- Victor Hugo (tr. Shakespeare)
- Alexandre Dumas (tr. The Snow Queen)
- Louis Moland (tr. The Snow Queen)
- Étienne Avenard (tr. The Snow Queen)
- Jean Lorrain (Neighilde)
- Jack London
- Édouard de Laboulaye (Perlino)
- Christina Rossetti (Goblin Market)
- E.A. Poe
- Pink Floyd
- Genesis
- C.S. Lewis (The Silver Chair)
- ...
La Fée Verte
Une nouvelle en cinq chapitres
Chapitre quatrième
La jeune fille des brigands
What was this place, so empty and so dreary? Grantaire thought, looking to left and right as he came to his senses. A cold stone throne in the middle of the room, two glowing golden globes of about a half-meter in diameter soaring above to give a faint light, reflective stalactites of quartz crystals for mirrors on the ceiling, and the floor all scribbled with lines and more lines of strange, angular characters which he could not read... Strange words were written there, and he read and studied till the perspiration ran down his forehead in streams. On this floor were written strange characters that the savateur would never hope to understand, but the Lady did, and he read them until the sweat rolled down his damp forehead and dripped from a fringe of dark curls glued to his skin.
The Lady of the Green Kirtle came in, her hair crowned with a wreath of ivy, entering stage left and preceded by the gradually nearing whirring sound, as she had the day before, with the sleeping drink in the little phial. Sometimes he would find himself taken by an unexplained melancholy, but when that happened she would cheer him up by bullying or coaxing or cajoling him out of his mood, and life would go on as before.
And on the long winter days in the throne room, waiting for her to return, he would sometimes find himself thinking odd thoughts about frost on windowpanes, and long walks in the snow; about a long-haired page in crimson clad, and a fluttering tricolore. Always before he could quite puzzle out where these thoughts came from, she would return home, and he would forget such troubling thoughts and welcome his liege lady with teasing and sly jokes, in the manner he'd always done.
And he had forgotten that he lived in the middle of this distress, of this solitude, and of this silence, hardened with cold under his thick catskin furs, but insensible to suffering, having turned to a crazy diamond himself ever since the Lady had passed some of her blood into his heart; indifferent to everything in sooth, hallucinating in the splendour of those dazzling empty halls and their centrifugal vertigo, full of runes, darkness, and stars.
For how many years had he been there? Grantaire did not know anymore. He had lost all notion of time upon losing his episodic memory. Upon touching his heart, she had quenched each and every flame within him; he did not recall either the southern seaport where he had so often kicked up dust around himself on the docks and on the main square, nor did he remember the old faubourg of the capital, its ruelles so dark and narrow that the bohemians in the garrets, if they were light of frame enough, could visit one another by throwing planks, for bridges, across from one windowsill to another; and in that very faubourg, moreover, on the fourth and highest floor of an old artisan townhouse, there lived a golden-haired student with voice as blithe as a reveille call, whom Grantaire had known, yet not intimately known but merely admired from a distance, and already spoken of love to, in a voice too weak and slurred for the blond young man to hear.
And Grantaire himself had been through a difficult childhood. Long ago, he had lived in that distant and populous southern seaport; a gamin who walked about shirtless in summer, letting the sun bronze his skin, and wore an oversized sailor shirt in the cold seasons, always detached from the other gamins and frequently drawing pictures in the sand on the beach... yet Grantaire had forgotten his own name and the name of his birthplace, and the name of that arrondissement in the capital where the snowflakes twirled for five or six out of the twelve months in a year, spreading glitter and fluffy little things throughout dreary gray skies... having already forgotten all of those experiences as if they had been inscriptions or sculptures chiselled in ice, which a hot sun had melted away.
Thus, she stood before him and gave him a riddle:
"Here we are in the Writing of Wrongs. These runes are signs of deep meaning. But some of them form one particular word, the biggest and most important of all, and it does not want to be put down. Please... my dear warrior, my dear general, you look sharper than the other boys. Your gaze is as clear as a snowflake. Your mind is as cool as your heart. Can you now put down the word for me? Then you shall be your very own lord, and master of yourself... But until that day you belong to me and must stay with me." With these words she strode closer to his side, placed her lips against his left ear, and as she spoke it was as if a frosty gale blew against it. If he could feel cold any longer it would have left him shivering violently. "We shall stay here for a time. Entertain yourself my dear one to your heart's content. The answer will never be yours."
Grantaire shrugged, nonplussed, his eyes scanning the landscape disinterestedly. He clenched his jaw, scuffed his feet into the ground. He just wanted to be alone, wanted to tear at his hair until he drew blood.
This cold, stubborn woman wasn’t deterred by his ambivalence. He was exactly what she had been looking for.
But he wasn’t. As time passed – though the young man could not tell if it was days, weeks, or years – the anger that had manifested in his heart lingered, made him lash out, act disinterested, berate her.
The boy with the raven hair did not fall in line with her expectations, though her penchant for those who were heartless should have prepared her for his denial. A heart empty of love, and full of hate and fury cared for no one, not even someone as cold as her.
On the day he took to his quarters with a thyrsus in hand, tearing and hacking at the icy walls, his eyes black and his breathing stilted, she demanded her korrigan guards lead him to the frozen throne room, lying at the foot of the throne room within the fortress. And he was left there, alone, lying upon the cold floor, on which were inscribed wonderful characters... for the icy temptress no longer wanted to consider him for a bedmate.
And though he had no comprehension of home, no memory of his life before the moment she kissed him, she promised to give him leave from her fortress, the ability to return to his previous life, under one proviso. That he spell out the perfect password on the rune-inscribed floor. And as the sun did not see these hidden halls, the sky forever a shimmering sickly green, she did not believe she had cause to worry.
And thus Grantaire's heart remained cold, and as he did not care for people and places he could not remember, he did not make an effort to put brush to canvas, or rather thyrsus or fingers to the runes in question. And the Lady of the Green Kirtle smiled down at him from the highest peak of the highest tower, or from her austere cold stone throne, her dark green eyes frozen and her nutbrown hair whipped up by the wind, knowing that he would remain there forever.
The only reply he could muster consisted of a listless sigh and a downcast look. He loved her and dreaded her, filling his soul with delicious anguish or scrumptious terror. Thoughts of power and freedom did not fuel his actions, merely a desire to prove his cleverness to his Queen. Who could wish to leave such a wonderland?
And now he was her captive. By sheer dint of loving her, he had drawn the attention of her piercing green eyes, and she had wanted, for herself and only for herself, the soul of Grantaire, aside from his physical prowess. Pressed against her royal cleavage, plunging into the coils of a bosom laced with tendrils, he had known the dread and the shock of voyaging through the clouds, over towns and villages and farms; great flights of ducks and geese had scattered before them, and before them crowded witches on broomsticks had retreated pêle-mêle, screaming, into the vapours of the storms; looking out the window, he had seen cathedral spires appear and disappear below his feet, as well as goblin-like grotesque gargoyles, and golden archangels that blew their trumpets on the pinnacles of steeples; fortresses on mountains, monasteries in valleys, bridges across rivers and rivers across the countryside, and he had admired the beauties of the long wintry night, quite high in the pale bleak skies; but the Lady of the Green Kirtle had kissed his lips and a great cold had seized him, a great cold and a burning thirst as well, and, in his agony, he had wanted to call Enjolras, Enjolras, the dashing blond who, in their old lodgings in the faubourg, had so often rallied so blithely against the ancien régime; but the Lady had deepened her kiss and her embrace of Grantaire, and ever since, he could not remember at all the surname of the one he loved, or the names of either of his hometowns, or even his own surname, but he had suddenly stopped to feel cold and frightened. A wellbeing had invaded his whole self, at the same time that Venus shone dazzlingly, as if oversized, and rounder, among clouds of mother-of-pearl, and that her green kirtle fluttered, unfathomably long, among a more dense flight of enormous dark thestrals; and in the end, when the day was about to dawn once more, Grantaire, exhausted, and lulled by all that softness and that warmth, had fallen fast asleep at her feet.
Ever since, he was only her dear, her general, her most trusted warrior. He believed that everyone else had turned against him, and thus, his heart had sunk and it was time to retaliate.
"Is your stomach feeling better today, dear?"
Grantaire had to admit that until she had walked in, it had been a little better. Now he was feeling sick again. He wished she'd leave. "Yes, a little," he said hurriedly --in perfect standard French, without a single trace of that Marseillais accent or any other patois quirk--, hoping to get her out quicker.
"It's because of what I gave you yesterday," she lied, grabbing into his arm, pulling his cupped hand towards her and placing the little flacon in the palm of it. "Drink it again and you'll be much better in no time."
Somehow, he didn't want to drink it. It made him feel groggy the last time and he'd woken up with a rather beastly headache that had taken hours to go away. But still she stared at him, refusing to leave until he drank it. In the end he sighed, took a deep breath, and swallowed it in one gulp, letting it all disappear from sight into his insides at one fell swoop. His head felt so heavy that he had to rest it on his left shoulder and then his eyelids snapped shut.
"Sleep tight," she laughed, leaving him fast asleep in the room once more. He heard her words, and smiled on her who spoke them, but spoke not himself, his eyelids heavy already.
Thus she had wrought him into her net, and dripped her poison into his sickly senses. She would soon take this dreamer for a consort, as well as for the general of her ranks... And thus, each and every evening, ever since the one when Grantaire had first acquired the taste of decadence, the Lady gave him to drink the narcotic prepared with blood from her veins; the young man was always eager to quaff it, in order to give a truce, a respite to the struggle of raging passions that tore at him from within.
He raised his cup again before bringing it to his mouth—but waited until she sipped before taking a draught himself. She watched him, the bright green liquid pouring over his lips and into his mouth... and he swallowed...
And she was gradually wasting away, little by little; life ebbed forth through the wounds she had open on her wrists, no sooner freshly scarred till slashed again into bloody fountains where Grantaire drank his fill of respite, drinking in as if it were a rill which ever gratified, but never removed, the pleasureable thirst it excited...
And so Queen and companion idly spent away the hours in the silent beauty, and not a single heart was beating.
...
Enjolras settled down on his seat in the calèche, happy and comfortable, putting a chocolate macaron to his lips before wiping his fingertips and plunging back into the world of tragedies that was the open book on his lap, one of the many lavish gifts he'd parted from the palace with, upon the insistence of the Fauchelevents, as he pulled the velvet blanket with the gold thread trim around his lap. Othello had just landed at the end of the pier, and Desdemona had stormed forth towards the gangway; then he clasped her in his arms. Now, what would Iago do to ruin this lovely scene? If Combeferre were by his side, he would have been dissecting Hugo's Othello while quoting the translation from Count Alfred de Vigny, objectively paying attention to the foremost differences between both French versions and the English original. That single thought of his lieutenant leader at the Café made the blond steel himself and swallow hard. Had he been right to appoint Combeferre, just as Othello had been right to appoint Cassio, as his lieutenant in both the senses of aide and steadholder? Enjolras had, hitherto, always been too busy with his studies and leadership duties to allow himself a pleasant distraction. And now, that distraction was more pleasant than ever, even though he would, every now and then, become carriage-sick and have to take a peek out into the wayside, which was exactly what he did next, after reading all the way to the end of the scene.
The calèche followed the road that took them past meadows and farms, to swamps -- which they had to detour around -- and through forests, both thick and thin. The attelage had been travelling for so long that they lost all sense of time. The coachman and footmen in the scarlet and gold livery did not speak a word.
The leaves on the oak and willow trees were brown and yellow, and the path beneath the carriage-wheels and hooves was covered with them. They would most surely make a dry, crackling sound at his every step. "Springtime is gone, and summer as well," they whispered to him as he walked. "Winter is coming."
He tried to consoled himself with the thought that he would not know how to find Grantaire were it not for Feuilly's account of a northward direction, but everything around him was dreary and cold, and the dying leaves dripped with autumn fog and rains. He thought about how far he had left to go, and how close it was to winter, and the whole world appeared dark and weary to him.
Definitely, reading himself back to sunny Cyprus would prove something far better, he said and opened the Folio once more. One of the things he had shared with Combeferre and later with Grantaire was a love of reading, and so each afternoon, after he had washed down a pair of macarons or croquignoles with a deep draught of lemonade (for the carriage was still lined with delicious eatables), he would reach for the book into the trunk and settle down to read.
The night was still deep, and the further he got from the Fauchelevents' castle, the quieter it got around him. Just the pale light of the stars sprinkled on the sky watched him ride through the carpet of leaves. Enjolras' heart was soaring, the moment he spotted the thicker forest leaves on the ground he knew he was close. His mind rushed, perhaps faster than the horses. It stopped at various treasured memories, he shared with all the others.
For instance, he remembered the warm cups of café royal, coffee laced with eau-de-vie, as his fingers in the gloves started to feel the creeping frost. The same cups that they shared, and the same Combeferre offered to him and made him smile just a little. The fair leader still didn’t know which exactly caused that, the gesture or the warm drink.
And thus, when the sun had set, the coachman and one of the postillions descended and lit the lanterns of the calèche, and continued to travel well into the dying light; so that the flickering lamplight cast an eerie glow on the passing treetrunks as it reflected on the carriage's dazzling panels, which already glinted in the moonlight; thus making the whole carriage shine like a sun, and turn the night into day, illuminating the pathway. Among the tall black treetrunks, even the bridles and the reins and harnesses glowed like bright orange flames. The swinging lanterns of golden yellow light created an eerie atmosphere, and the passenger watched as they flung their scary and haunting-looking shadows across the treetrunks. The sounds of the horses' hooves and the rattling of the carriage was all he could hear... They had arrived in a twilit forest, but they could see very clearly in the lights cast by the carriage's lanterns and reflecting on its panels. The forest was dark and cold like it was trapped in an endless night. You could see nothing beyond 20 feet. Shadows seemed to move between the trees. The trees seemed to whisper sending shivers down the entourage's spines. Enjolras told himself it was just the wind, but the air was still within the wall of trees.
"Look, look, what is that!" called an androgynous hoarse voice, ambiguous whether it was a boy's or a maiden's, from in between some ferns in the underbrush, as something like a moving torch gleamed through the evening forest. It was the Fauchelevents' carriage.
It was a crystal-clear sight in the light of the lanterns, and, since one could see so clearly in the lights cast by the carriage, and seeing it shine so bright, this light attracted a band of brigands who were ambushed in the underbrush; they all had never beheld, in a lifetime of lustrums outside the law, such a valuable prey! "La chose n'est pas possible, c'est un carrosse d'avant la Révolution..." a female contralto voice whispered into greedy ears among the bushes and ferns, unseen and unheard by Enjolras and the carriage servants; then, that same female whistled a shrill signal to her cohorts in the underbrush across the woodland path. For the calèche shone like a pile of burning embers, contriving to illuminate the darkness, and it dazzled all of their eyes; and that they couldn't stomach. The carriage rolled on into a dark forest. Like a blazing torch, it shone in the eyes of some robbers. They could not bear it. Like a blazing torch, it shone in their eyes... nay, like a conflagration, its clear light hurt the eyes of the brigands; they could not bear it. On they drove on through the dark forest, the carriage shining like fire. But the glare was too much for the eyes of the watching bandits. Among the tall black treetrunks, even the bridles and the reins and the harnesses glowed like bright orange flames. It was more than they ever could resist, and they would not stay put in their place; the whole attelage was too beautiful for them to let it escape. They were driving through a great dark forest, and the carriage was like a torch or shone like a flame right in the robbers' eyes, and they couldn't bear it. They drove onwards through the dark forest, but the carriage shone out like a flame and it dazzled the robbers' eyes so that they couldn't stand it; the glare was just too much for the watching bandits. A luminary shining so brightly that it hurt their eyes until they could stand it no longer. Furthermore, it had been a rainless day, and their gunpowder was still dry...
One freezing, dark night in the middle of autumn,
I was out with my parents on a robbing spree,
when we saw a bright carriage that glistened and sparkled
as it drove through a forest, between the tall trees.
The chiming of the bells on the horses' bridles, furthermore, had echoed off the vast tree-trunks for a very long way, until it reached the ears of that band of robbers, who could not bear to let a traveller with such a fine attelage pass unmolested.
“Voilà de... The saddlecloths are pure silk!” they cried out, rushing towards the horses all at once. "Surely the passenger has gold!"
The long and the short of it was that they could no longer remain indifferent; the whole attelage was too beautiful for them to let it escape.
Because a fancy shiny carriage is a pretty conspicuous means of travel through a forest, it was soon waylaid by these bandits, who killed all of the men except the passenger and stole the horses.
"Tally-ho! Tally-ho-o-o!!" they yelled for a battle-cry as they came rushing out of the woods, flashing their swords and bayonets menacingly; this warcry they shouted, and they sprang forwards, rushing out, seizing the horses, killing the postillions, the coachman, the footmen, and all the servants...
"Halt if you value your lives!" The robbers surrounded the carriage quite suddenly, two young men grabbing the horses. A woman with rumpled fair hair and fierce green eyes and a generous bosom ruthlessly cut the throats of the coachman, footmen, and the postillions, to ensure they were all dead. Not a flicker of remorse crossed her features as she did so. As she busied herself with that task, the young men calmed the horses.
They grabbed hold of the horses and killed the coachman, the servants, and the soldiers; within an instant, they sprang forwards out of the thick underbrush and lunged into the middle of the barely beaten path on the ground, stormed upon the carriage, and rushed lunging forwards towards the horses' heads, to seize the horses all at once, precipitating themselves upon the attelage like moths around a flame; then, after they had rushed forwards and seized the horses by the reins, they shot the coachman and the postillions dead, slaughtering the whole entourage, making a massacre out of the little postillions, the coachman and the valets; ere they, forcing the door, tore the utterly startled young passenger out of his seat, out of the carriage, and into their midst.
Right before the ambush, Enjolras had stopped looking around at the thick autumnal woods and sunken back into his chair in a pensive mood. He did not know where to go next, but, for the first time since he left the capital, he finally felt that he was able to carry on his search the right way. Then, he saw the blood.
Suddenly the bells on the harnesses went off from their lulling song and the coachman had to grip the reins firmer, his eyes shooting ahead of the horses backs. Their strong necks flicked through the cold air nervously, but they headed on with the speed the driver commanded them to.
"Look at that!"
"Tally-ho-o-o!!"
"Seize the horses by the reins!"
"I'll take out the coachman."
Bang! Bang! Suddenly two loud shots sounded. Suddenly he heard some more horses approaching and some shouting and whistling. Next moment the carriage stopped and there were sounds of fight outside and cries of dying men.
A gunshot went right through the driver's chest, and stuck into the wall of the carriage. Blood poured on the upholstery, as Enjolras stored the book in the trunk to keep it safe.
The promise Courfeyrac had made him make completely flew out of his mind as they seized the horses. He stood up from his seat to get a better view over the horses’ backs and cautiously called out to the lifeless form on the ground. The person was an adult man, at least judging the voice he heard they sounded like one. The moans appeared to be painful, and thus Enjolras called out: One of the postillions, judging from the livery he wore.
Brigands. Dangerous men. They had immediately realised that the carriage was worth a fortune. They had just waited for him to pass by and surprise him.
There was an instant when Enjolras was hopeful that they had left, but then the door, opened by force, exploded off its hinges. Someone had kicked it in. Surely some experienced and strong savateur... Could Grantaire had joined the band? Enjolras felt as relieved as he was tense. Once more, it was not Grantaire, but some big, ugly, gorilla-like man, who dragged him out by the arms, pointing a pistol at his left temple.
The next thing he was aware of, he was being pulled by the arms out of the calèche. No matter how much he struggled and kicked (and he knew that he was a leader, not a fighter, but nevertheless forced to struggle under pressure), it was to no avail, and the passenger found himself face-to-face with a group of dark-haired, tall, ugly, fierce-looking men in torn-up clothing, some of which was purple and some of which appeared to be part of worn, re-used military uniforms, surrounding him, their figures dark among the treetrunks. Forced to climb down from the coach, where he was apprehended by that band of thieves. Their voices carried across the open air. They were some ugly men reeking of alcohol and wearing torn and dirty clothes. Everything in them was disgusting, but the worst part was the look in their eyes. It was a look of a hungry beast with no sign of sentience. And those eyes were all over Enjolras, evaluating him as prey.
‘Tally-ho!’ shouted Father as he grabbed the horses,
‘Tally-ho!’ shouted Mother as she killed the coachman.
They finished off the postillions, slit the throats of the footmen,
and, with a blood-curdling cry, they yanked open the door.
Inside was a young lad, pretty and charming, cowering on the floor
amongst candied fruit, nuts, pastries, and sweetmeats.
Mother pulled out her knife, flashing and gleaming,
meaning to... ready to...
Dressed in dull colours, their worn jackets trimmed with rows of metal buttons, they looked like ramshackle soldiers, flashing their swords and bayonets menacingly. The youngest member of the band he could see was in his twenties, and assumed airs which made him look like a dandy; raven-haired, slender, dark of features and with an ill-shaven face (his upper lip took great pains to raise a moustache, but the hairs were so coarse and far between that it resembled the whiskers on a stray cat's nose), but definitely far better-looking and more sharply dressed than Grantaire, but he was a savage dandy, who was far from resembling the more cultured and adroit Courfeyrac; this young fellow, on the other hand ---a rather insignificant youth, of a face in which there was malice enough to show that he may commit any act of cruelty and consider it a pastime; though he looked good in general, his nose was slightly a decided snub, and his eyes fishy---, was the typical dashing dandy highwayman, sharply dressed to kill in a Prussian blue three-piece suit with a well-tied cravat, white fingerless gloves, a datura flower in the buttonhole, and a fancy top hat, an opera hat, that Enjolras supposed had been stolen from a previous unfortunate traveller (this hat was worn by our dandy according to the fashion of the decade, cocked to the left to make place for the fluffy quiff of raven hair on the right side).
Well, well... most surely Grantaire, if he had ever joined these merry men, would be waiting and drinking and taking it easy in their common lair, Enjolras thought while steeling himself, for he had never felt so frightened in his life, nor so powerless, surrounded by open blades.
Their leader was, or at least seemed to be, a filthy, vicious cur or rather a filthy, vicious fox of a man with short fiery red hair, in a worn uniform, who had coiffed his head with a sergeant's bonnet until his hair stood up in a great red ginger shock at each temple, not unlike walrus whiskers; of middle age but who had an age of superiority and power, even over those in the group who were clearly much older. He and his men seized Enjolras and dragged him off the carriage before the frightened geldings, and though he fought with all his strength, the blond was far outnumbered, and they had him bleeding on the ground before they were done.
The moment he stepped from his seat and his feet sank into the carpet of leaves, a whole apocalypse broke loose. The man on the ground jumped to his feet, but sank down as quickly as he had scrambled up, clutching the hole in his bleeding solar plexus, crimson staining his livery, as the dandy blew away a puff of smoke from the muzzle of his pistol. A lot more men encircled Enjolras, without a means to escape.
The mere thought that such filthy people exist in the world made him wince; but he was not given any time to show any disgust, it took the robbers only a second to class him and the attelage as a lucky strike, so with predatory smiles they unceremoniously grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged out of the carriage.
