another door.
Jehan was still sleeping, but since at least the two of them were awake, there was no harm in starting already.
When Joly arrived a few minutes later, hair smoothed, fully dressed, he also seemed to have cast off his somber mood with his sleepiness, blinking at the vicious sunlight invading his kitchen but otherwise unfazed and curious as to the contents of the basket.
Together, the friends divided and shared the goods, equal parts for them and Musichetta, keeping the door to the main room slightly open to maintain a semblance of watching, even though the probability of an intruder coming at this moment was probably slim given the hour.
"So we should pass by the opera after breakfast?" Bossuet took up the thread of conversation again, and Joly, much more composed, nodded.
"It's Wednesday", he recalls. "They're giving La dame blanche." Joly made a face in disgust. Bossuet shared the sentiment.
"Who put that on the stage anyhow?" he asked, shuddering to think of the piece that, for those who were educated enough to see it, was a thinly veiled praise to an order that even the July Monarchy seemed to have overcome and would consider outdated.
"Some patron, probably", Joly answered with a shrug. "Musichetta swears she doesn't know."
Bossuet grinned.
"And said she had to wipe her mouth every time that she has sung it, poor girl."
A fond smile found its way on Joly's face, and he fiddled with the edge of his plate nervously in absence of his cane which was still in the main room, next to his bed.
"Or do other things to get rid of the taste", he said, the smile turning slightly cheeky and Bossuet could not help laughing in return.
"Ah yes", he confirmed. "There is always that! So that's where you were last Wednesday."
For a moment, comfortable silence settled in the room after Joly's somewhat sheepish shrug, before Bossuet continued.
"So la dame blanche means…"
"It's been running for a while now. Hairstyle and clothes following more or less what is still currently in fashion. No additional rehearsals, no long time spent dressing up in costumes. She will have to go in comparably late today. We may still catch her until about five in the afternoon."
Joly had, over the last year, become a walking encyclopedia on the schedule of the opera, its workings and timetables.
One had to be, if one was to catch a creature as elusive as Musichetta.
"So no hurry then", Bossuet concluded. "We may still be able to drop off Jehan to the meeting with that poet friend of his, before we go to her."
Joly nodded and helped himself to one of the raisin breads, while Bossuet rewrapped the part of the breakfast reserved for Musichetta into the clean linen it had been delivered in, when his regard fell on something that had previously been hidden below.
Retrieving the paper, he held the newest edition of Le Globe in hands, the entangled letters on the first page a familiar sight to them – they had read and contributed so often.
"Look what Madame has…", he began to Joly, but before he could finish the sentence, his gaze fell onto the first page, its headline and article, and the words stopped in his throat, as if someone had cut a thread in two.
"What?"
Joly got up and walked around the table to peek over his shoulder, but his reaction, predictably, was similar.
"Oh no…"