Now he saw out of the corner of his right eye that while two of the men held him in place, squeezing his slender arms and pinning them behind his back until Enjolras could hardly even feel them, the rest were taking the coach apart for its silver.
"Where is the driver?" the captive wondered worriedly. "Where are the footmen the heiress gave me?"
To his horror, Enjolras watched one of the men, a pot-bellied fellow with a gold arm-ring pushed up onto his left arm, lift up the driver's seat of the carriage and saw it was covered with blood.
So he was gone, then. The postillions and the footmen, and the guards of the escort, too, probably. Enjolras' stomach lurched; "It is after sunset, and you aren’t even half a mile into the forest, which is dark and scary and full of noises, when bandits ambush your escort, and slaughter them all. If I hadn't been so terrified about my own fate, I would have vomited. I had liked the coachman -stupid though he'd been- and the footmen and postillions had been kind, too. How horrid it was to think that in one flash they were gone."
They stepped out of the carriage. There were more robbers outside. Enjolras looked down and saw the bodies of the coachmen. Crouching over, he started to throw up, but nothing came out of his wide-open mouth.
"What is that disgusting noise?" growled one of the men. The blond felt a cold blade pressed in his back.
The attack had been swift and terrible, and the bandits had soon slaughtered the coachman and small escort that accompanied Enjolras. All the escort had been slaughtered. He was the only one of the entourage left alive. Now, for the first time in forever, he had to face the fact that his friends were dead. "That I might go next." Yet still he refused to die, not yet, it was too early... if Enjolras died himself, who would go and bring Grantaire back home? In spite of his disbelief, the estranged, dark sceptic was his brother in arms at the end of the day. They all had to stick together facing the guns; they all had to fall together, before turning thirty. There was simply no other way to die.
Though not being much of a fighter himself, though the Fauchelevents had not given him as much as a pistol which he could have fired to kill one of the robbers stone dead in half a moment... though the rest of the gang were upon him so quickly that Enjolras, breaking free from the thugs' grip from all his strength, braced himself and tried his hand at savate for the first time in a short life, and so he was reduced to hitting about him with an empty box that once had been full of macarons and croquignoles to right and left, as though it were a club, fighting as best as he could against the captors but it was no use, there were too many and they were too strong.
This worked for perhaps a minute, maybe two, but then the sheer weight of their numbers overwhelmed him, and they bore him to the ground. The moment he stepped from his seat and his feet sank into the carpet of leaves, a whole apocalypse broke loose. A lot more men encircled Enjolras, without a means to escape.
He was now circled by a bunch of those disgusting people. They were laughing at him to his face and loudly discussing what they would do to their captive. To Enjolras' shock among the things they said just killing him was the least terrible one.
"He is worn and battered, for all his fine boots and overcoat," mocked the one who seemed to be the head robber, that ill-looking fox of a man with an unshaven jaw and wiry, bristly red muttonchop whiskers, dressed in a worn and torn sergeant's uniform. "Perhaps he stole the horses himself." And he held an old bayonet to the golden-haired stripling's throat —which made a little rill of blood trickle, red on white, on Enjolras' lilywhite skin—, saying, with a sardonic grin, "Justice is served, then."
Then he shouted an oath, for one of his fellows, a young person of indeterminate sex with a fierce and wild grin, had stabbed a small knife into his arm. The redhead cursed the dark-haired youngster, and called that person an insubordinate lout, and a tall, stout, muscular bear of a blonde woman dressed as a camp follower, but who looked somewhat more like a wardrobe or a female impersonator (with a sprig of holly in a mop of messy ash-blond hair), set to bandaging the wounded man's arm with a strip of cloth torn from his ragged shirt, and the gang forgot all about killing their prisoner. Enjolras himself reeled backwards in shock. Air was knocked from his lungs and he was thrown to the ground with a boot pressed to his chest. A boot at the end of a shapely, muscular thigh beneath a sutler woman's worn skirt. The tall, broad lady towering over him, wore a red coat and wore the biggest grin he had ever seen, and her piercing green eyes held much similarity to Grantaire's, but she was very different.
Suddenly the crowd got silent and made way for their leader. Surprisingly it was that woman. Her fair hair was a mess and her clothes had so many patches on them, they seemed to consist of nothing more but those patches; she sported long, bristly brows that hung down over her eyelids. But at least, though grizzled as she was, though she looked fearsome and bold, she didn’t look as wild as the men. Her movements were steady, her eyes looked sentient. Probably that’s why she was the leader among the robbers. Thus, Enjolras thought that while the blonde woman would most probably still kill him at once, it would come as a conscious decision and not beastly instinct. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse though.
Although they themselves were mostly men, their leader was not the sergeant, Enjolras thought, but that tall burly woman with the hair colour of yolk and pointy-looking teeth, wiry bushy bristly long tangled eyebrows that hung down over her eyelids like an eagle-owl's, eyebrows so big and bushy that they almost hid her eyes... and a smile that was much too broad for his liking. She leaned down to put her face in his own.
The leader woman, now that her men had gathered up all the silver they could carry, had turned her attention to the golden-haired passenger, and eyed him from crown to toe. The moment she saw Enjolras, she turned to him predatory, grabbing him by the wrists and lifting him up to her eye level, so that the lad's bare feet didn’t reach the ground. This slightly-old woman who looked fearsome and bold had quite a strength for her age. She looked at the prisoner curiously, considering what would be the best use for her to put him to as her flashing green eyes travelled down his glossy hair, expensive crimson coat, and new leather boots. Upon seeing his face, her own twisted in lust and she violently pulled him from the carriage. Finally she spoke in a husky, sultry contralto voice, yelling delightedly at the sight of him: "Hoo hoo hoo hoo! Wot's this? Who's this?" grumbled that woman with a particularly hairy head and bulging neck. She had long, bristly eyebrows that hung down over her eyes.
"Better finish him or her or whatever you want to call 'em, quick," said a man, jabbing his side with a fat finger. "Oooh, he's or she's nice and plump!"
"Full of butter-milk and macarons, no doubt."
"Well, get on with it!"
"So wot have we got in here?" As she said this, clutching Enjolras between the legs to sex her prisoner, she drew out her knife, a dreadful, flashing thing. And then she pulled out her shiny knife that glittered so it was frightful.
"Are you?" Enjolras groaned in reply as he tried to squirm out of the grips that held him firmly in place, but of course it was still no use. Her fierce, sinister laugh curdled the blood in his veins, and so did the words she uttered as she touched him all over, examining his physique:
“Well, I’ve yet got to see under that last coat. Darling, you are dressed up like an onion, I’ve got to peel you layer by layer,” she purred in a low voice, as she pulled Enjolras to herself, wrapping her hand tightly around his wrist, and hit his chest with her own bosom. He would try to get out of that grasp, weren't it for Madame's hands firmly pressing his hips to her own, kneading his ass as best he could. The shock was so huge, Enjolras couldn’t find any words nor strength to muster any action. He simply froze in the virago's arms and watched as her face got closer and closer, alarm ringing in his ears.
"Hoo hoo hoo hoo, what a ball we will have tonight indeed! Oh, quel régal nous en ferons; comme je vais me régaler ce soir! Look how pretty he is, il est si mignon, so lovely, he's a real delicacy, how tender he looks, ce sera délicieux à coucher avec lui; one might say just as if he'd been fed on nothing but macarons... Long story short, il est par-r-fait!" the leader of the robbers said, baring her sharp teeth in a most frightful grin and licking her lips. The look in her eyes was lustful and cruel, and she twitched her thick owl-like eyebrows, that hung over her eyes. "I bet he has been fed on treats. Full of macarons and milk tea, no doubt. He's thin as a rake, but his flesh is pale and tender, just like icing sugar. If we stuff him with nuts and berries, just think how nice he will taste! Oh, comme il doit avoir bon goût! Let's see how pretty he is when we bleed him dry... Wait! No, that's it! If we stuff him with wine and eau-de-vie, just think how nice he will sing! This one will be as good a singer as a trained Flemish finch! Of course his voice must sound as sweet as that of a little well-trained boy finch: suskewiet, suskewiet! My word, I'll enjoy him for supper!" And as she said this, she drew forth a bayonet out of the stomach of one of the dead guards, pulling out that long shiny gleaming knife that glittered in the moonlight to fill anyone with dread, that glittered so it was frightful enough to even such a stoic leader; that blade flashed with a sinister gleam, so that it was grisly... as a shudder ran down the prisoner's spine, and raised it with vengeful dexterity to his throat, cold blade grazing the skin over the throbbing carotids. His heart raced even faster. She knew how to act during such assaults, from her own experience, aside from how to wield a knife in order to threaten her prisoners.
Meanwhile, the redhead in the worn uniform was tying the stripling's hands behind him with a sturdy rope. Enjolras was so shocked and in turmoil, that he barely managed his head to stop spinning. Once it did, he noticed the large group of the attackers seized his calèche and rummaged through his belongings greedily.
"Take all you can! There is something for everyone, and there is enough for everyone!"
They shouted excitedly and brayed like donkeys with each new item in their hands, exclaiming how rich they would be once they could sell all the fine clothes and the team of horses. They were dragging the bodies from the carriage and going through the pockets of the dead men for any valuables. The bags of provisions were taken as well.
It would be fine, he told himself. He would just wait through this and then head out on foot if he had to. The bandits would take all he had and his life wouldn’t make them any richer if they took it as well.
The despair clung heavy on his chest and he felt the familiar arrival of helpless apprehensions. He was trying to swallow them away so he wouldn’t appear weak in his captors’ eyes. But it seemed his was really out of luck that night, since the virago happened to oh so sit beside him and not so subtly slide his palm to the inner side of his thigh. She managed to murmur to his ear. “Won’t you consider? I’ll keep you extra warm tonight.”
“Wow, Madame, looking at your resolve, I’d almost say you’re serious in settling down!” the dandy mocked her loudly.
But before the brigand leader could cut the captive's throat, which he didn't try to protect having already lost all hope, she made a shrill grunt of pain, for then something weird happened, something unexpected, something that changed the course of events. Enjolras heard a growling in the underbrush, and then the tall woman screeched, grimaced in pain, hopped up and down and spun around.
“Hands off!” A threatening yell cracked between them like a whip. Their heads shot towards it as on command. At that moment there was a fierce growl as another face appeared: much younger, finer, more androgynous. That small person with haggard hair and a fierce grin marched towards them and flapped their ragged cape aside. They flung their arms around the virago's neck, their legs astride her sides, and rode on her back, clinging to her back like a limpet, and had bitten her fiercely on the ear.
The young person who had stabbed the sergeant in the arm had jumped onto her from behind and was now hitched up on her back, watching everything with shining eyes, arms flung around that muscular neck, legs pressed against those broad sides, pulling at her short braids of frizzled hair and chewing at her left ear.
Preventing the virago from using the cruel implement. Keeping her from killing, or torturing, Enjolras.
"Aoooww!! Aïïïe!! 'Ponine, you loathsome brat, you minx, you hussy, you...! It's not for nothing you're a sutler woman's daughter, eh?" the furious robber woman suddenly cursed as she pursed her lips and propped her hips; she thought of stalling her idea to make the prisoner 'sing' for later, as that nimble dark young person bit her in the left ear until she bled, and tore tufts of matted fair hair from her head; and she had no time to kill her prisoner then. "Mauvaise bête," said the mother, and her hand stopped. Wrapping her left arm around her mother’s neck to use it as a support and threatening her with a dagger she held in her left hand, the girl grabbed her mother’s right arm with her own right hand and pulled it away from Enjolras, along with mother’s dagger.
“No, he won’t! I said hands off!” The girl stretched forward and bit the hairy lady's right hand like a wild animal!
"Owlch!" the robust woman shrieked, at the very same moment, clutching her bitten hand -- right then her own daughter had fiercely bitten her ear once more. The adolescent girl, whom she carried riding on her back, was a wild and reckless creature, who looked so untamed that she was a sight to behold, looking delightfully wild and reckless. "You beastly, horrible, nasty little brat!" her mother exclaimed, but it kept her from using that knife on the prisoner; she simply didn't have time to butcher the hostage or to unsheathe even.
The maiden was still both quite wild and quite fearless, and had bitten her fiercely on the left ear once more. The robber leader struck out and scored a glancing blow, aiming a rippling left hook against 'Ponine's nose, but she fell back ere her mother's fist could strike her and, with blood still dripping from her teeth, she cartwheeled back into the underbrush, which then made way for her, rustling ominously; in the excitement, the robbers forgot about killing Enjolras.
The men's voices suddenly grew quiet, and the virago's knife-wielding hand stopped altogether. The only sound they made was the rustling of their boots in the grass and carpet of leaves, growing closer and closer until they discovered the girl's dark head popping from behind a juniper bush.
While travelling at night, the carriage was shining in the moonlight, and that attracted the attention of some nearby robbers. The group of miscreants attacked the carriage all at once, and dispatched of the soldiers, servants, and coachman. And by "dispatched," I mean (Pause) they killed them.
She is just about to slit your throat, as you stand there, politely pretending not to notice the blood that is pooling around the bodies of the dead guards, the cold steel that is at your throat, when a girl about your own age, but slightly younger, jumps onto the robber queen’s back, pulling at the robber queen’s braided hair as if it were reins, Enjolras thought to himself.
"Non pas, 'Ponine, non pas, not at all; he's too delicate..." said the big blonde woman. "So he'll be less fun than any of us are for you. We're gonna keep this lad, this suskewiet, alive to male him sing. I claim the man. He's a real looker. Haven't had a good man in three years. Wore out m'last one. I think this one might last a little longer. He's got meat on his bones."
And, in spite of the fact that the blonde was ready to slit her prisoner's throat once more, no sooner had she finished her reply... that her daughter jumped once more on the mother's back and bit her in the other ear, in the right one this time, which made her squeal and leap into the air in pain.
“Fine!” the robber woman said. “Just get off my neck!”
The dark girl let her mother go, and the virago let go of her prey. Enjolras limply fell on the carpet of leaves, still hand-tied; it did not take long for the dandy and the gorilla to pin him down to the ground on his knees once more.
The robber girl glanced heavily at her mother, but said nothing. Then, she kicked the redheaded sergeant where it hurt the most, and he began to squeal like a pig at the abattoir, clutching his hands between his thighs and hopping up and down as he spun around and whirled about and writhed in pain, before he turned round towards his wife. The other brigands just laughed heartily, all of them bursting out into hearty laughter, at the scene and at their contortions, just like whenever the girl played a bad trick on her parents; mocking the sergeant and the camp follower, who held one another and steeled themselves (the sergeant, his face as red as his hair, buried in his wife's cleavage), convinced that their brothers-in-arms were laughing at them as they shouted: "Regardez comme ils dansent avec leur petite! Look at 'em, see the old Thénardiers how they're dancing so youthfully with their li'l brat!" Even the trickster girl who had started it all. And even the fair prisoner himself.
"Let me in the carriage!! Je veux entrer dans la voiture, et garder le prisonnier," 'Ponine roared, gnashing her teeth, as she twice fired her pistol in the air. Then she pushed through to the front of the group and spat. "I see I got left to struggle with the horses again. It's because I'm a woman, isn't it?"
"You're not a woman until you give us some," leered the dandy as he glared up onto her face. The girl pulled a knife seemingly out of nowhere, into the palm of her own left hand, and held it to his throat.
"I," she said, tapping the knife against his throat. "Can," she tapped his chin - "Give," his left cheek - "You," his right cheek - "Scar." She traced over his right eye with barely an inch between his eyeball and the blade. She pulled the knife back down to his throat. "If you give me reason to." When the dandy simply glared at her, she gave him a tight smile and flicked her knife in her wrist, slipping it in her belt, upon her right thigh. "I thought so."
She turned her attention to the prisoner and the men who held him in place. "Give 'im to me," she said in no uncertain terms.
"You?" The others laughed. "What would you like to do with Suskewiet?"
"That is my decision. But you will give 'im to me as my special companion," she continued to her parents. "I will make sure you don't regret it."
Everyone turned to the leaders, looking down on the sergeant and the sutler woman with abated breath. Even Enjolras found himself holding his breath, too perplexed to question his would-be saviour. The sergeant, the woman, the dandy - they all stared without blinking at the maiden. Finally, all three jerked a nod.
"The lad goes to 'Ponine. She will do what she likes with him."
And she must and would have her own way, for she was so spoiled and obstinate and headstrong; and they all made haste to cater to her whim, since the robber maiden's will had to be done come hell or highwater, and no one dared to oppose any of her desires, and her stubbornness as such that it made that not even her mother dared to deny her anything; for every whim of hers was a command; there was nothing to do but to let her have her way -- that's so stubborn and terribly pampered and headstrong for words the dark maiden was that she always got her way, so obstinate and authoritarian and spoiled by all the attention that everyone gave her; so wild and so unkempt and unruly and naughty and so impulsive and fearless a little wild beast that it was a joy to see, a delight to watch her; and woe to the one who dared to contradict her!
Though it was not unanimous; this decision was met with howls of rage, more arguments, and much spitting at the ground, but the virago only held up a hand to commandeer silence as 'Ponine grabbed a hold of the blond's upper arm and dragged him to his feet, marching him away from the group.
The young maiden leaped towards her prisoner holding a knife or bayonet threateningly. She crouched over Enjolras like a cat claiming her prey, and looked him over from crown to toe. He looked at her with wide, terrified eyes, and she returned a startled look. They were frozen, neither knowing what to do or how to react. Her thin eyes widened and she nodded all pleased, producing the thick leather-bound volume of Shakespearean tragedies. As the man in sergeant's uniform was busy with tying the prisoner's hands with a rope, while the young man's wrists were being bound behind his back before the ones who were deciding his future, she yelled at him, and at the virago, sternly. “I’ve got an eye on him first! And on Shakespeare as well! Finders keepers, that’s our rule!”
The robber queen dropped both her knives, and the girl dropped back onto the ground, kissing her mother’s hairy gray cheek. “Very well, very well,” the robber queen grumbled, or rather declared, and the crowd seemed satisfied. The man in uniform sighed, still clutching his private parts, as the dark maiden resumed, trying to wrest Enjolras out of his grasp.
"And I make the rules so I can break them. He’s mine and that’s the end of the discussion. If you don’t like it, you can take your spoils and leave us.”
And just like that the argument was over. The sergeant laughed, the robber woman was insulted, or at least felt insulted, and both of them grew tired of fighting their daughter, for no one dared to oppose the dark maiden. Considering that not a single word had passed between them as of yet, Enjolras thought this rather forward of her. At any rate, it was probably worth it to comply, rather than to protest.
"The Sarge was a soldier," one of the other robbers pointed out in a fine Left Bank accent — he was that slender young man in his twenties, like Enjolras himself, but raven-haired and a scoundrel to the core: the typical dashing dandy highwayman, sharply dressed to kill in a Prussian blue three-piece suit, a well-tied cravat, a datura flower in the buttonhole, and a fancy top hat, an opera hat, that Enjolras supposed had been stolen from a previous unfortunate traveller. This lad, who looked like an evil Courfeyrac, yet at heart did not resemble the courteous Gascon at all, was as dark of features as that young person, whom the prisoner now understood to be a girl.
"That old blighter?" The dark maiden pointed at the Sarge, who was still wincing and clutching his private parts, as she scoffed. "He's a thief and a villain, and so are all the rest of you, and myself as well."
"Very well, you spoilt little brat," the older woman growled. "Keep him then —Suskewiet is all yours— but mind you don't let him out of your sight..."
The Sarge, who was tightening the ties on the prisoner's hands behind him, asked the stripling if he would not like to join them, and try his hand at being a thief himself.
"Look at us," he said, nodding at the brigands where they stood in a half-circle around. "The dregs of half the armies in Europe. We've been at war, man and boy, for our entire lives, and all it got us was sore feet and empty bellies. Well, most of us except for 'Parnasse... posh lad, a real toff who fell on hard times, the poor thing. The mildest-mannered young man that e'er cut a throat; with such true breeding of a gentleman you never could divine his real thoughts. So... where were we? Aha! We've been all, sans 'Parnasse, at war for our entire lives, and all it got us was sore feet and empty bellies. Now we fight for ourselves alone, and claim for our own the spoils of our combat. You have the look of a man well-accustomed to swordplay and bayonet, to fighting, of a warrior, and what's more, of a leader, as I know from all the lieutenants I served under... those expendable striplings I barely got to know, shot before my very own eyes. Well, I am not saying all of them were like you, my lad, for some of them were quite conceited and others were rather puny, but you get the picture. I do not know how you got ahold of those fine horses and pretty silk cloth we took from you, but stay with us and I can promise you more."
Looking about his surroundings, at the darkness and the circle of sinister faces around, Enjolras thought that the non-commissioned officer's promises of riches and ease to be gained by a life of highway robbery did not quite agree with the dismal condition of his living quarters; besides which, he had always been an honest man, and had made his living through his own efforts and not by stealing the property of others. Even during the looting and destruction that followed the end of a siege and the breaching of the walls right before the storming, he would have never taken so much as a loaf of bread or a copper sou from its rightful owner. Why else would he start a revolution, and a secret society, in the first place? He was a far leftist, yet one who would never stoop that far to the left into Communism...
But those were only a small part of the feelings that impelled him to decline. "I am searching for someone," he told the non-commissioned officer. "A friend who has gone away. I have walked so far in my searching that I have nearly walked the soles off my old pair of boots, and I will not stop until I have found my friend and we are together again."
"Ah," said the robber wisely, as he pulled a pipe from within his coat. "A woman. I might have known. I almost gave the soldiering life up myself, once, for a woman. Would have, indeed, had the peace not been signed just in time for her to become Madame Thénardier and the mother of our children... And I would have lived to regret it, mark me if I wouldn't. If she's gone off and left you, my advice is to forget all about her." And he lit his pipe, stuck the end of it in his mouth, and began to puff out foul-smelling clouds of pipe smoke.
Blushing slightly, Enjolras explained to Sergeant Thénardier, who was chewing on the stem of his pipe, that he was mistaken, and that the friend he sought was a man, a visual artist and savateur of great renown, whom he had overlooked until his untimely disappearance, and who had been lured away into the wide world by a carriage and a lady that seemed to be formed all of greenery.
"Ah, you didn't look quite straight to me... he he he... It is my business to know a great many things," the brigand said, with a shrug. "I'm afraid it will do you little good, though." And then he informed the fair student that if he did not see fit to join their merry band, they had no choice but to hold him for ransom. "For 'Ponine likes you, and would like as not cry for days on end if we were to cut your throat." And he tightened the tie around the prisoner's wrists.
"And it could also get use caught if he tells them where our camp is or some of the guards kill him when we try to get the money," another spat, pointing a stunted index finger at the prisoner. "You really want to risk death for that thing?"
"We could find other uses for this lad," the virago said in her sultry, throaty female voice. She glared over her shoulder with bloodshot green eyes.
In response to these words, the maiden came and pried him away from the men holding onto his arms, embracing the hand-tied Enjolras so tightly that he thought she was going to crush every bone in his body, and then told him, very slowly as if she thought the young man might be less than intelligent, that as long as he swore friendship with her she would never let any harm come to her captive.
"Yes," the fair leader said quickly, trying not to think of the driver and the footmen (if only someone could have made a vow of friendship with them!), "we're friends."
The robber maiden smiled with pleasure and nodded, satisfied. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. "Y'see, Papa, Maman?" And the sergeant, the vice-leader of the robbers, was not pleased, but secretly he was was a bit afraid of his daughter, as much as of his wife who spoiled the girl rotten, and rather than let his men see that, he acquiesced grudgingly and let 'Ponine drag the finely-dressed traveller off to their lair by calèche, as co-passengers. "We shall ride home in comfort!" she declared triumphantly, grabbing the end of his hand-tie rope, as the other outlaws, including her parents, stepped out of the way to let her haul the prisoner cheerfully, if rather carelessly, half-carrying Enjolras over stumps and stones and underbrush, back into the calèche.
Let me ride in the carriage with my new playmate;
let me gobble up the gingersnaps and fruits inside!
"Quick! Into the carriage," the robber girl urged the captive, "before she changes her mind! C'mon then," 'Ponine said as she prodded Enjolras between the shoulder blades with a bony index finger. "Move. Allez!"
"I want to ride in the carriage," the robber girl had said, and ride she did, and she imposed her will on everyone else; she always did as she pleased and as she wanted, for she was too spoiled and headstrong for words.
“Take us home!” her mother called over the thumping and bumping of the repulsors over rocks and roots on the path. “We'll decide what to do with our new prizes there.”
Éponine looked quite relieved and hugged the boy to her chest protectively. "Merci, Maman! I'll take charge of him and promise to watch him diligently so he doesn't get away!"
Giving her daughter a look of disgust, Madame Thénardier turned to the men. "Let us get going now, there's nothing else here. We can bring the carriage with us. 'Ponine! As you are such an accomplished brigand, you and the boy can ride in the carriage. Find out if he is indeed a lordling of the highest rank!" Several snorts of approval came from the group of robbers. They got up.
That seemed to settle the matter, and soon Enjolras found himself sitting back inside the Fauchelevents' carriage, which rolled over ditches and gnarled roots, over stumps and stones and bushes, through underbrush and across marshes, while away it drove, being driven along little paths that brought it deeper and deeper, into the depths of the forest, now being driven back to the bandits' den or hideout; with his hands tied behind his back, the initial shock already wearing off of him, already saved from certain death or torture; and his captor, the daughter of the outlaw leader, sitting down beside him to hold the other end of the rope. She had half-carried him back into his seat, and sat him firmly down with a warm plaid blanket over his knees, and now she was sitting down by his side, looking in wonderment at the ornate furnishings inside the calèche. She slung an arm around the blond’s shoulders as she took the seat next to him, humming happily to herself. “They won’t kill you unless I get angry with you. What’s your name? Mine’s Éponine!”
A group of adults rode in the carriage to the camp or lair, taking the places of the entourage, and the rest had to walk. There was much activity and the next thing Enjolras knew he was back in the carriage with Éponine pressed close and they were driving once more into the woods at high speed, bouncing over roots and stones. So both young people sat inside the carriage and they rattled as they drove over stumps and brambly thorns deeper into the forest. Though she had saved his life, the captive still looked at her with fear. Now he could see clearer what she looked like.
The robber maiden was not yet twenty, younger and just a bit taller than her prisoner, but her body looked broader than his own in the shoulders. Her skin was tanned softly and her eyes were so dark that he felt like she had the whole ocean in them. She was strong and broad-shouldered, olive-skinned with tangled dark hair and a mournful look in her pitch black eyes, for all that she smiled so fiercely. She was about the same age and height and overall size as Cosette, but she was much stronger and had a far more athletic and robust build, with a far less generous bosom; she was sturdy and rough and dark-skinned from her harsh outdoor life, she had a skin that had been tanned bronze by the sun, her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and her hair was unkempt, coal-black and half-short, tied back so it was fastened and kept out of her face by a ribbon, not fair and long and styled in a chignon like Cosette's. And the outlaw girl's eyes were as night-black as those of the heiress were day-blue. She was stronger, much broader in the shoulders and much narrower in the hips, more muscular of limbs; her teeth were surprisingly well-kept, white, and sharp, that being the cause that hers was a beautiful mouth; and her whole nimble frame dressed in a tattered overcoat and torn trousers of rough fabric, with a deerskin cloak wrapped on top, instead of a corset and silken, lacy pristine petticoats; and her raven head was hatted with a worn, broken opera hat instead of a lacy bonnet. She looked quite scary, but also pretty in her own way. The girl’s clothes, while still barbaric in design, were quite nice compared to other robbers', including her mother's. Seems she got everything best, and she always got her own way. All of 'Ponine's clothes, furthermore, were crumpled and stained; blood-stained, Enjolras thought upon paying closer attention. Long story short, the robber maiden was as catlike as Cosette was birdlike, as much a thornrose as Cosette was a lily, as boyish as Cosette was feminine. Her quite dark eyes flashed menacingly, and there was a dangerous fierce wildness in her uncontrolled nature, but, in spite of that wild look, in spite of everything about the first impression of her, she seemed to be unhappy; there was also restlessness, and at least a little sorrow, and longing, and a wistful melancholy shimmer in those two black holes-almost sad in their expression; they looked almost mournful.
She stared into his eyes, night-black locked with day-blue, for a moment; Enjolras willed himself not to squirm, sensing that this might be salvation. He knew an opportunity when he saw one. She seemed like the only reasonable one of the lot, and if he could make her want to save him, maybe he could make her want to let him go on and resume his quest, too. She focused her eyes on his, and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. He should have been intimidated by the look she gave him but for some reason he wasn't. "She looks like one of the bad girls who loiter under the street lamp by the corner shop, the ones who used to whistle at me whenever I came home from University on autumn and winter nights..." Moreover, she seemed to resemble Grantaire in some way or another... For starters, from so much living in darkness, the robber maiden's beautiful yet brazen eyes were as dark as caves, or rather as real black holes, even darker than the savateur's hazel orbs; she was also far more brusque and more determined than the fair leader himself... After a few awkward moments in which he tried not to tear up from fear, she put her arm around him comfortingly.
She put her arms around the sides of his torso and clasped Enjolras by the waist, so brusquely that he was startled, and held him tight, close to her, as she addressed him at point-blank range in her hoarse voice, that was less like a boy's and far more like a frog's:
"What are you doing in my mother’s forest? Don’t be afraid. I won’t let my mother eat you. My parents won't do nothing to you as long as you're with me. They'll not kill you so long as I'm not cross with you! They won’t slaughter you as long as I don’t get angry with you! So. Keep calm and carry on. There, there, you will not be killed if I can help it. But you must do as I say, cooperate, and try to stay away from my old lady. She rarely allows people to live.As sure as my name is Éponine Thénardier: as long as I'm fond of you, as long as you don't make me get cross with you, we shan't have you killed or even slap you in the face, shall we, Your Lordlingship? I won’t let them slaughter you as long as you're mine. They won’t kill you as long as I love you,” she whispered in his ear then licked it playfully. "I'm sure as sure can be that your real name is not 'Suskewiet', whatever your real name might be... They shan't kill you or hurt you as long as you don’t make us angry with you. As long as I'm fond of you, you're safe and sound, or I'm not a Thénardier! I suppose you are a great general? Tell me, are you perhaps at least a viscount, or at least a baron or a chevalier, right? I think you must really be a lordling. I guess you must be one. With all these fine clothes... Fess up! I assume you must be a noble to be in a carriage this fine. How unfortunate that you would come into our neck of the woods." She clutched his waist in her arms tightly so he could not run off, even though Enjolras was hand-tied already.
He sighed, taking but a little comfort from those words. The attire, trousseau, and attelage he had been given were, though austere, at least slightly ostentatious. "No... No, I'm not, we Enjolras have never been aristocrats. Just wealthy landowners, and horse breeders, in the Camargue. It happens to be by chance that I find myself in such a grand carriage... But you may say that I am a great general, in a certain sense. By the way... Éponine... that's a lovely name, I have never heard before..." he said, holding his nose, which was bleeding, and he feared, possibly broken, with his left hand.
"It's for the Celtic goddess of horses. Maman picked my name. I once had a sister called Azelma, a green-eyed, nutbrown little girl who died in the crossfire, she was shot down when we had to leave our village... She was named after a storybook heroine. But Enjolras... you look as much like a southerner as I look like a northerner... and I have never been down south in my life... what's it like? I've heard it's most delightful as to scenery and climate, laved by the soft waters of the Mediterranean, its climate is ideal, and you have only one season in the year, a yearlong springtime; how lucky you must be! but maybe these are the romantic rêveries of a northerner weary of the cold and rains and snow and frost, so I'd like to hear it from a born and bred southerner..."
"Well, it's rather hot and dry and sunny, so hot that you the month of Thermidor was most rightfully named, and one cannot spend a summer day without having a swim... yet there are cool breezes from the Mediterranean that fan the air along the coast, which is most refreshing; Paris at the same time of year is a furnace in comparison, so I study in the capital and spend my summer holidays down south at my parents' home. The woods are way brighter, without any ferns or berry bushes, and the sea is blue and cool, and there are soft sand dunes along the coast... and the scent of rosemary and lavender, for there are vast fields of lavender, and of citrus orchards in bloom, and of the breeze, cannot be more refreshing... so I prefer springtime in my birthplace, definitely. By the way, you look as much like a boy as I look like a girl, right?" She chortled. "I know a great many stories, and I will tell them all to you, you can be sure."
In response, she smiled with pleasure and nodded, satisfied. “Ah, so you actually talk”, the robber girl noticed. “That’s good! Keep it up and maybe I won’t get bored of you and throw you away after one night! Now tell me what brought you here to the heart of these dark woods all alone...” she smiled so mischievously that he couldn’t get if she was serious or not.
And so, he told Éponine the whole story of his life, everything he had experienced, and presently he began to tell her the story of his adventures thus far in the wide world. Then he thought of the loneliness of an only child of rank, the rambles among ruins and dunes and lavender in the Mediterranean breeze, the excitement of making friends in Paris with the Law degree, the revolutionary spirit of the decade, the little club he had with his friends at the Café Musain, Combeferre's puzzles and earnest discourses on the steering of montgolfières or the similarities between de Vigny's translation of Othello and Hugo's, Jehan Prouvaire's flute-playing and flower boxes, Joly taking his pulse when he was nervous, the quirks of all the others... and Grantaire. How much he missed the wit and the pluck of that drunken cynic, and how much his kidnapper reminded Enjolras of the missing friend he hoped to find. And then he disappeared. Just disappeared like gunsmoke.
"And you knew each other... from wealthy society? From little prince and princess school?"
"I told you," the blond glanced sharply at the dark-haired girl, "he's not a socialite."
Éponine smirked and tugged at one of his sleeves. "And I'm Marie-Antoinette."
"The clothes... They were a gift," the fair leader implored. "From friends I met on my journey to find Grantaire. The coach and the guards too. They were gifts."
She listened all journey long with dark sad eyes wide open and mouth agape, always paying the most serious attention, at the blond young man who had seemed to her such a fragile sheltered little lordling, but to whom such strange things had occurred, and who now revealed himself to be, if not literally a great general, at least a hero like those of the stories and the plays she loved to read, freeing the oppressed from tyranny; a leader, a rebel, a dreamer, a quester. That prisoner boy had everything that had been wrested from her... and now she was his captor. The thought made her seethe with as much rage and envy as it filled her with ambitions and wishes of freedom; thus she balled her fists, clenching them as tight as she could, yet her eyes were wistfully dreamy and her lips curled in an honest smile. That epic tale made her long for both Paris and the Mediterranean, as well as for friends of her own, and out of the dangerous life she led...
I wiped away his fears and took both his hands,
Pushed them deep into the muff and a little further,
To prove he was safe from my parents’ robber band.
In fact, Éponine seemed particularly interested in hearing about the impending Revolution, and so Enjolras elaborated on that part, talking until he was nearly hoarse, and they had reached their destination. She listened sympathetically and hugged him when he had finished, which made Enjolras' heart skip a beat of surprise.
“I see…” the robber girl said as for a moment she lowered her eyes as if she was considering something. Then, she became quite earnest. "Ah," she sighed with contentment, when he was done; she regarded him seriously, looked at him with serious black eyes, and raised her head and shook it, tossing raven hair into his face, with a defiant air; she looked straight again, right into his azure eyes, quite seriously, nodded her head a little, and said decisively, her brow furrowed: "You are a fine storyteller, indeed. In fact, as long as you swear friendship with me, I shan't let the others kill you, and they won't even touch you, even if you do vex me—, not even if we two should quarrel, not even if I should fall out of love with you—, for then, if I ever get cross with you, I'll rather do it myself! If you tell them, I will kill you. Instantly, but painfully."
The robber girl looked at her prisoner gravely, gave a little nod of approval, and told:
"Even if I should get angry with you, even if I should fall out of love with you, they shan't kill you, because I'll do it myself!"
"How comforting," Enjolras said, stifling a yawn. He didn't doubt that.
"It's the least I can do," Éponine replied, oblivious to the finer points of irony. She looked at him gravely, gave a nod of approval, and then spoke again. “Even if I get angry with you they won’t kill you, because I’ll do it myself.”
"They shan't kill you, the people outside won't kill you if you make any of us angry, for even if Maman or Papa get cross with you, and even if I do get cross with you myself, or as much as fall out of love... as sure as my name is Éponine Thénardier, for I will do it myself! I will kill you. Instantly, but painfully." Enjolras didn't doubt that. "You'll be quite safe if you do everything I've told ya! Nous verrons, nous verrons! We shall see, we'll see!" At this, she pulled a slim, sharp-looking dagger from her left boot and, flicking her wrist, grinned ferociously at her fair prisoner... and then she handed Enjolras a ragged bit of rabbit fur to use as a muff and stuck his own rough hands in the white chamois gloves, which were so soft and warm. And then she seized the thick volume of Shakespeare and placed it, open, on her lap, and spent the rest of the trip perusing those tragedies that were so intense and so harrowing. How exciting it was! Meanwhile, Enjolras wondered if a girl of her rank could be that well-read, and if she could understand such difficult language in the first place.
They drove deeper and deeper into the forest, riding for a long time into thick woods, entertained with their lively conversation, and the trees around them grew larger and larger, until they were riding through great, age-warped firs as big as the columns of a cathedral. The ground was covered by a thick carpet of their needles, which muffled the horses' footsteps, and there were no smaller plants of any sort, no ferns or bushes or flowers, to be seen, not, as you might think, because it was late autumn and nearly winter, but because nothing else can grow where a conifer's needles have fallen.
Enjolras grunted at the bruising blows he received whenever the carriage skipped over a rock or a stump and thrust him against the wall, but did his best to keep up, quite certain that he was better off with this simple yet well-read maiden than the other robbers. It was halfway to the robber band's hideout that Enjolras realised he might survive this night.
Through the window, he caught the outline of a tumbledown, shabby stone keep, which was as black inside as the colour of her eyes, and which would surely smell strongly of dirty straw.
Eventually, the carriage and the band stopped at last in the courtyard; they had reached the courtyard of the lair of the brigands. "Home" was a dark, cold, gloomy, broken-down, shabby, tumbledown Loire-Valley-style estate that looked like it had been abandoned decades ago; this estate had definitely seen better days during the Valois reign, and been left to ruin shortly before the Thermidor coup; now it served as a den or hideout to these miscreants. When they reached the lair, as soon as they came to the hideout, it was past nightfall, and the whole shabby lair-castle was twilit dark. It was old and crumbling and tumbledown, with broken windows and all; the walls of it were split and filled with long deep cracks that harboured lizards (not to mention riddled with owl holes) and that ran from derelict towers through shattered-tile-pavement floor to the dungeons underneath, the windows were broken, the once perfectly-trimmed French garden around had been claimed by the tangled woods, and the carriage had stopped in the middle of the courtyard. Ominous and dreary, the neglected park had stretched out before their eyes; knotty gnarled tree-branches resembling evil spirits that sought to clutch the passersby, weeds thriving in great quantity in between the stones on the path that led straight into the yawning doorless entrance to the ruins. But, though Enjolras feared that this ruin that looked so ramshackle might collapse at any given moment like a house of cards, everything had at first appeared perfectly tranquil, without the slightest trace of any danger. As they entered the spacious courtyard, however, a large cloud of shrill bats and a huge murder of thousands of wild crows and magpies could be seen taking to flight in and out of the big holes in the tower's walls, cawing and fluttering out of every loophole and open window and breach and nook and cranny and treetop, flying out of various gaping holes in the walls and windows, so that a dreadful racket broke out; as if to salute the Thénardiers and their followers, just like the garrison of a fortress would fire its cannons at the arrival of distinguished strangers. Following that salute of loud, long squawks from winged shades that circled the turrets and perched in crevices, a gust of air struck the brigands' faces in silent flight, to the sound of a deep hooting "hi-bou!" Through a hole in a derelict tower roof, a large eagle-owl flew out, in pursuit of the corvids, with an ominous hoot.
Enjolras was forced from the carriage again and Éponine stuck by his side protectively.
They entered the castle ruin, which was dimly lit and filled with smoke and the smell of sweat and of decay. In a corner of the courtyard, eight or nine horses, saddled and ready to depart, were tethered to the pillars, stomping with impatience. Some of them even kicked their front legs forwards, seeming to recognise Éponine. Along the walls, various weapons, both firearms and blades, as well as worn and torn cloaks and uniform coats, were scattered pêle-mêle. There were even little cannons of the light artillery on the balconies and parapets!
"You shall sleep here tonight with me! C'mon then," Éponine said as she prodded Enjolras between the shoulder blades with a bony index finger. "Move. Allez!" The fair leader stumbled in his haste and the robber maiden scoffed. "Not a very graceful gentleman, aren't you?"
Éponine dragged her prisoner along with the rope, with such strength that Enjolras feared that he would stumble with every step he took, pulling him farther and farther across the spacious courtyard until he was running and stumbling, her hand hot around his own.
And although he did not now where they were going, for the very first time he was moving fast enough, was almost flying, his feet were skimming over the night–black tiled floor as if it were the smooth, flat surface of a frozen lake, and his feet were, like those of Hermes, having two white wings at each ankle. “Where are we going?” he asked the robber girl.
At first, the blond could not distinguish anything, and he was dragged with such strength at the wrists that he stumbled and even fell down to his knees more than once on the cracked tiles of the courtyard pavement. Only then he realised that the fashion-conscious young man, perhaps a boy - 'Parnasse -, taking on the role of the late coachman by claiming his bloodstained seat, had driven the carriage into the lair-camp, and was cutting the reins of the calèche horses to tie them to the pillars in that corner of the courtyard; and the rest of the troupe arrived after a while.
"You look sta-a-arving," said Éponine critically, eyeing her prisoner by the smoky, warm light of the peat and conifer fire that burned near the entrance.
"No, not really, thanks," said Enjolras with a wince, for although he was quite hungry indeed, he had a suspicion about what sort of meat the robbers ate.
The Thénardier girl shrugged. "Suit yourself. I reiterate: Don't worry, I'll not let them kill you, as long as you don't vex me, as long as I'm not cross," she said amiably. Finally they came to that large open-air room where all of the robbers spent most of their time.
A few toothless men with gray hair and faces that were not at all nice (maybe the fathers of the male robbers) were sitting around playing cards, spitting at each other and cussing by turn, but, sadly, Grantaire was not to be found. A great bonfire roared in the middle to keep everyone well supplied in warmth and light.
In the middle of the tile-paved, smoky old courtyard that led to their soot-filled hall, there was another huge fire burning and blazing upon the sooty, cracked Renaissance floor tiles, and a large wrought-iron cauldron was bubbling hot with a soup of unknown ingredients. The smoke of it drifted about up to the high vaulted ceiling of the peristylum and wafted from the windows to the night sky, for it had to find its own way out. In that huge cauldron of soup on the fire, it smelled so good that one would have dared to look in the pot. Fire was waiting for them and their cook, whoever they might be, had that soup ready boiling in a huge cauldron over the fire. On one of three great spits close by, a whole fawn or young doe was roasting over an open fire, dripping over the crackling flames, and the two other spits were laden with two dozen wild rabbits or so, which were turning on spits over open fires as well for the outlaws' supper.
“We’re here,” she said, and stopped so suddenly that Enjolras almost fell over.
Éponine pulled him up short and circled him with a critical eye, stopping before Enjolras close enough that he could smell the faint trace of wine and eau-de-vie on her breath. He tried not to wrinkle his nose, or to think of Grantaire.
Then she put an index finger to her chin and lifted the fur around her shoulders. She raised an eyebrow and tugged at the crimson coat, which was clearly made from the finest material in the kingdom. She knelt down and rapped her knuckles on the leather boots before standing again and bringing a long, blond stream of shiny, freshly-washed hair to Enjolras' face.
"Forgive me if I don't believe you, Your Lordlingship," she said in a flat voice. "Perhaps you are a servant and you swapped clothes with your master in your fine upholstered coach when you heard us kill your driver and guards." She gave a humourless laugh. "Oh wait; it was just you in the back of the coach." Enjolras' eyes closed at the realisation that there were too many factors stacked against him to get out of this situation, that there were too many factors stacked against him for this criminal and her gang to ever free him unscathed.
He felt another prod in the back. "Move," the voice said from behind, and both of them started marching again, stepping over loose stones and crunching over dried leaves and twigs. Autumn had been for a while and left its trail of destruction behind it. He continued to walk straight with Éponine's strong grip on his arm.
They were greeted by merry cheers, which told, if the bottles in their hands hadn't, that the men were now getting seriously drunk. "Care for shome booze, darlin'?" one of the men asked Enjolras as he held out his bottle. He burst out laughing and many cackles joined in. "'E can't 'ave any," he said in a slurred tone, "b'caushe 'e 'asn't earned it yet!" He continued to laugh until he went purple in the face, hiccuped, and fell off the log on which he was sitting. "Oof!"
"The lad isn't going to be earning anything," Éponine said. He's not one of us so he won't be doing any stealing. He is my special friend and that's that. I should cut off your tongue for giving him ideas," she said looking down at the man who lay on the forested courtyard floor. He gulped nervously but choked on his own saliva and coughed.
"Have you ever tasted roasted rabbit aux fines herbes?" Éponine asked, elbowing her fair prisoner in the side.
"Jamais," Enjolras replied with a sigh.
"Tu as tort," replied the dark maiden, tearing a bunny from the third spit, before beginning to devour it with her hands and mouth, without any cutlery. "You better get some meat or there'll be none left! C'est très bon... Here, my lad!" One could barely hear her voice through all that chewing and lip-smacking.
In that evening there was, as we have said, a cauldron of soup or rather stew on the fire, and it smelled so good that the prisoner dared to look in the pot; he was relieved to see it was rabbit stew and, with the robber maiden putting the bowl to his lips, ate as much as he could hold. She sat down beside the fire and beckoned the blond to take a seat by her side: "Now, sit down and tell me a story."
And so Enjolras sat down, and presently he began to tell once more the story of his adventures thus far in the wide world, everything he had experienced. Still the dark maiden seemed particularly interested in hearing about the impending Revolution and the Musain, and so Enjolras elaborated on that part, talking until he was nearly hoarse; after a while, they were both sitting side by side, Éponine having downed two helpings of the rabbit stew; she picked up a small piece of wood, upon which she began to carve absently.
"Ah," she sighed with contentment, when he was done. "You are a fine storyteller, indeed. In fact, I shan't let the others kill you even if you do vex me—even if you do make me cross—I'll do it myself! If you make me cross, I will kill you. Instantly, but painfully." The fair leader didn't doubt that.
Enjolras' already weakened stomach twisted into a tighter knot when he saw that the coach driver's hat and the greatcoats belonging to the footmen had were already being used as gambling material despite the fact that the robbers had just returned with them less than five minutes before.
In the meantime, the gorilla-looking thug, whom the fair leader overheard 'Parnasse address as Gueulemer (which was most surely a nom de guerre, rather than his real surname), was using a crowbar to pry the coats of arms from the panels of the carriage doors, violently tearing both of the crests off. Then, the dandy motioned into the calèche, to show the thug that he wanted the upholstery torn off and out as well. Within an instant, the inside of the carriage was completely empty, and both brigands sauntered off towards their corner, heavily laden with all the soft velvet upholstery, which they would most surely use for their bedding, as the thieves dismantled the coach piece by piece.
Though most of them illiterate, they weren't fools and had worked all of this out for themselves. That meant that anything they were going to get from Enjolras in the way of material goods, they had already gotten.
As the blond just sat there brooding, Éponine scooted closer to him and wrapped her coat along with her hand over his shoulders and whispered to him gently.
"Eh..." he hesitated with a sigh, sober as he frequently was, and not that sure.
"Trou normand. Old northern custom, y'know. Have you ever had a trou normand before?" she asked once more, elbowing her fair prisoner in the side.
"Jamais," Enjolras replied with a sigh, as he felt a cold steel blade pressed in his back.
"You look like you could use a drink," she replied. "Brandy? Whisky? What's your poison?"
"Um," the fair leader said, frowning and looking at her. "I'll just take a spearmint tea if that's all right..."
"You don't want a drink-drink?" the maiden looked surprised. "Well, suit yourself. You better drink first, ask questions later," the maiden whispered harshly in his ear. "D'you know what happens to teetotallers around these parts?"
The fair leader put on a brave face, not wanting to know the answer. Instinctively and instantly, Éponine poured the liquor by force into the fair leader's half-open mouth, forcing him to drink deeply against his will. It was a drink so strong that it seared the stripling's throat as it went down, and made his head swim terribly. Wincing and teary-eyed, already light-headed from just downing that shot, he watched her take another bite of handheld roasted rabbit, without any cutlery, and, though not accustomed, he had no choice but to eat in the same way. After all, the robber woman had not knocked back two, but three shots of that trou normand liquor, and was now ferociously tearing her rabbit (or was it another leg of deer?) apart, like a beast of prey would. The prisoner's gaze darted from the hefty blonde, who was prying away the panels from the doors of the carriage with a crowbar, to the petite raven-haired girl once more. All the while, struggling not to gag, he wondered how he would persuade her to let him go free and resume his quest. How long had he been travelling in the carriage before the ambush by brigands? It could have happened very soon after the departure from the estate, but it had most surely been after several days (for the carriage was lined with delicious eatables, and a Shakespeare Folio as well).
He didn’t think he was first to finish, but her eyes seemed to watch his every reaction, just waiting for him to put down the contents of the shot glass, just so she could take them away from the others. The brigands were all devouring and quaffing, with grease or stock or gravy trickling down their chins.
"Welcome to the Thénardier family! And now we're going to bed, my prisoner! You shall sleep with me tonight, eh? Tu dormiras ici cette nuit avec moi dans mon lit... And you are warned of this; the first time you try to escape, to flee this place, I shall slit your throat and drink your blood while it's still warm; that will keep you so calm...!" Éponine told him after they had eaten, tugging at Enjolras' hand-ties; she was dragging him after her into the dark den, and the only thing he could do was to follow her lead. "Tu vas venir coucher avec moi," reiterated the little brigand maiden, as she pulled him along at too quick a pace for his taste; pulling him farther and faster into the keep, until he was running and stumbling, her hand hot around his own. The tumbledown stone keep was as black inside as her eyes, and it did smell strongly of dirty straw. The robbers settled in the few intact rooms it had. Even if it was just ruins, still a Renaissance château was much fancier than what Enjolras imagined robbers’ hideout to be. After supper, she led him into a joining room, which was decorated with rugs and straw, as well as upholstery torn off other carriages. The rooms were big and there even were some decorations: both castle’s remains and robbers’ “acquired” pillage. Steeling himself, the fair captive, whom she was dragging after her, was rushed through the doors and across the castle's great hall to a dark little corner at the rear, which was as black inside as her eyes; they went over and took themselves to a corner closer to the woods, and where a pile of blankets, deer furs, tapestries, carpet rugs, and upholstery torn off other carriage seats that were strewn upon the floor made a soft mattress bed, with a tapestry of Atalanta and Hippomenes for a bedcover, in a corner strewn with improvised bedding, beside a little enclosure of trellised wood. The light from the fire was sparse and he didn't see well, but 'Ponine conjured a lantern from somewhere handy. There were long cracks in the walls, and the tapestries were frayed and chewed by rodents. The outlaws in the Patron-Minette gang knew no other sort of beds, and they always slept like that in those improvised mattresses.
It was her sleeping place, where the two would sleep together, and besides a far cozier sleeping place than you might suppose from the first impression that the robber girl had uncomfortable quarters in the hideout. It looked unexpectedly neat, around the bedding of straw and rugs and upholstery, though. And even cozier for one who had just knocked back a shot of eau-de-vie and was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. Enjolras should have been afraid, but instead he was strangely exhilarated.
“We’re here,” she said, and stopped so suddenly that he almost fell over. "You're to sleep here tonight with me and all of my treasures!"
"Ils sont tous à moi! Come, we sleep by day here. I've a soft bed of furs and upholstery at the back of this courtyard. Tu vas venir coucher avec moi! Lie down with me and rest, and tonight you can tell me another story," she said with some shy pride. And in spite of the smell of gunsmoke and resin-smoke and liquor-laced vomit and Thénardier musk, which was quite appalling, though that nook did also smell strongly of dirty straw, the furs and the cloths were indeed soft and warm, and Enjolras found sleep did not come as slowly as he'd thought it would.
“They’re all mine.” Éponine said proudly, extending her arms. “Aren’t they beautiful?” She skipped across the room and made some kind of weird ‘ta-dah’ pose to show off.
“Now who is a princess?” he said. “Not only the gang dares not defy you, not even your own flesh and blood, but you also live in a real castle.”
“I’m a robber princess all right”, the swarthy girl answered playfully. “And royalty marries royalty, right? That’s why I hoped you were a great general or real nobility... And now you will tell me another story," said she, sitting cross-legged on the furs and grinning up at the fair leader cheerfully. "The rest of those villains tell the same ones over and over, and I am tired of hearing them. Not about your journey, for you have already told me that one. I want to hear about the wars you have been in, and the battles you have fought... freeing the oppressed from tyranny."
Once again, she seized his wrist and guided him to the pitiful excuse of a bed, pulling him down onto it. “Now, tell me about your adventure again. Did you really travel with a real baron? Where is he now? Were those Princes... socialites really nice? How long have you known these folks at the Musain for?”
"When the time came to go to university we went together; and it was a heady time —it was like the door of a cage opening. So happy to be free of the bowing and scraping. We met all sorts of people—idealists and dreamers and poets who wanted to make everybody free. And I was going to do exactly that, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac to help, by my right and left side. I suppose most people guessed who we were—but it didn’t matter; we were students first and foremost."
Then he had no choice but to repeat his story over again, though tonight it made his heart hurt to think of Grantaire and those long ago days in their little garden or at the Musain (the heady liquor having taken hold of him certainly helping Enjolras to confess). When he reached the part of the story where he realised Cosette's fiancé was not the one he sought, he had to stop for a minute and draw a few deep breaths; luckily, Éponine was snoring already, and so he wasn't vexed, until he shifted for a little and thus woke her up, explaining their calling in more detail to her:
"Nothing to say... really... The Revolution... Our group is not a little after-class club where we posh boys play at heroes, but something serious, Éponine. The colours of the world are changing day by day, and a blood red dawn will rise at the end of this long night of oppression. Not all of us are southerners, or students, or upper-class, and we might even take in a plucky girl like you. Three words: Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité. The Bastille lies in ruins, but the ancien régime still stands strong, though it is already wavering. All of us would die for the cause of freedom. Though we have not even felled, or even wounded, a single National Guard yet, I have got the feeling that soon shots shall ring and blood shall flow... You think you're free?"
Here he made a pause as she listened attentively.
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I have shelter from the cold, food in my belly, air to breathe. There's more to freedom than just being able to go wherever you want." Éponine sneered and looked away. "What is it with you and what's right or wrong?" she exploded, her voice bouncing off the walls of the niche.
"It's what I believe in. You believe in robbing from the rich to survive, don't you?"
"I also do it for the thrills."
"So that's all you believe in? You don't have dreams or hopes or ambitions? This is what you want your life to be?"
"There's nothing wrong with my life. I'm content where I am, which is more than I can say for you. You allowed yourself to get captured like a sitting duck and..."
Once more a look from those azure eyes in her direction. It made her recall something the student leader had said before: Not all of us are southerners, or students, or upper-class, and we might even take in a plucky girl like you. All that it took was this statement to shatter her façade.
"Do you really mean... that I can become one of you?" Éponine asked eagerly.
"Pourquoi pas? You will be the second female, after Louison the Café dishwasher, to receive permission to enter our secret lair!" What would the other Friends think of Éponine? For, spoiled and unethical though she was, there was something still endearing about her personality. And he couldn't hate her. Enjolras nodded in response and smiled at her, already imagining Courfeyrac flirting with her and singing some bawdy Spanish love song in her honour, Combeferre drawing her with charcoal as he annotated passages of Hugo's Shakespeare with the corresponding passages in de Vigny, Joly rubbing his nose with his the end of his walking-stick and taking her aside to caché the dark maiden, as he pressed a hand against her forehead, explaining to the others that: "Best to be sure she hasn't got the pox. Like mother like daughter; camp followers really get around, and, Enjolras, you said she looked nothing like the Sarge..." This thought led to the fact that the fair prisoner, pointing at the sutler woman, had become suddenly curious about his captor's parentage; were those two people in their forties, who seemed to be in charge, yet terrified of her...?
"Is your Maman the brawny blonde, with a sprig of holly in her messy fair hair? There's no other lady in the band, is there?" he asked Éponine.
Éponine nodded. "And Papa is the Sarge... or so I think, because he's Maman's husband and the two of them have raised me. Even though I don't look like either of them... But the chain of command is clear at our place, both here and at the inn up north. Papa's the Sarge, like he was in the ranks; Maman's the Lieutenant-Colonel (for a while, she was the plain Lieutenant -- things happened to rank her up), and I am the fricking General! Well, I once was the Colonel, as soon as Azelma was born, but, when she was shot down and we had to leave, I got my old rank back... And no one outranks a General, right?"
"Even if it is a General-In-Rags?" Enjolras asked, and the dark girl burst into hearty laughter in response.
"Crazy ironic; how much you remind me of him once more..." he told her, rumpling her short raven hair as the robber girl sighed and murmured. The liquor was already going up to his head and stripping the fair student of his inhibitions, unaccustomed as he was to strong drink. Éponine, however, seemed to be as level-headed as if she had drunk eau de roche (water from a rock spring) instead of eau-de-vie. Like Grantaire, she must have got used to drinking liquor since childhood...
"You live in the forest with a group of men, and you rob rich people of their things to survive. Surely you have some stories. Funny ones, sad ones, happy ones?"
"I don't have any stories," the Thénardier girl repeated, avoiding his azure eyes. "Stop asking or I shall slit your throat and you shall be dead before you even hit the ground!"
"You and I would not believe that..." the fair leader sighed to himself.
"It won't be very good," Éponine warned in a haughty voice, her shoulders tensing up, until she huffed and picked another piece of wood. She tilted her head as she started cutting into the edge with ease.
Sooner than the blond had expected, he would realise that the dark maiden had been ironic when it came to her bounty of stories to tell.
While rifling Enjolras' trunk, she seized the thick book and, upon reading some lines from a page she had chosen at random, she could not contain her elation. As soon as she had popped out of sight, Éponine appeared out of nowhere with lightning in her eyes, anger clear on her features and hands firm on her hips. She gritted her teeth all irritated called the fair leader to her side, swooshing her hand in the air. Enjolras threw a last pitiful glance towards the dark maiden and headed after her to her improvised bed.
"Oh... Mercutio, please don't...! Ah, he was witty till the bitter end, and the translation conveys that last pun perfectly into French!" Shuffling some more pages forwards, she sighed: "What memories... Those were the days..."
"Not only can you read, but you love it as well, eh, Éponine?" Enjolras asked her, surprised by the robber girl's literacy and passion for the classics.
She nodded with a smile and filled her chest with air as if she was an opera singer about to launch into a tricky aria. "Four or five years since I last read some classical literature; and, you know, time runs differently in the woods. Is this a new translation?"
The golden-haired young man nodded. "A good friend of some people who helped me, of those who gave me all these provisions; one Victor Hugo... oui, this is the most vivid Shakespeare I have ever read! I wonder what Combeferre would say about this version..."
"Isn't it, right?" Her dark eyes drank eagerly in every line; she was reading Othello and nudging her fair prisoner every now and then... as the fair leader pictured himself a lively conversation on literature between his bespectacled lieutenant and this girl; the former with his usual rational sang-froid, the latter far more passionate and stubbornly defending her own subjective opinion on the characters and events.
"Y'know? This is the best Othello ever! Especially how this Hugo guy renders Iago... Reminds me of Papa, a lot. Except that Papa would rather flirt with girls," Éponine chortled. "The non-commissioned officer and his army wife, trapped in a loveless marriage. As old as war, isn't it? Only that, in this tragedy, they are childless... and the reason may be that... Listen, Enj, and 'scuse me if I lambast your view of this character and this tragedy: Iago is not exactly straight."
Enjolras gasped, his heart leaping up to his throat. She filled her chest with air as if she was an opera singer about to launch into a tricky aria. Then she lay down the open book on her own lap and pointed at the lines she was reading.
"In my mind's eye, I see Iago leaning quite closely on Cassio, watching the young lieutenant eagerly, addressing him always in that easy and merry tone, though he doesn't regret discrediting Cassio at all. The title should have been The Irony of Iago, shouldn't it? The irony of a not-exactly-straight non-com falling for his straight immediate superior..."
"If Grantaire were more into high culture..." Enjolras muttered. He had never heard that approach before, seeing Iago as just the catalyst of the piece and nothing more. But Éponine's personal insight on those characters was beginning to unravel truths about himself.
"Don'tya believe? Well, the reason why (here, she laid the book on his lap and pointed to the lines in question with a flicking index finger) is given by Iago himself. Right when he's about to kill Cassio, no less!
'Si Cassio survit, — il a dans sa vie une beauté quotidienne — qui me rend laid…'
Iago wears, only for once in the whole tragedy, his heart upon his sleeve! But why looking so glum, Enj?"
Tightening the ribbon in his golden queue, he sighed as he looked away. Those lines... "A daily beauty in his life that makes me...?" Something began to lighten within his chest. Why had Grantaire always been looking so wistfully at him with those glazed eyes? Why had he smiled like that whenever Enjolras brought him a cool drink in bed after a night of revels? Why had the leader himself always been denying his feelings and turning his back against someone who...? Now there was no turning back. Grantaire must have been feeling towards Enjolras what Iago felt towards Cassio. The realisation struck the fair leader like a bullet right between the eyes. He had never been in such a state of shock.
"Touché." Éponine reached out and absently patted him behind the ears. The two of them remained in silence, shrouded in darkness.
At first, Enjolras curled up in the corner, but the dark maiden said, quite rudely, as she sat up, while withdrawing from her bedclothes something that looked like a handheld firearm:
"Pourquoi t'éloignes-tu de moi? You're not afraid, I think. Rapproche-toi. Come closer."
"Eh... pardon me, Éponine. Just something that I suddenly..." he finally replied after a quarter of an hour, putting on his bravest of brave faces, upon seeing that she had grown so impatient that she had not let go of her gun (or of her Bowie either), and was pointing the muzzle of that pistol towards his solar plexus. "Is it so that you sleep with that most surely loaded gun by your side? Will you really keep it in hand while we are sleeping? Do you even have firearms with you when you're asleep? Don't you leave it aside as you sleep?"
"Toujours", replied the robber maiden, her prisoner watching as she prepped her "pillow" -that was, her fur coat - for maximum comfort. "Je l'ai toujours quand je dors... And of course it's loaded! And also always with my trusty Bowie knife; on ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver! One never knows what may happen, you never know what may happen, what's coming!" the cruel-sounding girl chuckled and, as she said these words, pulled out from a crack or cleft or hole in the wall, as if drawing steel from a scabbard, her other weapon, a long knife of the most wicked sharpness, similar to a bayonet but with a wider blade, to show it to the prisoner, who hastened to catch her wrist. She stopped and frowned on him in confusion. “Please don’t! I believe you, please don’t hurt..." he begged, staring with dread at the long flashing blade. 'Ponine's frown deepened, but then she relaxed as quickly as she had got tense. She passed her right arm around the nape of Enjolras' neck, sheathed the Bowie in a scabbard that hung on her waist, concealed under the bedclothes, and held the pistol in her left hand. "Each and every night, after all, may be our last, the one we go to sleep and never awaken... so isn't it a wise philosophy to live as if each and every day were the last one?" And she laughed like a madwoman; a great, hearty laugh not unlike that of her mother.
"And, by the way... Isn't it... strange?" the blond asked in a faint whisper, realising that she slept armed with both hot lead and cold steel because she herself was afraid of a possible aggression. Others might come at night, while she slept, and pay back their dues for all the thefts and threats and imprisonments she had made.
She finally lowered the gun and came closer. "Wot is that strange?"
"How often literature mirrors reality," he sighed. "Iago and Emilia are indeed similar to your parents, you said. Right?"
She nodded with a smile in response. "Or, also... think of the wicked stepfamily and Cinderella. There are still orphans whose guardians treat them like dirt, forcing them to know no childhood at all, while they pamper their own children, encouraging them to be children, and forbid them to make friends with the little servants. Then, a powerful person shows up to help those poor orphans..." Here, for once, surprisingly due to her intolerance to gentler emotions, Éponine looked slightly downcast and sighed, looking down. She felt her throat dry up, and her eyes fill with tears. Never had her voice sounded more as if her airway had been a rusted-down iron pipe.
"Why else would we not start a revolution?" Enjolras rose, patting her on the shoulder. He felt sorry for the plight of those Éponine was describing, even though, seeing how her parents were still alive, he had the intuition that the dark maiden had been a wicked stepsister to one of those nineteenth-century Cinderellas. Now the stepfamily, the Thénardiers, had fallen on hard times; while their indentured servant was certainly far better off... or so it appeared, at last. Éponine was clasping him as hard as a steel clamp and was reluctant to let him go, but he had never had felt anything queer inside him (such as rising heart rate and breathing rate, or rising body temperature, or butterflies in his stomach) in the company of women. And still... "une beauté quotidienne..." "literature mirrors reality..." Good art can make you rethink something you thought you knew, and see it from a new perspective. There was no mistake. Not about Grantaire's feelings, and not about Éponine either.
"You see, I would like to join your little secret society if I could. And not only for the excitement; there are dreams I want to fulfil as well... There are so many things in this world that women cannot do nowadays. Like attending universities, right?" she said as she finally let go.
The question pierced the fair leader's ears, but the heat settling deep inside his muscles molded him into something much stronger and sturdy. Larger than the tears and anxiety. His voice met her steadfast. “Never lie, but don’t let others try to step over you. Always treat others as your equal.” Just as General Lamarque had taught him.
As he told her the story again, and she listened with intensely close attention, her eyes lighting up at the tale. Éponine confessed she had always wanted to travel around the world, and most surely fight for women's rights, but her parents would never allow it, and whenever she tried to, Papa would send Maman and/or Gueulemer out to get her, and then Maman would beat her in front of the other robbers as a warning.
"There were feminists during the Reign of Terror, indeed, and they all lost their heads... et voilà; now, decades later, I see there is still hope, isn't there? (Here, he mussed the crown of her dark head with a friendly smile on his lips.) But will you listen to me for a little? I will tell you a little about myself."
Éponine's eyes gleamed and she sat back on the furs, reclining against the wall, eager for another insight on such an interesting person:
"Mais... then, tell me some more about what you have to say, and why you went out into... why you have gone forth across the wide world, and something more about the adventures you have had since you left on your quest... "
Definitely not the pampered, entitled lordling that she had seen a first impression of, right? And, as he told his tale anew without forgetting anything, he thought less and less of the den of iniquity where chance had make him fall; and, as he told her the sorrows of the past, he forgot, at least a little, the sorrows of the present:
"And what about me? I have my creativity, I have my charms, which are sought after by galleries all over France, I have realised my dream, my village thinks of me as a beloved son, my parents never ask me for funds or anything like that, I have good health, reasonable looks, everything a man could want... Do you know what loneliness is?"
Éponine just sat there still, in silence, listlessly nodding like a bobblehead doll. The rhetorical question had struck a cord within her.
"But you don't know what loneliness is like when you have the chance to be with other people all the time, when you get invitations every night to parties, soirées, opening nights at the theatre... When women are always ringing you up, women who love your work, who say how much they would like to have supper with you - they're beautiful, intelligent, educated women. But something pushes you away and says: 'Don't go. You won't enjoy yourself. You'll spend the whole night trying to impress them and squander your energies proving to yourself how you can charm the whole world. So I stay at home, go into my studies and try to find the light, and I can only see that light when I'm working.
Of course I have had a family once, but it was so long ago... and, as an only child of rank, I was very lonely, even though I was surrounded by people. I was always different from other boys. I never cared much for games. I took little interest in those things for which young boys of rank usually care so much. I was not very happy in my boyhood, I think. My one ambition was to find the ideal for which I longed. It has always been thus: I have always had an indefinite longing for something, a vague something that never quite took shape, that I could never quite understand. My great desire has always been to find something that would satisfy me. I was attracted at once by sin: my whole early life is stained and polluted with the taint of sin. Sometimes even now I think that there are sins more beautiful than anything else in the world. There are vices that are bound to attract almost irresistibly anyone who loves beauty above everything. I have always sought for love: again and again I have been the victim of fits of passionate affection: time after time I have seemed to have found my ideal at last: the whole object of my life has been, times without number, to gain the love of some particular person. Several times my efforts were successful; each time I woke to find that the success I had obtained was worthless after all. As I grasped the prize, it lost all its attraction - I no longer cared for what I had once desired with my whole heart. In vain I endeavoured to drown the yearnings of my heart with the ordinary pleasures that usually attract the young. I have been striving to cheat myself into the belief that peace had come at last - at last my yearning was satisfied: but all in vain. Unceasingly I have struggled with the old cravings for excitement, and, above all, the weary, incessant thirst for a perfect love."
He felt eyes upon himself and found her watching him with interest. Her lips curved in an appreciative manner and she nodded lightly.
"And then you decided to become a revolutionary leader, right?" Éponine cut into the conversation, packing him by the waist, with sparkles in her teary eyes. She watched him quietly, her breathing never swaying and her fingers played with the earrings on her ear. It was that kind of activity, which one usually would indulge in while listening to stories near a hearth during long winter hours. Somehow it did feel like a secret he could share with her, locked in the time capsule of that warm nook. The only other person in the room was the sharp-tongued brunette directly across from his own bedstead.
Her eyes caught a reflection of the warm kerosene lamp and she looked soft. And his heart swelled and grew with a strange feeling. The kind which filled you when you trusted someone close and you wanted to tell them so much more. But somehow they knew as if they didn’t need any words. A glance was enough, a caress and all was clear. It was exactly like that here between them and it was enough in the moment.
Enjolras nodded, then cleared his throat.
"You do not understand me. I have never been attracted by a woman in my life. Can you not see that people are different, totally different, from one another? To think that we are all the same is impossible; our natures, our temperaments, are utterly unlike. But this is what people will never see; they found all their opinions on a wrong basis. How can their deductions be just if their premisses are wrong? One law laid down by the majority, who happen to be of one disposition, is only binding on the minority legally, not morally. What right has the Law, or anyone, to tell me that such and such a thing is sinful for me?" Here, Enjolras sighed for a while and began to think a little of Shakespeare's characters to distract himself.
"Y'know what?" he heard that a familiar throaty female voice demanded back. "That's something that I can surely relate to. In the company of men, I usually get tongue-tied and flustered, and the words choke in my throat. But there are three men —well, once there were two— who have never flustered me: Papa, 'Parnasse, and most recently you. Eh, Enj?"
All he could do in response was blink with those clever eyes of steel blue. The fact that she was that straightforward... and he had never seen any females, except this girl and her mother, who showed everything that they felt...
"Eh, Enj?" He stood there, transfixed. The scenario that both of them had imagined had been turned upside-down. "Now that Maman is too busy with the men out there... Kiss me good night!" She shouted the last command, for her displays of affections were wild and of the unusual kind. Lunging herself towards his figure, thrusting her whole self into the blond's face, Éponine clasped him harder than before, as Enjolras turned his head to the right, his fair face flustered with embarrassment and surprise. In such a state of shock, a false step backwards suddenly led him to fall on the ground, with the robber maiden on top of him on all fours. "All right!!" she exclaimed, trying to steal a kiss from the fair student; her lips struck him on the cheek, for he had turned his head away right before she could kiss his lips. "Tsk!" she then sneered, slapping Enjolras in the face, above the ear on the side she had kissed, then chortled at the young man's glowing flush and awkward expression.
"If the robber woman had not seen her daughter at my side right away, she would have shot at me with her pistol or stabbed at me with her cutlass knife, I think. But, thankfully, Éponine's dark eyes and excellent scowl worked wonders on her, so that she forgot that I was the one who'd had to shake her arm -however gingerly I'd managed it- and got up with a few muttered swears and a couple of light grunts," the blond thought to himself.
When Enjolras finally scrambled back up on his feet, pulled up by this dark maiden's strong arms tugging at the tether that tied his wrists (he swallowed the pain of the tether against the skin), her laughing fit had come to an end, and she looked at him with a piercing stare, smirking at her fair captive:
"I have never had a friend. Maybe I shall keep you here forever with me. I hope you don't wriggle or sleep-talk, or else..." here, she made a cut-throat sound while drawing a pistol barrel across her own throat, still clutching the knife tightly to her chest. "Now it's time to rest’, the robber girl scolded. ‘If you do not sleep right now, you'll sleep forever!"
After laughing heartily for quite a while, she finally resolved to to go to sleep. Then she finally, definitely, laughed and pulled or rather shoved the fair leader down into bed with her, and then tucked herself into bed with Enjolras by her side.
When she made herself comfortable, pushing herself backwards to make room for him, and held the cover up for her prisoner, he stood there hesitantly watching on her in light undergarment, nested between the furs and tapestries. Without a word of warning she took her dress off. It appeared she didn’t have any other clothes underneath, so after she stepped out of her shoes, the swarthy girl became completely naked, only still holding a dagger in her left hand, turning her back to the fair leader and nesting between her covers for modesty. Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at the young girl’s body. Dark skin and athletic figure, a bit glossy because of sweat… she was totally different from what he imagined a beautiful girl should look like, for instance Cosette, so why, oh why was she so appealing?
“What? You never shared a bed with someone else?” Éponine questioned flatly. The image of Grantaire shot immediately inside his mind's eye, the many nights they shared the tiny bed, whenever the savateur was drunk as a newt and the leader, though sober, was too fast asleep to even dream of that possibility... they all weighted on his shoulders again. He bit his lips nervously.
Once more, true to her military upbringing, she commanded him relentlessly. “Strip down and come to bed. I won’t repeat myself. You undress too!” the robber princess ordered. "And much as I don't care what Maman or the boys see of you, I at least have some dignity."
When she was undressing, she didn’t pay attention to the blond and was mostly standing sideways to him, modest in spite of her fierceness. Now that she was giving orders, she got into appropriate pose; her feet half a meter apart, right hand on her waist, her left one pointing at the golden-haired lad with a dagger, her eyes burning with usual fire. In an instant, her casual homely nudity turned into a dignifying and dominant one. Never would the fair leader have thought that a total nakedness could endue one with such authoritativeness that no fancy dresses or crowns could ever provide. Yet this was exactly the case with the swarthy girl, as if the dress she wore before was only good for hiding her true grandeur. All the kings and queens of the Earth trying their best could never hope to strike their subjects with such awe that this adolescent girl, alternatingly compassionate and sadistic, alternatingly cruel and kind, achieved naturally without any effort. Was she indeed just a robber princess or a goddess? A goddess of nature, a Huntress of Artemis both ruthless and magnificent as wilderness, stood in front of Enjolras in all her stark naked glory. The temperature in the room didn’t rise, but suddenly it became much hotter. “After all, those fancy clothes are mine now, and I don’t want them to be drenched in sweat!”
Her intimacies are aggressively sensual, and her aggressive moves are charged with erotic overtones. Yet, for all that, she would rather die a painful death than lose her maidenhead. The bandit girl may be the youthful progeny of outlaws, but, in her connection with chastity, she resembles Artemis, the Potnia Theron or "Lady of the Wild Things," a virgin who is also the huntress of the Olympian gods. She roved the hills with her band of maidens, nymphs likewise sworn to chastity, and any man who approached her risked being torn into bits. Or turned into a deer and fed to his own pack of starving hunting dogs. No man could approach them without not escaping unscathed. She can get along without a man. But not without eros. Not for nothing does she live in a setting of silent passions, presided lechery, and perverse appetites. Right now, I do not know whether I am Apollo or Actaeon. But 'tis certain that I am not Hippomenes, who cheated to outrace, to win Atalanta.
Her frown deepened, reaching down to the rope that connected his wrists, but then she relaxed and cut the rope on the young student's hands. She grabbed the rope from the ground and lengthened it from the wrist binds, then reached for her knife and in a flick with speed that even Enjolras himself had not been prepared for; she slashed the binds between the fair leader's wrists. She sat down on her improvised bed nearby and picked up a thick branch, snapping some pieces off and settling down with her knife again. "I'll be watching you," she said as she began whittling.
“Ah… right…” Indeed wearing winter clothes in such a hot room already made Enjolras sweat, rubbing his sore wrists, just released from their rope; wincing at the rope burns on his forearms, and it was only getting worse with every passing moment. Not to mention, the nude dominance of the robber princess made his clothedness feel diminishing, humiliating even. If he was going to stay in this room, he had to undress after he dropped to his knees, free from the hand-ties. Well, as far as that Bowie was in her hands, Enjolras, wrists released from their rope, was in no position to disobey, since the robber maiden was brandishing both cold steel and hot lead. A bit shyly, but he stripped totally naked, trying to cover his privates with his right hand. Under the girl’s stare, he took off his clothes one by one, as he was forced out of his own warm velvet coat and comfortable waistcoat and trousers and boots, neatly putting them on the clothesline near the wall where the robber girl put her own dress. And so Enjolras put away his peacoat, hussar-soutached waistcoat, and boots. He quickly crawled under the furs and upholstery, and laid there a good arm’s length away from Éponine in the effort to keep his distance. It didn’t last long because the robber maiden simply scooted closer and wrapped her arm around him, pushing his chest on hers, similar much to the embrace that Grantaire had shared with him in the past, in their lodgings in Montmartre, whenever he was too drunk.
“Shut up, just let me hug you, eh? I won’t do anything. Or do you want me to send you to Maman to make a point?" She sighed exasperated and he could hear her ragged voice, her body tired and in need of rest after the hard day. She worked hard, was tight bundle of muscles and rough edges. Yet now, she looked worn and very, very tired. She patted him on his cheek and observed him with great attention. “You remind me of a girl who was like a sister to me. She left our home very young, along with a stranger. They left for southward lands, when their carriage set off one Christmas. I think she would have looked like you, you’re more or less her age now.”
“I’m sorry." He didn’t know what else to say, but let Éponine rest his head on her bosom and pet his hair. Once again he found that if he met her under different circumstances, she could indeed be his sister. Maybe they could be good friends even. Enjolras couldn’t imagine they were bandits just for fun. There must have been something good inside every one of them.
As he was lost in these musings, the girl slowly walked around him in circles, eyeing every inch of his lilywhite body, as she got closer and closer.
“You’re so beautiful”, the swarthy girl whispered, as she got so close from behind that Enjolras could feel her heavy breath on the nape of his neck. Once more, he could feel his arms tucked behind his lower back, the rope tightly wrapped around his wrists, the triple knot that meant wrists now tied behind him once more. The little robber girl couldn’t resist anymore and hugged the hand-tied blond from behind, her childish chest pressed against his back to keep his hands from struggling, her left hand wandering over his chest and abdomen to trace that bar of white chocolate, her right hand holding her Bowie close to his throat. The swarthy girl’s body was very hot, but pleasantly so. Before long Enjolras wasn’t trembling in shame and fear, but enjoyed the dark girl’s touch and the sweet dizziness that it brought; as she laughed and pulled him down into bed with her; pushing him backwards in her embrace to comfortably make room for him by her side.
And, like that, Éponine, tightly clasping Enjolras' waist with her right arm and clutching her surprisingly sharp Bowie knife in her left hand, drifted off into a deep sleep, and began to snore so dreadfully loudly that she could be heard echoing from all over the courtyard, but, as she fell noisily asleep, her prisoner stayed awake, without even being able to shut his eyes, seeing into the hall where the bandits had come to sit around the fire, and now drank and sang and danced in the firelight. The men had been extra rowdy tonight on account of the wine that they had claimed in the ambush on the carriage for them. Of course, the more they kept drinking, the more energetic their advances on one another had become.
"Ceux qui me veulent faire une pipe,
qu'ils avancent deux pas en avant,
pour embrasser la croix que ma piche
formera avec celle du lieutenant...!"
Thus sang Sergeant Thénardier way off key, way too loudly, and in a way too slurred tone as he held out his bottle in between his thighs. He burst out laughing and many cackles joined in; the wild hearty laughs of the other men of the band forming the backup chorus, as his wife cajoled and flirted with the young dandy in Prussian blue, whose surname the prisoner now understood to be Montparnasse (surely, after his native district on the Left Bank!), untying his cravat and picking his datura flower as he reached into her cleavage, and they sipped some eau-de-vie as they drank to one another, lounging all lackadaisy on the upholstery torn off the Fauchelevents' carriage. All the adult brigands sat on the floor in a circle around their fire, singing and drinking, some of them dancing the sarabande. One thing one learned staying with the robbers was that they liked to stay up till late eating, drinking, singing, dancing, playing cards, and just making a lot of noise in general. They were greeted by merry cheers, which told, if the bottles in their hands hadn't, that the men were now getting seriously drunk. The talk turned into caresses and unconscious touches, the ones gathered around the bonfire clung closer to each other on an instinct.
The sinister, slurred songs of that evening were far more risqué and vulgar than any of those he ever had heard Grantaire sing at the Musain, and the tankards were clanked together more frequently and louder; the quaffing was deep and the gambling over the spoils was serious, far more than at the Musain where it was always done for fun and a few francs; and the outlaws even cheated and drew steel, or fired shots, over who had cheated, every now and then, in the midst of ear-deafening shouts; some of the robbers were already drunk. To stave off the bitter cold, another round of spirits would be needed; and, before long, the men were drinking themselves into a stupor. Pistols went off, but they were poorly aimed and not meant to actually hit anything.
In the lap of his goddess, 'Parnasse gave a large and dramatic yawn, which was immediately followed by several others, due to the contagiousness that is yawning. Soon after, conversations started to lull and the men and the virago started slurring their speeches. Shortly after that, bodily crashes sounded as the group fell to sleep one by one, where loud snoring ensued.
The snores of the drunken robbers and the hi-bou of the owls that roamed freely around the courtyard carried on deep into the night. The Sarge was already almost dead drunk, he continued to laugh until he went purple in the face, hiccupped, and fell off the log where he was sitting; and his wife, while revelling around the campfire, danced the sarabande while screaming shrilly, or turned cartwheels and somersaults — a frightening spectacle, which made our hero wonder that a woman her age and physique, in that state of intoxication, was so agile and could perform so deftly (after all, she was significantly older and larger than Grantaire) — and the other outlaws, except the sleeping maiden, roared their approval, with loud whistling of the rest of the band. For a robust woman, and an intoxicated one at that, it constituted quite a remarkable and unnatural act of levitation! The robbers sat in a circle round the fire, sang, and drank, and the robber woman turned somersaults. It was terrible for a boy of rank to see. The robbers all sat on the floor around the fire and sang their horribly dreadful, lewd lyrics while they drank. The little girl's mother was so drunk that she turned a somersault. It would all have been a pretty sight for a young man of rank to witness, to watch, and even to see; terrible sounds for a lad of such rank to hear. What a grisly spectacle for a young gentleman! Oh, any young person of rank would have found it dreadful to look at. The robbers had come to sit around the fire, they were singing and drinking, and the robber woman turned somersaults. Oh, it was just awful for a young gent to see! As everyone became preoccupied with drinking, talking, and sleeping, though unfazed by this scene, Enjolras could not close his eyes at all, he could not catch a wink of sleep, not having the slightest idea of whether he was to live in pain or whether he was to die quickly, asking himself whether he was to leave this place unscathed or subjected to torture; he saw himself all the time in between life and death, in between freedom and imprisonment, and, if Éponine was killed, what was to stop the rest of the men and the woman in the camp from using him for their own evil intentions? Still, the leader's daughter, that dark garçon manqué, had taken a shine to him, and his story of revolution and Grantaire's capture had appealed to her imagination... who would ever have expected that? He should have been afraid, but instead he was strangely exhilarated. "Her insistence on friendship is more terrifying than comforting; her efforts to befriend always turn into life-threatening gestures. She is alternatingly cruel and kind, and openly derives great pleasure from teasing in a frightening and sometimes painful manner. Though capable of rough tenderness she is emotionally inconsistent, undependable; she won't let the other gang members or even her mother kill Yours Truly; on the other hand, if I ever annoy her, she might herself do that... She will do that. Instantly, but painfully. There is no doubt about that."
Those brigands had pounced upon him in the nocturnal terrors of that forest; he had panted and writhed under the blade of a Phaedra, he had been taken as a prisoner into their ramshackle den; mais... saved by miracle by the daughter of the brigand leaders, a dreadful little wildling taken by storm by the charms of his golden hair, his large blue eyes, and his lilywhite skin.
No one had dared to molest the young woman after that; the robber girl had been schooled in violence since she could crawl and had no compunction about enforcing her demands with whatever weapon came to hand. In particular, she was masterful with knives, and every man in her parents' band knew she could beat him to a pulp, then slice him up into ribbons if she chose. They already looked to her as the Thénardiers' heir, and while it was barely possible that one of them might challenge her, it was more likely than such a man would be beaten and become her right hand and partner.
It amused the fair leader to think of this wild girl righting all the wrongs of her parents' band and more as a Champion, or even a Marianne —yes, and turning the entire band from brigands into freedom fighters. Maybe even allies for the Amis de l'ABC. There was a tyrant ruling over the kingdom of France —one of those things that Enjolras had not been able to prevent; it was not yet time for him to be deposed, but that time was coming soon, and Éponine Thénardier the Robber Girl would be just the woman to do the job.
So now she was acting as she always had: deep down, fundamentally kind, but selfish, helping herself to what she wanted. At the moment, she was wearing the outermost layer of Enjolras' fine clothing; the fair leader had been carelessly given the robber girl's older overcoat. He needed to win Éponine's sympathy and to harden a little more under privation.
There were, after all, only two women here, and the robber queen's daughter was not to be touched, or even looked at impertinently. Not because the queen in rags would gut the offender, but because Éponine would castrate him, and then let her mother gut him.
He knew she was right, and the two settled down, Éponine putting an arm around him after the evening feast, when the thieves all took to swigging amber liquid from a very large keg and very large bottles. Eventually, they all staggered off to bed; the maiden herself slept snoring loudly, one hand pressed against his chest and the other clasping her trusty knife.
Enjolras closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep then, but he could feel the gentle bite of the Bowie blade pressing against his thigh, and he wondered whether he would get out of this place alive after all. Outside, a twig snapped, and he lay awake listening, his body cold with dread, with growing despair. What was he doing in this place? Grantaire must surely be long dead now. What good would it do to get himself killed, as well? Would that bring Grantaire back? He'd be much better off trying to kill the Thénardiers and escape, and forget about Grantaire, and return to the Right Bank and to the friends he had left there, to rally them against the ancien régime, until all of them fell like lilies before the scythe, facing the bayonets. Enjolras raised his eyes back to the dark girl’s eyes. Everything was written in those fiery black eyes, no need for words existed. Éponine loved him too much, she just couldn’t let him go. If Enjolras attempted to escape, the swarthy girl would kill him in cold blood without hesitation for that is how much she loved him. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a way to run away though. All the robbers were sleeping drunk now and only the robber princess herself was here to guard him. Kill her and the way is free. Enjolras had never killed people before. He couldn’t even imagine herself killing someone, on the barricades; just giving orders like a general. But the same went for the revolution, for a higher cause, yet the robber girl had taught him to enjoy it. So as long as the swarthy girl was with him in it, Enjolras felt he could do it. Even if the one he was going to kill was the robber princess herself. No, especially if it was her. He was fooling himself, anyway. Anyway, Grantaire had stopped loving him months before he'd disappeared. Why couldn't he seem to accept that? The heat slid into his exhausted body and enveloped him in coming sleep, as Éponine's embrace and hair-petting strengthened its effect... Her intimacies were impetuously sensual and physical, and she constantly held that embrace, taking advantage of her own stronger physique. Even if this swarthy girl held a dagger behind his back, somehow he felt so safe in her hands, he felt like he could finally relax and let herself forget all the worries, even if just for a short time. It almost felt like… at home. Before Enjolras knew, he was peacefully drifting off to sleep on the robber girl’s lap, his lovely golden hair gently patted by the girl’s warm hand, spread in a halo of golden light upon her grasp. Both youngsters were peacefully smiling like they haven’t for quite a while; yet there was still something inside Enjolras that urged him to keep his eyes wide open, and keep his guard up. The way she watched the autumn leaves being crunched under her feet, how she listened to her subordinates without looking them in the eye and cutting in with short commands - all of that meant she was thinking about every word he said.
Watching the flames dance in the firelight, and listening to the songs and shouts in the courtyard, Enjolras lay awake, watching the shadows grow thicker about him as the coals of the fire died, and tried to think of what he should do. The Fauchelevents would certainly pay his ransom, he thought, but they had already been so very generous that he was loathe to cost them any further expense (especially now that Marius and Cosette had at last found one another, and that her guardian had settled down). There'd be no way any of them would know what had happened to the entourage now. Not for a while, anyway, when they started to wonder why their coachman and guards and postillions hadn't come back.
Ought he to lie, and pretend to join the robber band, and then slip away at the earliest opportunity? Perhaps that might have worked, had he thought of it earlier, but he had already given the leader of the band his refusal.
Anyway, he was feeling more comfortable about Éponine, realising that the maiden was not cruel, just bad-mannered and sometimes thoughtless. While she may be ill-tempered and quick with her knife, she wasn't at all unkind. And as Enjolras was her only friend, he felt safe in that if he were to die there in that forest, it would not be at the hands of Éponine Thénardier.
The robber girl was certainly tough as nails; she wrestled with outlaw boys much bigger and older, especially that 'Parnasse guy, the dandy, the pair cheered on by the other men... and she always won. It was quite obvious that the fop, though he had a rapier-cane just like Courfeyrac's, was no match for that hoyden, who would always give him a black eye or a few broken bones (much like Enjolras himself would not stand the least chance against her either). Despite the dandy being twice her weight and the best swordsman in the Patron-Minette gang, Éponine was light and powerful, and she was adept at making things go her way. Within seconds of the others watching, she had 'Parnasse pinned down by his throat, the pair breathing heavily with mutual looks of disgust on each other's faces. The boys, especially Montparnasse, always complained that she bit and scratched them, but she laughed and sneered in response, saying that she had sharp teeth, and nails, and a keen eye for marksmanship, so she might as well use those skills. She would also terrify the dandy, the only other young person of the crowd until that fateful evening, with tales of goblins and ghouls, of korrigans and mermaids, and she loved to see how the posh Parisian chickened out in response.
Other than that, she frequently amused herself with that deadly Bowie knife she seemed to be constantly holding. Every evening, after pulling it from its hole in the wall, she liked to let the sharp point of its blade glide around his neck gently and laugh when he squealed, much to the joy of the robber maiden. "Cela lui fait une peur! Look how frightened he is, haha. Every single evening I love to tickle him with my dagger blade under the throat each night. He freezes up so nicely. Isn't it hilarious?" She chuckled and took out her weapon. Thus the robber girl when producing her knife every night and letting it slide along her partner's throat was, in one sense, being more honest; then, after he had kicked up his heels, she would chase him through the ruins and the forests with it until his legs could no longer support him and he collapsed, while she did nothing but laugh at his terrified reactions. Then the Thénardier girl would carry him back to the camp on her back. "Her treatment of this one is only too characteristic of her uncontrolled nature; every night she tickles him with this knife of which he is understandably terrified, and delights in the teasing. The knife itself and a pair of loaded pistols she sleeps with, because, after all, you never know what may happen!" Éponine was not always kind; but Éponine was strong, and clever, and unafraid, and left-handed, and those were gifts enough to help her get by.
What's more, though she was an outlaw, though her parents were a camp follower and a non-commissioned officer, she could not only read and write, but was unusually cultured and learned and well-read for a girl of her backdrop, and obviously accustomed to have all her wishes gratified, however impossible they might be. All that lively conversation about literature and classical drama that they had had during the carriage trip and after supper? Enjolras did not expect at all that she should have that much knowledge on the subject... Neither that she were so passionate about women's rights. Like mother like daughter, he thought; Madame Thénardier was a regimental sutler, a fearless iron lady in a man's world, keeping the regiment upright; during wartime, Éponine would doubtless have helped her out at the drink-cart and tending to the wounded, and worn a man's uniform. It was also true that she had lost interest in things after a while. The pet kitten she had once had, that had escaped; the pet fawn she had raised that became venison roast which she had ruthlessly devoured, in spite of her having known it, tended to its wounds, caressed it, and fed it well, when she wearied of trying to keep it in a pen; the various "ladylike" pursuits she had attempted and dropped when she was no good at them. The truth was, Éponine was more at home in breeches than skirts, happier with her hair cropped short or kept in a loose queue than braided or chignonned and fussed over, more apt with a knife and pistol than with a needle and thread.
While Cosette was being groomed as a quite unconventional society wife, and had a well-understanding relationship with her future husband as one another's equals, Madame Enjolras had been a conventionally reared local beauty of the landed gentry in the Camargue; a trophy wife to a two decades older gentleman, a statue of Hera or Helen placed on a pedestal as an ornament. The fair leader pictured himself his own mother side by side with Madame Thénardier... the former petite and lilywhite, so svelte and collected and beautifully dressed that she scarcely seemed human; the latter tall and voluptuous in her worn frock, exuberant with both joie de vivre and the desire to exert her will upon others. With her strong features and her height, she looked in Enjolras' eyes like a queen. A queen in rags, with messy hair, who had tangled eyebrows hanging over her eyes, yet regal and dignified and stately, who towered head and shoulders over everyone else. At least she was doubtless the robber maiden's real mother.
Upon making those remarks to Éponine, he had made her laugh. Especially when both of them discussed the traditional society wife, as exemplified by Madame Enjolras; the Thénardier girl had laughed until it hurt her ribs and made her burst into a coughing fit.
So he took his fine, new black leather boots with spats, and handed it over to the robber-maiden, along with the Folio of Shakespearean tragedies he had loved for so many years. Giving them up was like handing away a piece of himself, as if he were leaving behind the leader had been, leaving his very identity here in this ruin, with the robbers and the smoke and the shadows and the bones of the dead king. But nevertheless, he did it, and afterwards, the robber-maiden pulled him closer and whispered in his ear:
All night and all morn long, while Éponine slept beside him, Enjolras lay awake and thought about how he might get free and find his way to the Green Faery's hold. For the first time since he had set out on his journey so long ago, he felt as though Grantaire were close, perhaps only a few weeks' journey from here.
They waited impatiently until the middle of the day. And, to pass the time while awaiting the mid-day with impatience, Éponine decided to tell her new friend some tales of her own in exchange:
"Thus, to keep ourselves entertained, let us sit upon this carpet and tell sad stories... and maybe some that are not that sad, shall we?" And thus, she cleared her throat and began to tell Enjolras, in her own personal style, her own favourite Arthurian legends, and Norse myths, and other tales of knights and monsters and damsels —her favourite sort of stories—, and, finally, a much more recent real-life story about someone else who was taken by the Green Faery:
"Once upon a time, and the best of times it was, not long ago and not far away, there were this sergeant and this camp follower of the same regiment, who, ever since they had come of age, were husband and wife; they had fought in strange lands and suffered many hardships, heading every now and then to another distant country during the war. She helped with the wounded and robbed corpses, of friend and foe alike. You know the ravens at the edge of the field at twilight, and 'tis much the same sort of life. Also, battle was exciting, though stupid. As for her spouse, he loved to kill and deceive, it was his nature, and she did not want to deny him. He made a fine-looking soldier too, with a short plume, dangling cartridges, and boots to the hip, his moustache waxed to point and his hair in muttonchop whiskers. For over seven years they followed the drum, and then..." she began. "With song and hurrah, though not wearing the green leaves of victory, the regiment marched home, when the war was over and peace had come. The regimental child musicians ran in wide circles, as though trying to make the journey three times longer. Days passed and weeks passed, and at last they entered their native seat; their eyes bright, their faces as radiant as they were weather-beaten. And thus, having been left idle by their new circumstances, both of them returned to their birthplace, a lovely village up north, where they were received with much rejoicing, for they had decided to live there as soon as they had just returned after many years of war. The Sarge had fought all over Europe, in a great many battles and campaigns, and after losing his closest comrades to enemy fire, had finally retired and hung up his uniform, using the money he and his wife had made during their years in the army to purchase themselves a small shop on the village's northern outskirts, where they went into business as innkeepers and set up a tavern, which they called the Sergeant of Waterloo. Neither one had a silver decoration on their chests, but then they were unscathed and unharmed, which the locals had not dreamed. And there was great joy; they laughed and they sobbed upon realising that the couple had made it through fire and ice and bitter experience. They were both still young, in the prime of their lives, having just turned thirty, each one still kept both eyes and both ears and all four limbs and --most relevantly-- their rapier wits, and the place they had chosen for their peacetime business was a little cottage whose quaint roofs were mantled with white in the wintry season, and overgrown with evergreen ivy vines and moonflower vines and climbing thornroses in the short, pleasant northern summer, which is just like the southern springtime. The sergeant's wife sought up a painting by David himself to use as the inn sign: her husband on a bloody battlefield, standing upright in the midst of the gunsmoke, carrying on piggyback a lifeless fallen general who wore epaulettes with silver stars."
Here, Éponine sighed, looking pensive, as she took a glance at her parents. "When the peace came and they became innkeepers, the wife was expecting, for the first time in a decade of marriage, since seven or eight months before. Names were being discussed, most of them of knights, and druids, and princesses, and goddesses from Celtic lore, for she could read, and perused Arthurian lore and the Mabinogion whenever she had spare time. One month later, the village bells pealed for the baptism of a healthy little dark baby girl, for whom the priest at first wavered upon hearing the parents' decision of giving her a pagan name, that of a false goddess instead of a saint, but the proud Maman would never stoop in front of the Church, and thus, after some well-deserved intimidation and mentions of gifts, the very best a strong woman can give a gentleman in a robe, the child at the font was finally christened Éponine, as both of her parents had wished."
Enjolras, making himself comfortable at last, listened attentively, even with his lips curling as the maiden telling the story rolled up her sleeves and put her fists up, like an English-style boxer, to illustrate how her mother had intimidated the village priest. Éponine Thénardier... ever since she was born, already at the baptismal font, her life had been marked by subversion and irreverence.
"One year later, another girl-child was born to the innkeepers, a nutbrown little darling successfully christened Azelma after Monsieur le Curé received the same coaxing from the former sutler woman. The innkeepers adored both of their daughters, not regretting at all that they had been given girls instead of boys, for of course the parents had been to war and seen that men were far more inclined to do wrong than women. Already in the cradle, both baby sisters were lulled to sleep by Maman by making them swallow a few drops of eau-de-vie, to make them stronger and more accustomed to the stuff. Each of them had her very first trou normand as soon as she had cut all her milk teeth. And it was then, two years later, when Yours Truly could already talk and walk on her own two feet, while 'Zelma was still tottering and learning to walk, and lollygagging... one fine, sunny day in May, when the roses were in bloom, and Azelma was baring her chubby little tummy... A firm board hung from strong chains down from an old oversized wooden cannon carriage, afterwards used to transport logs to the lumber mill till one of its wheels broke, near the inn: it was our swing, and 'Zelma and I sat down there together, swinging to and fro. Oh, for that warm sun, the cool breeze, the scent of roses and the hum of bees, in that golden afternoon, right before it turned to evening... Maman was sitting on the porch, watching us and singing old Arthurian ballads of warriors to pass the time, and to pace the rhythm for our swing: 'Il le faut, disait un guerrier...' Then, suddenly, those strangers like faeries or royals or living porcelain dolls entered the village. They were a young lady and a little girl, the latter aged three like me, sleeping in her arms, surely mother and daughter; both of them golden-haired and fair and blue-eyed, with lovely features, dressed in sky blue silks to fit the colour of their eyes, with fine lace and azure satin ribbons. Ribbons at their empire waists, white Valenciennes lace trimming their bonnets. Theirs were beautiful yet austere high-collar fashionable gowns, the kind that ladies wore on the Left Bank; not even the female guests who had come from Calais and Montreuil to spend the night at the Sergeant's had worn such finery, too fancy even for provincial towns. Hitherto, I had only known such people from fairy tales, and never seen them in real life in the flesh and blood. It was such a grand sight, such fair and finely-dressed figures that they seemed ethereal, that Maman's song, and the flight of our swing, froze and were still, in such awe. Though pale and weary, and faintly smiling, the stranger lady, in a worn cobalt blue shawl to match her cold blue eyes, went up to Maman and kindly asked: 'Are those pretty little girls your daughters?' The landlady nodded, introduced herself as Madame Thénardier... but what I remember the most is that the little blonde woke with our childlike cheers, her Maman sat down to lower her, and soon she stormed forth like a reckless little sunny bundle of energy, and we hopped down from the swing and introduced ourselves, and so there were three little girls, who seemed to be sisters all three, playing together in the shade of the rosebush at t'y es."
"T'y es?" Enjolras cocked his head, not recognising the game Éponine had been playing with her sister and their new little friend of rank.
"We call it like that up north; the game of catch-me-if-you-can, when you have to chase all the other children, or avoid being chased; and if you catch someone, you say 'T'y es!'. Neither 'Zelma nor the little blonde could run, so you guess who had the upper hand?"
"Ah, you mean trappe-trappe..." the fair student leader sighed. "We southerners call that game trappe-trappe. Though I grew up so lonely and so sheltered, without any friends or siblings to enjoy that, or any other parlour games for that matter..." he sighed. "And... what happened next?"
"The lady and her child had supper and spent the night at our inn. The next day at dawn, after breakfast, the pale lady with cold blue eyes, who was indeed this little girl's mother, kissed her goodbye and adjusted her little bonnet. The lady never smiled that morning; she was more delicate than ever, but her sadness, a sorrow which she could not name, hung around her heavily. It took up a lot of room in our small tavern. She drifted through the taproom like a sleepwalker, her movements and conversations automatic and distant, reminding me of a wind-up doll. She even had eyes of glass, and not only moved like a doll. 'Now be good, Cosette, and do not miss me; Maman has to leave, but the Thénardiers will care for you as well as Maman has done...' Then, the fair mother and daughter parted ways, both of them with tears in their bright blue eyes, and I could do nothing more than stare and wonder as the slender lady in blue, so ethereal and so different from my own parents, walked the streets northwards, sobbing and drying up her tears for some time, until she disappeared into the horizon beyond the heath around the village; it was as if she had vanished into thin air. But her child, her daughter, the little doll of flesh and blood, la petite Cosette, remained at the Sergeant's. And not only the little girl, whom I hoped to see as another sister, but also her regal trousseau, into which I peeked to see a dozen lacy gowns, silks and velvets and satin ribbons, with a pair of shoes and a bonnet for each dress; an ensemble for each and every month of the year, like a fairytale princess would have got. We all felt really lucky! As if we had a little faery in our midst... which left me with a lot of questions surrounding our new little tenant:
'Will Cosette be living with us, Maman?'
'Of course she will... Her own Maman is too busy at the jewellery factory in Montreuil. They came back up north, to that town, where she was born, when her husband died back in Paris.'
'And her trousseau? She has too many dresses, Maman, for a girl like us...'
'Indeed. And, since you are the same size as she is, and the eldest and heir to the family inn, you may wear as many of Cosette's ensembles as you please,' Maman replied, as Papa looked on and nodded in approval. I was too young, too cheerful, too impressed... hoping that Cosette could be another sister to me, and not knowing how suspicious was the fact that a mourning widow was not wearing black. In fact, through the years there came to our place many thirsty guests, with that kind of thirst that water cannot quench, but Cosette's Maman would never return, not even to visit her for one single Christmas Eve."
A shudder ran down Enjolras' spine. The heiress who had been so kind towards him had been rescued from an abusive family of northern innkeepers, just like the Thénardiers. She was golden-haired and blue-eyed, and her name was Cosette... Éponine's parents had been her first guardians... or so it seemed, at least... Those who had been so harsh that neither the heiress as a young adult nor M. Fauchelevent would breathe a word about them. Furthermore, Cosette had been a bastard child of an outcast wanton to begin with, given Éponine's reflection on her mother's attire, which explained the reason why she had been entrusted to the Thénardiers for a lifetime in the first place.
Had it not been by chance that he had first met Cosette and then her former guardians? What would Combeferre had said, something about chance or serendipity? Enjolras nestled in the robber maiden's grasp, sunken in deep thought, reeled in by the story he was being told. Where would the Green Faery fall into place in this Thénardier tale, where already others he had met played the lead roles?
"And the Green Faery?" the fair leader finally asked, his thoughts wandering back to the quest.
"We'll come to that, but first you need to know the full story. Otherwise, you maybe will not understand for how long I know the Green Faery, by which other names I got to know her, and for which reasons someone very dear to the Thénardier clan was spirited away."
These words of the dark maiden's seemed to settle the matter, then.
"Her real name was Anne-Euphrasie Louet, but everyone called her Cosette, or Alouette, for she was always up in the morning, even before the sun and the chickens; always the first one in the village to be out and about, by the light of the morning stars. Yet that little skylark would never sing," Éponine sighed. "For as long as she lived with us."
Enjolras felt intrigued and, after a deep gasp, asked: "And why would be the reason?"
"She was a wing-clipped skylark," the robber maiden sighed and avoided his gaze with a downcast look. "Everyone in the village, nay, in the shire whispered how kind-hearted we Thénardiers were, what an act of charity it had been, in spite of not being that wealthy, to have taken in and raised the child of that wanton, nay, of that whore, who had abandoned her little one on their doorstep... back then, I didn't know what a wanton or a whore was, but I thought, since they were referring to Cosette's Maman, that the words referred to a lady of pretty high rank..." Enjolras raised an eyebrow, understanding the error she had made.
"We were encouraged to wear Cosette's gowns and accessories, since our parents said that we had the right to be that finely dressed, and gave her our more worn and torn frocks in exchange; moreover she was always barefoot, in winter or springtime, autumn or summer, rain or shine. When I grew too big for those lace-trimmed silks and velvets, they were handed down to 'Zelma, and, when she grew too big for them in turn, Maman took those ensembles to Paris and sold them to a charity, so that her little girls could have fine dolls and dolls' clothes and storybooks for Christmas, for a toy shop had opened in the village, just opposite our inn. That was the last I ever got to hear of Cosette's trousseau."
At first, Enjolras really wondered whether the Thénardiers really had sold Cosette's trousseau to charity - it just didn't suit them. "And what was life like for you as an innkeeper child, with those Christmas gifts and your parents' love?"
"The first years we, Azelma and I, spent as children in and around the inn were happy ones. Of course we two went to class in the village school, we had storybooks and toys to play with, and no misfortune or hard work were allowed to befall us. With Cosette, it was a completely different story. Ever since she was five and able to walk, she had to do all the chores around the inn and at the Thénardier household: the laundry, the dishes, the windows, the floors, the path, the stables, and even run errands and carry heavy parcels and fetch water and clear the snow before the front entrance, shivering barefoot in the same worn and patched frock, which did not even have a single patch of wool, and without a scarf or gloves or proper bonnet, in the bleak midwinter... It was too much hard work for such a scrawny little girl, who was given quite a meagre porridge for supper, aside from our scraps thrust under the table, feeding there among our pet cats in a wooden bowl just like theirs, and slept on our hard garret floor; and then had to be up with the last dark of the night, way before the sun."
Enjolras just stood there, frozen.
"It was a miserable life, indeed, it was a life of hunger and pain, a lonely life, with a brutal stepmother far more dreadful than loving and a lackadaisy stepfather who treated her like dung on the heel of his boot. And, furthermore... Even before she could speak, they sent her out to beg. On the days she brought nothing home, the landlady would beat Cosette until she turned into fog, and lifted herself out of her body." Éponine's tone was detached and matter-of-fact, but there was a faint quivering in her voice, and a mournful look in her eyes, that made Enjolras suspect that she was feeling sorry. "And then, Maman would shove her little form upstairs onto the attic floor, senseless, on an empty belly."
The fair leader listened on, feeling his whole self turn cold and clammy; his mouth drying up, a shiver running down his spinal cord, as Éponine made a little pause, then began to tell more about the Thénardiers' cruelty and lack of empathy towards Cosette:
"There were days when no one felt charitable towards her and she would come home hungry and empty-handed and then Maman, yes, I remember, Maman would beat her black and blue, either with her bare hand or with a cat-of-nine-tails. Papa just sat back and drank his wine or brandy and told the guests in a slurred tone of his feats of derring-do, taking it easy, while Maman hit the poor little girl and hit her and did not stop. And, in the bleak winter, she would have bruises that looked like the mottling of her skin from the cold, so that you could not tell where her guardians' cruelty left off and the cruelty of nature took over." The robber maiden's voice quivered even more, her eyes glittering with restrained tears, as her fair captive thought of how comfortably, how lovingly Cosette and her doting guardian lived now as the Fauchelevents. Of how lucky she had been to have been rescued from such a life of drudgery and want. But the stepparents' own children...? Éponine...? The urge to ask her that question pressed down upon his mind.
"And how did you... how did you feel, how did you act, towards her?" Enjolras just had to ask her that question. The Thénardier girl was caught by surprise, at first gasping in response, ere she finally, after a most awkward silence, explained:
"Of course we were forbidden to play with Cosette, and to teach her to read and write, even though Maman would never ever beat us or get cross, but always showered us with kisses and terms of endearment, and I felt like a real princess with a whipping-girl of her own to bear all the rage of her elders! To be honest, I also loathed the little blonde myself for some unknown reason; maybe to catch the eyes of my parents, maybe to let out all that rage that consumed me, maybe because I had often seen Maman treat Cosette that way, and children tend to copy what they see their parents do... and surely I was too young, and too insensitive, to realise that I was hurting Cosette, both her feelings and with bodily pain, simply for my own amusement. What matters is that 'Zelma and I, but especially Yours Truly, being the taller and stronger older sister, played all sorts of cruel tricks upon her: pulled her matted fair hair, slapped and even scratched her in the face, bit her, frightened away our cats from her side, tore the worn cover from over her straw-bed in winter, and even tore apart and stained her worn frocks, which were hand-me-downs that both 'Zelma and I had grown too big for. One of my own favourite delights was, whenever it was white winter or I had caught a frog in the pond in the warmer seasons, to pop a handful of snow or that frog into her frock, at the nape of her neck. Oh, how shrilly she screamed! Another was tearing from her hands the tin sword that once had been mine, when I set up a different battle of tin soldiers on the carpet every weekend; this tin sword had become another hand-me-down that she swaddled and hatted with rags and called her 'poupée' while we had decent, though a tad worn, ragdolls with eyes and limbs and all, and striking her with that sword right across the face, or in the nape of the neck."
"And how did she react?"
"The good little blonde was never in a rage with any tricks of ours; she never got cross, and very rarely cried, but always assumed that it did not grieve us when we let our feelings out upon her, and that it was for fun that we pulled her hair, and so forth. By and by she had found service at our inn. The people were very middling, and she did the work of three, but they treated her kindly, by that I mean kindly by Thénardier standards, and Cosette worked cheerfully. Early in the morning she drew water from the wellspring, and many a ewer she had carried to the kitchen before the sun rose. She served the table for the guests and took her own meal in the pantry while she tidied up after they had gone to bed or to their travels. All day long she baked and brewed, or scoured pots and pans until they shone like silver. In spite of her changed fortunes, the little one remained as sweet-tempered as in the days when she lived with her mother and had naught to vex her from morning until night. If the butter would not churn, she would sing instead of scolding as the other maids did, and presently the butter would come, and such butter as it was too! When the loaves burned, she did not cry out against the lutins, who were said to play tricks with the oven, but received the scolding from her mistress with humility. At night, no matter how weary she might be from her long day, Cosette went willingly to fetch more water, for the walk through the fields and forests cheered her. Or at least relieved her from the pain and fear and drudgery of the place she called home."
At this point, Enjolras kept silence for a while. Children tend to do as they see others, especially their parents, do; the Thénardier girls had been no exception. And, judging by the orphan servant's reactions of meek tolerance, Cosette had even grown accustomed to mistreatment. He thought of the Cosette he knew, the charming and clever heiress of the Fauchelevent estate, and tried to steel himself and change the subject of the conversation. Hadn't Éponine mentioned frogs? Memories surged back; a peek into a transient, thirsty, shallow pool or freshwater reservoir in the Camargue in springtime, a fortnight after Easter, and Combeferre remarking that the tadpoles he frequently watched, Rana ridibunda, had just grown their hind legs. Clearing his throat, Enjolras addressed the dark maiden: "Did you really catch frogs in the pond?"
"Of course, my horse! Whenever the weather was fair, and I had spare time and no schoolwork to do, and no pleasure to play with my ragdoll, which would soon become 'Zelma's, or to pet the kittens, or to pass a review or do the campaigns of my favourite generals with my new tin sword and regiment of soldiers. Then I went down to the pond or little lake, a spring where we sent Cosette for water for the guests' horses, and which lay under the shade of a tall ash-tree girt with a zinc band that we fancied Yggdrasil, in a woodland clearing on the village's outskirts. In early spring, it was dark with waterweed and frogspawn. There were thick reeds growing right round the edges, and the ground surrounding the water was a muddy swamp; the wind rustled in the reeds, and dark shapes darted through the water. It was a mournful, lonely scene, yet in spite of the wind it felt less dank and cold than in the unheated rooms, and there were living things. Of course there were snakes that could swim and preyed upon the frogs just like the village cats did, and of course an adder can kill a human child in self-defense, but I could and can swim as well as either frogs or snakes, and neither Maman nor Papa nor 'Zelma nor Cosette knew that, whenever I left the inn marching like a little soldier, shouldering a butterfly-net for a rifle, I went out to catch frogs, in spite of the snakes and of the rocks I could dash my head on and drown... they only assumed I was going to catch butterflies. Of course I returned home with a live frog tucked under my bonnet on my head, the stockings and petticoats which once had been Cosette's, and later on those which should have been Cosette's, all soiled with mud and sap, with waterweed and sometimes with frogspawn. It was and is too muddy – still today, you have to wade for ages to get into clear water."
Enjolras thought curiously that, as a southerner, he would have never seen so much frogspawn or so many tadpoles. "You must get an awful lot of frogs."
"Around Easter, the frogs were hatching. The cats mostly killed them, but there always seemed to be more of them. Enough to find some of them a new home at the Sergeant's, either at drawers, in baskets, or under Cosette's frock, in between her shoulder-blades! From April to May, in Floréal, it started to rain again. The frogs trod on each other’s backs and however many the snakes ate, or the cats killed, there were always more.
And one year I learned at class a little poem in prose, which reminded me of myself and 'Zelma and our swing and our kittens and soap bubbles, a song about the beauty of childhood innocence and which I still know by heart:
"There's a long wooden board hanging by two ropes between two trees, and that's a swing; there are two sweet pretty little girls -- twins with dresses as white as snow, long green silk ribbons in their hats -- sitting and swinging, the ribbons fluttering in their wake. There's their adolescent brother, who is older and bigger than they are, standing up in the swing behind them, he stands behind them on the swing, with his arms around the ropes to hold himself; with one arm round the ropes to hold himself steady, because in one hand he's got a little bowl or cup, and in the other a clay pipe, and he's blowing soap bubbles. The swing glides back and forth, to and fro, and the bubbles with their ever changing colors fly through the air, float into the distance. The swing swings and the bubbles fly with all their colours changing, the last one still hanging from the end of the pipe, swinging in the breeze. He is blowing soap bubbles, and as the swing flies the bubbles float off in all their changing colours. The last bubble is still clinging to the bowl of his pipe, and fluttering in the air as the swing sweeps to and fro. The last bubble is still clinging to the bowl of the pipe, and fluttering in the air as the swing moves back and forth, to and fro; then the breeze takes it. A little black kitten, light as a bubble himself, which belongs to the children, stands on its hind legs looking at the bubble, and trying to get up into the swing. But it does not stop; it flies over him and he falls over and mews, all cross. High and low the swing flies, until the pet loses his balance, mews, and loses his temper. They tease him, and the bubble bursts. And the soap bubble breaks. They laugh at the scene and the bubbles burst. A swinging board, reflected in a drifting, then bursting soap bubble -- that is my song! A swinging board pictured in a bubble before it broke-that is my story."
"What tale you're telling may be beautiful but you tell it so sadly," sighed Enjolras. "It may be a very pretty story, but you told it very sadly. Well it's all very nice, and very pretty, but you make it sound sad --" The two girls, dressed like daisies or snowflowers with their white dresses and green silk ribbons, swing back and forth, enjoying the sheer delight of freedom and flight. The boy with his pipe produces bubbles that reflect the beauty of the scene but that periodically burst as a reminder of the evanescence of youth, innocence, and all earthly things. The image of the beautiful, colourful bubble reflecting the girls swinging highlights the importance of aesthetics - Combeferre would have said something like that. "I think I will tell you, doing my best, the description of one of the pictures Grantaire painted for me. I shall do my best, which is a lot more than most people do:
Then once lived three beautiful sisters; they were so fine and delicate that they were almost transparent. One had on a red dress; the second, a blue; and the third, a white one. They danced, hand in hand, down by the lake; but they were not elves, they were real human children. The air smelled so sweet that the girls wandered into the forest. The sweet fragrance grew stronger. Three coffins appeared; and in them lay the three beautiful sisters. They sailed across the lake, and fireflies flew through the air like little candles. Were the dancing girls asleep or were they dead? The smell of the flowers said they were corpses, the bells at vespers ring for the dead."
"There were three sisters, very fair and so delicate in appearance, that they seemed almost transparent. One wore a red dress, the second wore a blue one, and the third went all in white. Hand in hand they danced in the clear moonlight, beside a calm lake. Where they elves or human children? They were not elfin folk. They were human beings. The air was sweet, and the sisters disappeared into the forest. The fragrance of the air grew sweeter; now lay the lake once more alone. Three coffins, in which lie the three sisters, glide out of the depths of the forest and across the lake. The fireflies hover glowing around about them like little flickering lights. Are the dancing sisters sleeping or are they dead? The fragrance is so sweet; the scent of the flowers says they are dead, and the evening bell, from a far-off distance, tolls for their funeral."
"Oh, you make me feel so sad," said Enjolras at the windowsill, while Grantaire was transplanting a potted blue hyacinth. "And the fragrance from your poisonous flowers is so strong that it makes me think of the poor dead girls; that I cannot help thinking of those dead sisters."
"Ding! dong!" rang the savateur along with the little hyacinth bells. "We are not tolling, we do not toll for the Republic. We are simply singing our own little chanson, the only one song we know."
"Why this one, and none other?"
"The hyacinth, said to have sprung up from the blood of the beautiful ephebe of the same name, is linked with death. The three beautiful sisters enter the woods as dancers and return from the woods in the moonlight in coffins, suggesting the perils of journeys undertaken. The colours of the dresses ---red, blue, and white--- when mixed, produce the purple of the hyacinth."
"They are the colours of free France. Liberty, equality, fraternity; you make it sound like the triplet sisters personify the ideals we fight for..."
"Anyway, you are the leader; you decide and your opinion is law." Grantaire sighed. "Colour is used to supply ignition power that will kindle the imagination, inspiring readers and listeners to visualise the scene. But all you can picture yourself are battles and barricades, anyway. Leave the aesthetics to Yours Truly, please."
The nursery tale spoke of siblings playing together, but not one was familiar to Enjolras. The hyacinths spoke of three dead maidens, but not the death of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.
"But let us return to the point, shall we?" another nudge from Éponine brought him back to the present and to the story of her life. "In winter, those outdoor pleasures, in which Mother Nature intervened at last for three quarters of the year, came to a bitter end. The windowpanes were then covered in fog, if not in frost ferns as well, and, to see what was going on outside, my sister and I used to warm our cupped hands by breathing into them, and then putting our nice warm hands against the frosted glass-panes. Later on, as we got older, it became a custom for us to warm a sou on the embers of the fireplace and put it, all hot, against the windowpane. Nevertheless, no matter the method, what matters is that we obtained a little round peephole, through which the part of the glass which had been uncovered by the warmth allowed us to see through. Then, behind each little round peephole, one would see, at each window, a sweet and friendly eye. Those were Azelma and me saying bonsoir. Cosette was obviously too deeply asleep, or too busy with her chores, to join us; and lackaday if Maman even found us speaking to her!
In winter, since it was impossible, due to the cold, to open the windows, and since each night got longer than the previous, our curfews after playing in the snow came naturally earlier for each evening, and our séances indoors, by the cozy fireside, naturally became longer... especially whenever it was snowing or stormy, or both snowing and stormy, outside.
And very often, while Papa was speaking to the guests at the supper table about his feats of derring-do, we would often come closer and huddle up, warmed by his uniform pelisse, and dream of foreign lands and stormy battlefields... Ah, those were the days... Often in the evening he took me into his room, showed me his books and maps, and told me stories of the wars between puffs on his long-stemmed pipe. And, whenever Papa addressed his guests at the inn, he knew his little girls were listening and spoke of his campaigns, of the renown he had won and the comrades he had lost, and what it was like to watch the sun come up over a Flemish battlefield, glinting off casques and pikeblades and bayonets and tinting the orange poppies that grew everywhere the colour of blood. "There is beauty everywhere," he often told us all. "Even in war."
And so he often told us all, as we sat at our tables, about the battle of Breitenfeld, and the sacking of Moscow, and the siege of Zaragoza, and what it was like to watch the sun rise over Flanders, and what it was like when the Beresina ice cracked under weary feet and hooves and cannon-carriages; how at Waterloo he had been fighting off a regiment of hussars all by himself... And as he spoke, the rest of the patrons, who had finished their own dinners, began to come by ones and twos to sit in the shadow of the antlers that decked the wall and listen to him, as he sang in a slurred tone, for example, the following chanson:
Here, Enjolras' felt his eyes light up; he remembered Feuilly passionately singing this chanson, which he had learned by heart, at the Musain, and how his own leader's heart swelled and throbbed as he listened, entranced, to the epic account of the Polish field marshal's untimely demise.
Of this he told Éponine, who, dark eyes starry with checked tears, resumed the tale of her own life:
"When the Sarge had exhausted every story of warfare and battle that he knew, the others began offering tales of their own. The man with the red moustaches (he had a great red moustache, like a walrus, and a fancy hat that I supposed had been borrowed... pardon me, "borrowed" is Thénardierish for "stolen..." that is, stolen from a previous unfortunate traveller) told of men armed with pikes and halbards and a religion even harder than their iron breastplates, who had swept across his home country, burning and killing whatever they could find, and how he had left his land and gone south with the geese to fight another kingdom's battles in Spain. Another robber, a sun-burnt, black haired fellow who claimed to be descended from a long line of condottieri, told of laying siege to the French in Turin, and being besieged by them in turn, and of fighting for and then against the Pope's armies in Parma. A third man, a morisco from Spain by way of Marseille, who's dark face was nearly indistinguishable from the others, so grimy and weather-beaten were they all, had fought with France's armies against his own nation in the Low Countries and the Piedmont for many years —he claimed to have personally given the condottiero a musket wound in the thigh at the Siege of Turin— but had never laid eyes on Valencia and Castile, the lands his parents' parents' parents' parents' parents had been born in and then driven out from. Everyone was lying around the fireside, telling stories of the 'old days...' Thus entertained one another these dinner-guests, a handful of other soldiers on half-pay. Ordinarily obliged to keep silent on their exploits and their politics by the social climate of the Restoration, they were taking full advantage of this opportunity to meet in private and among fellow Jacobins, Thermidorians, Bonapartists. The anecdotes were flowing as freely as the wine—battlefield stories at first, then raunchier tales as the night went on. Then an old grenadier, very much in his cups, interrupted some gossip about Mme de Staël's very intimate friendship with Mme Récamier to give his own rambling account of the 18th of Brumaire. 'You may have heard all about it, gentlemen, you may know more about the constitution of the year X than I ever will, but I was there, right there in Paris when it happened. I escorted the Emperor to the Council of the Ancients, I escorted him to the Council of Five Hundred. If you could've seen the look on those doddering fools' faces! To think anyone ever thought them capable of running the country, when what we really needed was—'"
The fox-eyed leader of the gang, the merry Sarge himself, did not tell his own story once more, but after the fire had burned low, and several of the other men had fallen asleep, he asked me if I would like not a real story, but a folktale which had been told by some fireside at one point or another.
And thus I learned, during those bleak winter evenings, of Excalibur and Caractacus, of the Holy Grail and Sir Gawain's adventures and the banishment of Rhiannon, of how the drunken Seithenyn unwittingly flooded the province of Gwaelod, of the Cattle Raid of Cooley and how Queen Maeve lost that great war, long before the first firearms were fired, long before France itself would come into existence.
And it was one such tale of druids and damsels, the one that became my favourite among all that sort of stories, that would haunt me and cross my path for the rest of my short life.
"A few years ago, I forget how long so don't ask me" -- she glared to make her point -- "Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November, glowing bright red as an ember... Outside the snow, or sleet, lashed against the frosted windowpanes, as if threatening to shatter both glass and ice ferns, and throwing the whole village of Montfermeil, if not only our inn, into chaos.
''Tis a fine night for the Green Faery to show up,' Papa said, after knocking back a trou normand of Calvados and putting his old sergeant's hat on my dark head.
'Is she the Morrigan?' I raised a hand. 'The one who shows up as the biggest black raven at the edge of the battlefield at dawn and picks the ones who will have to die in that battle, like Poniatowski who fell off the bridge and drowned at Leipzig?'
In response, he nodded and tilted my borrowed hat a little. 'Oui, he did see her on that fateful day. In this land, they also call her la Belle Dame Sans Merci, and not without a good reason. Those who have seen her find out that their days are numbered and drift away. Ere the rise of organised religions turned them into faeries, these spirits, nymphs, elementals... were once true goddesses, adored and dreaded alike by mortalkind; there isn't a drop of human blood in their vessels, and she is one of the most powerful among them, one of the most terrible and fearsome beings in all worlds, they say; so much beyond good and evil that she has made love to her own brothers, to her own flesh and blood. The Killer Queen has ruined emperors and kaisers and czars and lords and kings, brought mighty warriors to their knees, stolen the power of gods and spirits. She turns the world to her will, and her will alone. She is of divine race and knows neither old age nor death. Her bloodline earned her the power to do as she wished, but she was never counted amongst the line of man and woman. They said that her beauty is so grand that it takes one's breath away, and that her kisses take one's wits away as well. And she has many names: Lady Lilith, Sekhmet, Salmacis, the Lamia, Freya, Gullveig, Holla die Waldfee, Morgan the Fey, Morgause, the Killer Queen, the Last Queen, the Lady of the Green Kirtle... Already by naming her by her most ancient names, I fear that we have summoned her. That misfortune is about to fall upon the Thénardier family...' here, he sipped his brandy and stroked the crown of my sleepy sister's head.
While Azelma dozed off on Papa's knee, I turned all my attention towards what he had to say. I just yearned to know more about this sinister presence, who went by so many names and held sway over the fates of mortal men and women. Little did I know that the lives of everyone in the Thénardier household would nevermore be the same, ever since Papa mussed a sleepy 'Zelma's auburn head and resumed that fateful account... About a lady, who brought chills to everyone’s back when she gazed upon them. How she cared only about cold beauty and made sure every winter to decorate every townscape and landscape in her own vision.
'The Morrigan, though a warrior goddess, needs no weapons - her powers alone are enough to take on the enemy. They say that her battle-cry is a shrill scream as loud as that of ten thousand men! She is the most powerful of them all who consort with mortalkind, and she is never idle. No sooner has she trod on the ground that she rises up against towards the dark nimbus clouds. She's the largest of them all, and can fly as high as the clouds. Often at midnight, around the witching hour, she flies through the streets, over the eaves, and looks in at the windows. Now during peacetime, at midnight, when it's cold and stormy, she walks the streets of the towns, looking through the windows, and looks for broken young people whom she may bring to drink her blood... Know that she has but few subjects in that realm, for, though permitted to travel to the mortal world and beyond, to protect the innocent of the universe, whenever she leaves the fortress, bitter storms will accompany her to signal her arrival to her victims.'
All the while I remained entranced.
'As this Leipzig-based poet I once knew, who froze to death in the Beresina, once told me:
Nimm dich in acht vor ihren schönen Haaren,
Vor diesem Schmuck, mit dem sie einzig prangt.
Wenn sie damit den jungen Mann erlangt,
So läßt sie ihn so bald nicht wieder fahren.
She steals your life from you. Your heart. Your years. Your soul. Yet when she traps you in her domain you beg her to bargain with you.'
'She made intricate snowflakes and blowed them on the roofs of the houses, looked into every window. Her breath was supposedly painting curling flowers on the glass so thickly it was impossible to look through them. She rode through the country in her magnificent troika with the whitest mares on its front and rarely, when she stopped to inspect the nature, she walked over water, turning it into ice. He steps were so delicate it seemed as if she skated and apparently no one could beat her in the speed and grace. And doesn't she frost the windows when her breath freezes on the panes, with wonderful shapes of lace and bizarre ice flowers or ferns when she peeks through? Oui, of course I have seen that...'
'That's the Snow Queen, 'Ponine.'
In those days, we children thought that all the tales told by our parents and the guests at the inn were true, for their storytelling abilities made everything they said sound possible; so much do little children, and even grown-up children, find it easy to believe that whatever they see, is true, no matter if what they see, or rather what they believe they see, might not always be the truth. Including such stories of the mysteries of winter; how a particularly strong swirl of snow meant the Snow Queen was in flight, and how she would ride at the heart of the storm, exulting in the fierce cold.
'But the Morrigan is far worse; for Arianrhod, the Snow Queen, merely freezes hearts as cold and hard as steel with her stolen kisses. La Belle Dame Sans Merci, on the other hand, will search out young people whom life has stabbed in the back, or dealt out the wrong cards. She breathes a vein on her wrist and pours her sickly green translucent blood into a crystal cup for those lads and lassies to drink, and then, lack-a-day! 'Tis one of the worst poisons ever known; whoever has drunk this green liquor has their heart frozen as soon as the lethal draught has sunken in. That person will nevermore recognise anything or anyone, and no longer love anything or anyone; whether mother or father, siblings or sweethearts, their friends nor their country. One only dreams of oneself; one feels nothing but an urge to drink, and one would gladly drink, all the blood upon this Earth, without being able to slake a thirst that nothing at all can quench. Thus has she cast down many wounded; shackled and disarmed the boldest warriors, both kings and revolutionaries, turning them towards pale death-in-life, lulling them into a fever-dream from which they never shall awaken... And, as much as she loves warriors and broken people, she loathes children and maidens and their pristine innocence, for there can't be anything more contrary to her own nature, and she will do anything in her vast power to poison that innocence or crush it underfoot... She exults in the loss of innocence, she thrives in the icy grasp of seduction, she loves freezing everyone she passes over. It's like she's claiming her territory.'
'But why does she travel? Why doesn't she stay in her palace, or fortress?' I raised a hand. 'It feels like I could beat her myself!' My irreverent outburst broke them all from a lulled state and all companions frowned, yet they didn't take much weight from this reaction.
''Ponine, you shouldn't be so cocky. She doesn’t like conceited people. With her…there is no compromise. She accepts only perfection and to challenge her is very dangerous. She's looking for something, but no one knows exactly what. When I was a little soldier, my first commanding officer used to tell me she was looking not for the coldest part of the land, somewhere like where she already has her keep to begin with, but rather for someone, perhaps someone to share her heart with.' The audience was raptured by now. 'Or maybe to steal one from.'
'Aaah, it’s just a silly story. What could she do anyway? Freeze me and keep me in her castle?'
'Possibly. But there are worse punishments from her than that. The people who have charmed her greatly receive a sip of her blood, which turns them to the exact opposite of who they want to be. Good, well-meaning people become bad and caring only about themselves.'
A heavy silence followed, the only sound coming from the crackling of the fire. Sometime during the story, the sun had set and darkness had followed swiftly on its heels. It seemed as if the whole wide world was listening, the cosmos hushed in the wake of that tale.
Throughout this short life of mine, that legend I was told on that fateful evening has haunted me; especially since I became myself entangled in its elusive fabric; ever since that very evening when I first heard it by the fireside.
On that stormy autumn night, I came to visit Cosette in secret. Papa was too drunk and Maman was too busy, and there was the perfect chance to climb upstairs into the garret and pay her a visit. She lay there exhausted on her heap of straw, curled up and surely dreaming of a better life, when I awoke her with a startling pat on the back, and, when the shock had passed, told her the latest tale.
'And is it true that the Morrigan, who looks through every windowpane, can enter into people's rooms?' Cosette asked, quivering like a leaf on the branch.
'Ah! bon! Let her come in here at the Sergeant's,' I replied in that tone of forfanterie so particular to children, while putting my fists up in the air, 'and I will shove her into the fireplace, moi, and she will burn into a crisp, or puff away into a cloud! She won't be so scary then. Doesn't she know what we're made of?' Of course as a child I wasn’t conceited, but too eager for my own good sometimes. I was convinced that if Yours Truly was happy, everyone else around would be. Therefore no challenge or obstacle was something I couldn’t overcome. The enthusiasm and daring was my motto for everything.
I found it hard to believe Cosette's expression at that bold stance of mine; her eyes were teary, and the many times I had pulled her golden hair and dropped frogs down her cleavage came back to me at once. There she was, the wing-clipped songbird, all teary-eyed, asking herself and me at the same time:
'Are you being nice, 'Ponine?'
It was so hard to find the right words.
'I would rather that she came here to visit us, and, when I was all thirsty after a long day's work, I could have some of that poison to drink, and forget the life I lead here, where I have never been a child... your good luck, your parents, and all the chores, and all the fessées I get in exchange for not being strong enough to do it all... It wouldn't be nice to shove her into the fire, right?'
I understood Cosette's plight. Her urge to escape from reality. But there was a twinge inside my chest, something that said that, if she ever disappeared, I would indeed miss her company. For a reason which I could not yet explain, since at least I was a child, Cosette having never been a child since her mother left her. Though she knew so much more than we did, in spite of never having been at school... She fell asleep wishing the truth to be something else; but every time she woke up, the truth was still there.
For the rest of the day I felt uneasy, though I couldn't have said the reason why.
Later on that very same night, as I lay in my bed wearing the lacy négligée that once had been Cosette's, half-undressed because the stove had warmed the room until it felt like high summer in Provence, I felt my throat dry up and, leaving my bed, went out to tap some cider, when a strange green light, so bright I had never seen it, drew me to peek out the foggy window; so I put my chair next to the pane and climbed up on the chair. My little warm palm rubbing on the cold pane soon yielded a lovely round peephole through which I, standing on my chair, saw the rain or the sleet pouring outside like bullets upon a battlefield, and, in the middle of all that downpour, an enormous snowflake, or raindrop, or shooting star of green light, which was darting straight towards my windowsill. No sooner had this green ray struck the sill than it grew, rounded itself, took on a gradually more and more distinct human shape, and finally became a beautiful lady, or a young girl taller and older than Cosette, all dressed in a glittering green cloth that seemed to be embroidered with silver, and composed of millions of little leaves, some of which were frosted and some of which were star-shaped. As for her face and her hands, they seemed to be made of the purest and brightest marble, her green veins seen through the translucent skin, or of the most pristine, dazzling icing sugar or inland ice. Yet she was alive; in the middle of that heart-shaped, comely crystal visage, her eyes shone like leaves of wormwood seen through diamonds, and sparkled like stars in the darkest of winter skies, yet betraying not even the slightest feeling. Furthermore, her graceful frame didn't seem to be walking, but rather soaring slightly above ground..."
Enjolras felt an unexplicable shiver run down his spine, all the way down to his thighs. "And... and how did you react?"
"She must have seen me watching through my peephole, for she waved at me with a lily-like left hand, and with a nod of her head. And... I was so frightened that I just leapt down off the chair, and pushed as much as I could both my hands towards the window, for the Morrigan not to enter. Those poison-green eyes pierced with an incessant flashing glare and burned into mine own, as if searching the depths of my very soul... All night long, in bed, I stayed awake, hearing the gale strike at the window, like a great pair of wings lashing against the pane." Éponine looked around again.
"And then?" asked the fair prisoner.
"The next day, the windows were frosted over with the laciest ice flowers I have ever seen in my short life. When the morning arrived, the flowers in the window covered the glass completely, and I couldn't open it. It was sealed shut with a thick crust of ice. It was a beautiful white day, even though it seemed too early in November for the frost to lead its harsh regime. Then, after Christmas, after Twelfth Night... The winter passed by like the refrain of a song, and very soon came the springtime; the sky cleared, the sun shone bright and warm, the young green shoots burst forth, the birds of passage returned to build their nests (wagtails, and storks, and red-throated swallows on the eaves), the windows re-opened, and 'Zelma and I sat down once more, next to one another, at our desks at class, or in our cannon-carriage swing after class. The thornroses and the hollyhocks bloomed that year in a splendid fashion, and the ivy climbed all the way up to our eaves; I even heard the villagers say that the roses at the Sergeant's would last, that year, all the way until Christmas. We had learned a song at class, and Azelma and I would often make a ring with the other schoolchildren and sing it on the village green:
Passe, passe, passera, la dernière, la dernière
Passe, passe, passera, la dernière y restera!
Sometimes Azelma and I would want to feed the half-open rosebuds with sugar, wondering why, if the mother birdies could feed their chicks, why couldn't we ourselves feed our roses as well?"
Enjolras chortled. "That sounds like something Jehan Prouvaire would have done," he remembered the medievalist's eccentric explanation about his pompom roses. But he also saw that Éponine was no longer the whimsical little girl she was reminiscing about, but a jaded maiden.
"We had superb days all springtime and summer long, and even when autumn came, as the seasons changed all around us... but everything has to change, sooner or later, and I was about to have my eyes opened to that reality; that year for Christmas, on a white, crisp, frosty December night supposed to be the season of hope, our paths, that of the Thénardier family and that of Cosette, would diverge for evermore... Everything was dazzlingly white, serene, still, enchanting. The pines were hung with shimmering icicles, the eaves wore hats of white snow, the smallest picket in every fence was likewise hatted, the ponds were matte silver mirrors. And of course there were ice ferns on each and every windowpane. The cold was such that the warmth of life pulled us all indoors, as if it wished to only keep the warmth in human hearts. By then, I had forgotten my strange encounter with la Belle Dame Sans Merci, and my memories of that felt like a hazy nightmare."
Enjolras thought that, if he had been in her stead, he would have forgotten about her as well. Now, finally, came the turning point, the part where M. Fauchelevent stepped into the scene and adopted Cosette. This real-life account, given by an eyewitness, was as exciting and interesting as any Shakespearean drama, or maybe even more... and naturally the fair captive was intrigued at how the paths of the orphan and her second guardian had crossed, and how the Thénardiers had parleyed with the benefactor about Cosette. But still it felt too early for him to ask her about that, so he shifted the topic of conversation.
"And Maman? What was she doing, when not attending to the guests?"
"Cajoling." (Here, Enjolras gasped.) "With younger men, especially if those young men wore uniforms with épaulettes and bâtons or swords, and were at least one-third drunk. And she often told the young officer du jour about how painful it was to be married to such a lout, and that, if Prince Charming never crossed her path, a fully commissioned officer, Lieutenant So-and-So, would have to do as well; and once she even made advances on a cadet, aged but sixteen, in the military cape, the peaked cap with the brass insignia of the college, the little swagger stick that cadets were supposed to carry so as to get used to handling them when they were commissioned —" Éponine tried mighty hard to restrain her laughter as she watched her mother and 'Parnasse at their little games.
Enjolras, in turn, remembered the look in Madame Thénardier's eyes when she had taken him prisoner, and a shudder ran down his spine. She must have been growing as weary of the dandy highwayman as she was of her husband, and the blond himself was surely the next item on her list. Not in a cadet's uniform with the cap and the swagger stick and the shiny boots... though, underneath Enjolras' dark cherry-red or crimson peacoat, his scarlet waistcoat looked just like a hussar's. And he was an amazingly handsome boy, with fair curly hair tied back with a ribbon, dark-blue eyes, and a clear pale translucent skin. It could not feel more unsettling that a lady old enough to be his mother, nanny, or aunt had locked her sights upon him...
Steeling himself and clearing his throat, the fair leader turned to Éponine. "And... what else?"
"The whole countryside was crisp and blanketed in white, and the woodland night was as dark as dark could be in the bleak December, but our fire crackled and warmed, and mulled wine and eau-de-vie flowed freely at our counter... the Christmas rush brought in lots of guests and, though their thirst was the kind that water could not quench, still their horses need water like people need strong drink; whoever asked for a glass of water at the Sergeant's was regarded as either insane or a barbarian. Though we could have melted snow and brought it to the draft-horses, now that I think of it... the fact is that some peddler or stagecoach driver complained about thirsty horses, then another, and a third, a fourth... and thus, Maman strode out to the porch where, on the threshold, Cosette stood with a black eye, from the right hook that Maman had most recently scored against her, listlessly shovelling snow while she looked with wistful dreamy eyes at the porcelain dolls through the frosty windowpane of the brightly candle-lit toy shop opposite our inn, when suddenly Maman packed her by the hair:
'There she is, the li'l ma'amzelle, looking so ugly with that dark bag on her eye! Now fuck off, Mademoiselle Faute-de-Nom, and go bring the guests' horses something to drink!'
'But... Madame... there's no water left...'
'Allez!' With all her strength, she tossed an oversized wooden bucket, about the size of Cosette herself, at the little orphan. She could have sat herself inside it. 'Go look for MORE!' Armed with a wooden spoon for a bâton of command, after tasting the soup she had in a casserole on the boil, Maman raised it in a rage. 'I have better things to do, like watching the soup! There's still water in the spring in the woods, north of the village. One can't be brighter than that...' she tossed some shallots into the pot and handed Cosette about fifteen sous, while the waif held the bucket in her other hand. 'And when the li'l ma'amzelle returns, she'll have to bring the largest warm bread the bakery has to offer!' Cosette, without breathing a word, put the coins in the little pocket of her worn pinafore, that once had belonged to me. For a while she stood there, wistfully staring at the toy shop window, until Maman with eyes of flaming rage harshly returned her to reality: 'VA DONC!! Don't dawdle, don't stand there gawking! Like mother, like daughter... Attends! I'm coming for you, you li'l monster... VA!!' she roared as she shut the door so violently that the waif had to run away, bucket in hand, in a northward direction out of sheer fear, taking the longest strides her little stiff-frozen legs and bleeding bare feet could, leaving a trail of red on the December snow in her little wake..."
Enjolras could not find the right words. All he could do was listen and shiver.
"Those dolls must have looked like fairies, if not angels, to her spellbound eyes. Not even our family could afford such rarities, with real-life human hair and eyes of glass; the closest that 'Zelma and I could afford was dressing our kittens up in dolls' gowns and bonnets, as we were doing that very winter night... A girl wearing flounced petticoats came and sat down beside me. She was cradling a small grey kitten, which she put in my hand.
‘Rosina,’ she said, but it was not clear if she was naming the kitten or herself.
She put the kitten firmly into my lap. It was a present.
My hand closed round the soft warm fur and I realised how badly I wanted something living of her own for Cosette. Seriously, I kept my fingers crossed and hoped that, in spite of the winter cold and the beasts, she would come back alive from the spring. That was my wish for that Christmas, even more than for porcelain dolls, which were far beyond our parents' reach, or storybooks or a regiment of tin soldiers to line up in battle formation.
Rosina was the name of the girl who had tried to give me a kitten, and I named it, after sexing the kitten and seeing that it was a girl, after her.
Like the other guests' children, both Rosine, cat and child, must have seen in me the most charming little northern bourgeoise, with her long raven hair tightly braided in twin pigtails falling down her back, head coiffed with the loveliest little warm blue velvet bonnet and a matchingly coquette and thick velvet gown rife with satin ribbons, face rosy as an apple with body warmth... 'Zelma, with her shining auburn tresses braided more loosely, her winter ensemble equally soft and cozy, was only second spot and did not catch as many eyes.
Returning to Cosette, worlds away from our cozy warmth and what we offered our guests: the warmth, the firelight, the freedom – yet feeling the night-dark forest more reassuring and where there was less fear than at home itself... that frozen spring-pool in the northern woods, that pond with all the frogs in the shade of Yggdrasil, where she had been sent for water, was frozen rock solid in mid-December; not even Maman herself was able to break the ice. Furthermore, the revellers had said in their cups that the nights this winter were as dark as a locked oven, and one needed a cat's eyes to be out and about sans lantern at this hour! If the cold, or a pack of wolves, took Cosette away, which was bound to occur sooner or later, the Sergeant's inn could as well adopt another orphan to exploit as workforce."
Enjolras' eyes widened even more. This was a suicide errand, or a murder meant to appear as an accident. To the Thénardiers, the waif had been expendable. He noted the quivering in Éponine's voice, like the flames in the firelight; how unstable her expression was and how close the moment for Cosette's good guardian to appear on the stage...
"The hours dragged by... and there was even a twinge of icy fear in my heart that Cosette would soon be dead. The guests sang obscene drinking songs and guffawed to their hearts' content, with the landlord's and landlady's encouragement, while I petted my new kitten and eavesdropped on the lyrics. Maman cajoled with lieutenants, and even cadets, and Papa drank eau-de-vie and picked pockets. It all was far more exciting, far more interesting, than staying in my room and reading or playing at battle or dress-up. Winter nights in the North are cold and dreary, but, as Iago says, pleasure and action make the hours seem short. The sun was still hours away from rising when Cosette returned home, alive and well, though still with her black eye and mottled by the winter cold... only that, this time, she was not alone." And her eyes gleamed, recollecting what she had lost.
This was it, the fair leader thought as the robber girl made her pause. Cosette and her saviour.
"It came as a surprise to hear her little numb knuckles rapping faintly upon the door, and Maman opened the door with a friendly smile, cordially inviting both Cosette and the tall, muscular stranger in a worn mustard-yellow overcoat and dented top hat who, standing by her side, held the heavy bucket, full of splashing liquid water, in both hands. He seemed strong enough to both have broken the ice and hefted the bucket all the way to our threshold... Impressive, wasn't it?"
Enjolras nodded silently, remembering the powerful physique of M. Fauchelevent. Even though that stranger was most likely to be him, there were still a few details to know in order to be completely sure: "What was he like?"
"He was a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair, and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed. It only took his stern and harsh expression, in response to Maman's warm smile and invitation to 'please enter, Sir.'
Producing forty sous from his pocket, he asked for red wine, bread and butter, and a room of his own; nothing more. He said he'd sleep anywhere, even though all the bedrooms at our inn were taken up, even lying down on the floor in a stable or a barn or a pantry; he had paid as if it had been a proper room in the room-and-board for that night. Cosette came for the wine and poured it like the daintiest cupbearer, even though her fingers were frozen stiff, and though she shivered like a leaf with both cold and fear, while the stranger never took his eyes off her.
Presently Maman broke the silence: 'And that bread you should have brought?!' she raised her voice like a fury, frightening the waif out of the table which she had hidden underneath.
'The... the bakery was closed, Ma'ame...'
'Did you knock on the door?'
'I knocked, oui, but the door didn't open...'
'Open my arse; I'll see it tomorrow if that is true! And if it's a lie, I'll make you dance! En attendant, gimme those fifteen sous.'
Cosette plunged her hands into her apron pocket, and took them out empty.
'Ah... Wot izzit? Can you listen to me?!'
The little waif just stood there as if frozen into ice. She had lost the coins on the way to or from the spring.
'Have you lost the money or d'you wanna steal from us!?' Furious, Maman seized a cat-of-nine-tails that hung on the weapon wall, right above the fireplace.
'Mercy... Ma'ame... Madame... I will nevermore...' Cosette squealed in despair.
While the landlady reached for the whip, the man in the mustard-yellow coat reached into his waistcoat pocket. Cosette trembled in a corner, curled up into a ball, while everyone else was playing écarté or quaffing or singing risqué songs and paid no attention to the scene...
'Pardon me, Madame, but I saw something fall out of the little one's pockets. Maybe it's this?' he reached out a twenty-sou coin, which Maman hastened to pocket for herself as she put the cat-of-nine-tails back into place and chided the waif with a piercing stare, as she tossed the knitting needles in her worn lap: 'May you never get one!'
Cosette returned to her niche under the table, large blue eyes fixed on that stranger with an air of wonder. It was then that we drew closer to have a look at the man in yellow. As plump and proud as any mother hen, Maman stroked us with powerful bear hugs as we sat down, with Rosina the kitten and Toinette the ragdoll in tow, to warm ourselves by the fireside. 'Ah! Vous voilà donc, my lovely little ones!' she tied all ribbons that had come undone on our dresses and gently shook us like treetrunks. 'Ponine, how fine you look in your little blue hat! Oh, shucks, aren't they pampered?' My sister and I sat down to coif our latest ragdoll and sing lullabies to her, while Rosina clawed at our gowns, demanding attention, and Cosette returned from her niche with her knitting-needle and a ball of wool to make new winter accesories for the two of us.
'Ah, there you are! Red-handed! Is that how you do your chores!? A few whiplashes will sure teach you how to work!' Maman reached once more for the cat-of-nine-tails.
'Tsk, tsk, Madame!' the stranger said in a deep, velvety heroic tenor voice, not quite unlike yours, Enj. 'Let her have a little fun.'
'She has to work for room and board. I don't raise her into a good-for-nothing.'
'What does she do?' the stranger gently asked.
'She's knitting winter stockings, and scarves, and gloves for my li'l ones. Romping 'Ponine wears out socks by the dozen, and right now she'd be freezing her toes off if not...'
'And...' his gaze was fixed on Cosette's feet, mottled blue and bleeding, 'when shall these socks be ready?'
'Lazybones here still has three-four days to go.'
'At least... thirty sous,' replied Maman with a piercing stare.
'Why not five francs?'
'Parbleu!' She burst into laughter. 'Dream on! Five francs my arse! Still, we cannot say no to the whims of our guests... All right, but pay tout de suite.'
So he bought the socks Cosette had just knit for me, instead of stitching the old ones, for five francs. In the meantime, she took up her tin sword-doll and began to swaddle it in scraps of cloth. But I paid no attention at all to those scenes... my main concern was dressing my li'l kitten up, warming my palms in Rosina's soft grey fur as I laid her on my lap and produced the doll-gowns, and unfurled a series of pink and red and blue satin ribbons... By now, our ragdolls lay forgotten, pell-mell, on the ground."
It was Cosette's guardian, M. Fauchelevent, all right, Enjolras realised. With a deep sigh, he looked at Éponine in her ragged coat and messy ponytail, into which even twigs and shards of autumn leaves had stuck, and tried to imagine her neatly coiffed with twin braids and a blue lace-trimmed bonnet, and dressed in a velvet gown with ribbons all over. He tried to imagine the wealthy Éponine of yore at this pet dress-up, and a look of doubt came over his features.
"She was my kitten, and I was the eldest, and all 'Zelma could do was look on and listen, impressed at my skill, as I swaddled my lovely little pet, in spite of her meowing and writhing and clawing at my hands, in swaths of lace and brightly-coloured ribbons: 'Lookie here, my sis, she's more amusing than a ragdoll! She's fluffy, and warm, and she moves and meows, it's like a real baby! Come, sis, let's play with her! I'm the Baroness de Thénard, and you're a guest she has over for tea. This is Rosina, my own li'l girl... and you come over for afternoon tea and... surprise! Li'l by little, you'd see her whiskers, her pointy ears, her tail, her fluff... and you'd be surprised and say 'Good Heavens!' and I'd reply: 'Oui, Madame, that's my little baroness, I've got her like that, that's what li'l aristocats look like in our days!'
And, all the while, 'Zelma listened in awe, while the revellers, who were already three-quarters drunk, sang the umpteenth risqué song out of key, and Maman burst into laughter, and I eavesdropped as I stroked that soft gray fur, not even noticing that Cosette had snuck out of under the table and stealthily picked up our ragdolls to dry up her tears, while sobbing that her own Maman was dead... and then playing with them in her hiding place for a quarter of an hour, for solace... She wouldn't believe her mother was gone. It was then that suddenly 'Zelma pulled my skirt: 'Cosette! Our dolls!' In fact, letting the kitten go, I was no longer the Baroness de Thénard, and looked around to spot the waif playing with our ragdolls under the table. We were stunned!"
All Enjolras could do was shudder. Remember that there had once been a time when he had been Euryalus storming through the enemy campsite; at the Manoir park, or whenever he had tried to snatch sweets or croquignoles from the kitchen. Society parents, too busy with their own events and too distant at first sight, yet alive and loving. And then friends that he could trust and were not too far below his own station. The transition from Euryalus back to Enjolras had never been that abrupt. A heavy sigh freed his chest from the pressure.
"So... in the end, I couldn't just bear to see her taking the chance to play with my dolls, she was not worthy of that, and I had to do something... and thus, maybe it was then that my whole destiny and hers were forever sealed ever since I pulled at Maman by the ends of the skirt and the apron-strings.
'Leave me be!' she shouted, turning away from a little cadet who half-slept lolling on another table. 'Wot izzit?'
'There, Maman! Lookie, under the table!' I pointed an index finger at Cosette, who froze in place and let go of the ragdolls.
Picture yourself a czarina who sees a serf is trying on her children's medals for size. Now picture me as the czarevna, Maman as the czarina, the waif as the bold commoner.
'COSETTE!!' a loud, furious, slightly hoarse roar in a contralto voice was heard. 'COSETTE!!'
Trembling, the waif listlessly set the ragdolls down on the floor, while sobbing, and as the man in yellow stood there while Maman pointed down at her and the dolls... 'Her filthy hands... she has touched my dear little demoiselles' lovely playthings with those filthy hands of hers! And you, li'l monster, SHUDDUP!'
The stranger left, then, after a while, returned carrying in his strong arms the two-foot porcelain doll in the pink crêpe dress rife with satin ribbons. The one with real human hair as golden and glass eyes as bright blue as Cosette's own, the treasure every little girl in the shire was pining for, the rarity which no mother in the land, not even my own Maman, could afford to purchase. The nearly life-sized doll 'Zelma and I had spent hours watching, even forgetting our usual boyish romps, every autumn and winter afternoon after class. The Queen, as we were wont to call that rarity... oh, how shallow I was back then! And now she had just been purchased by this gentleman. He set the Queen down before Cosette with a warm smile, saying that doll was for her, as a Christmas present. The waif stopped crying, sobbing, trembling... she did not even dare to breathe, or so it seemed.
And all four of us Thénardiers stood as still as statues. Petrified. Even the guests. Coachmen, peddlers, revellers, military personnel... It was as if an angel had flown into the taproom. After what seemed like an eternity, and reassured by Monsieur's words that the Porcelain Queen was really all hers, an elated Cosette reached for the doll and clasped her, saying that she named her Catherine. I thought of the czarina, Catherine the Great. All 'Zelma and I could do, for porcelain was even far beyond the reach of Thénardiers, was stare with eyes like saucers and turn green with envy. Now it was our turn to know what it was like. That night, I went upstairs to bed, while all the shouting and song of revelry died down, with a heavy head and a heavier heart, and a kitten nipping at my heels, but receiving no attention. Nevertheless, Rosina kept me warm in bed, and my storm of thoughts soon drifted away. The very next day, at the breakfast table, nothing more would ever be the same."
Enjolras knew already, as the pieces fell into place, how the story would unfurl as the robber girl resumed:
"I woke up and, rubbing my eyes from the staircase as I went down, saw them leaving the inn together. Cosette and the stranger in mustard yellow. She was wearing a whole mourning ensemble fit for the northern winter and for a little orphan heiress of seven years: a black woollen frock and pinafore, a black bonnet, black winter shoes and black winter stockings, black petticoats; and cradling, in stark contrast, her porcelain doll, rose-pink satin against her crêpe, Cosette never letting go of her precious hollow Catherine held in black-sleeved arms. It appeared that the black ensemble she had put on was, just like the doll, a gift from her new guardian, who was as tall and broad as he was gentle and kind. There was a whisper that she had found a real louis coin of pure gold in her Christmas clog, while 'Zelma and I had only found croquignoles in our stockings. From out the window, I watched them trudge across the snow, trace their steps southwards, out of the village and towards Livry. The croquignoles had ostensibly no flavour, and the kitten was not warm enough. For that was the last time that I ever saw him or her."
Exactly as Enjolras had foretold, M. Fauchelevent had saved Cosette. The fair leader recalled Cosette and her intelligent eyes, glinting in the firelight as she gave this advice. And Éponine had forever been torn away from the little indentured servant... Hearts ached slightly at the thought of a mutual friend, but they pushed that feeling down, knowing they would see Cosette once more, when they returned from their quest. Piece after piece was falling into place. She kept silence for a while, her features mournfully pensive, then knocked back a swig of eau-de-vie both to wet her whistle and for liquid courage, and resumed her tale:
"You know the rest. Shortly after Cosette left with that stranger, we fell on hard times. It was as if the Skylark had been our lucky charm. Our finances gradually failed until, on the year of my first month-bleeding, we became bankrupt, without a single sou to our names, and gendarmes were scheduled to come from the nearest guardhouse to seize the Sergeant's inn, and we had most surely to leave Montfermeil for Orleans or Paris, and change our surname. "Keep our destination secret," Papa reiterated in a faint whisper, "as well as our real surname." That late afternoon when we were uprooted from our village was quite a scene; Maman tried to cajole the young commanding officer, but sadly he was loathe to her advances. The patrons at the inn joined the fray in defence of their most generous hosts, blades were drawn and gunshots went off, both my parents were handcuffed and taken to prison in Montreuil, and Azelma fell to the crossfire, her sides riddled with blood-roses."
Enjolras' eyes widened in shock. "And what happened to you?" He could not believe what he was hearing. Éponine, who was so comfortable wielding a knife and threatening to slit people's throats, who broke up full fights between grown men with boiling water (when everything else didn't work to stop a fight, she grabbed the still-hot pot of boiling water and threw it on her comrades; they each howled in pain and ripped from each other to roll in the dirt, clutching at their faces), and had one of the most authoritarian figures in the group, was afraid... desperate... Now it must be the moment of reason when the Lady of the Green Kirtle was most likely to appear, eager to seize the chance at a new young brokenhearted prey.
"I ran." She sobbed and dried up her tears on her sleeve before resuming. She sounded like a little girl, and Enjolras realised that it was because she was.
Not physically or psychologically, of course, but emotionally.
Éponine had never had a true friend or a traumatic experience before. But this would cure her.
"I ran away, shedding flows of tears. There was no other way out. I could do nothing but take advantage of the chaos, sliding on all fours in between the legs of gendarmes and underneath the skirts of wenches, then dashing forth on my own out of the inn, out of the village, and into the wide world. My throat felt like tied with a garrote wire, my eyesight was blurry with a hazy film of tears; yet it didn't matter whither I was going, and whether I would fall into a lake or down a cliff or in the midst of a pack of wolves and put them all out of my misery, I didn't care either. Why had not Cosette come to help us out in that darkest hour, even if it were behind her guardian's back, in secret? If she had literally stabbed me from behind, that cold steel blade would have hurt far less than the rage and despair that coursed through my whole self. Everything that I took for granted had shattered, falling apart like a house of cards and drifting away worlds beyond my reach... So, in exchange, I ran as far as my adolescent legs could carry me, far beyond the reach of my pursuers, even though my heart pounded and my knees buckled and my shoes were torn off at the soles and my ankles were bleeding from the thorns in the underbrush. Sobbing and cursing Cosette, calling her a traitor and far worse things, and rushing blindly into the great unknown, for no one knows how long... Time flies when you are on the run and there is no looking back..."
That was it, Enjolras thought. The Thénardier girl didn't know that M. Fauchelevent had sent Cosette off to boarding school, and she had most surely never had the chance to contact Éponine in her hour of need. They had not been able to reach and understand one another. Just like Enjolras himself and Grantaire.
Another piece was falling into place.
"Was it then... that she crossed your path?"
The dark maiden nodded listlessly, and stood there in sullen silence for a while, taking a deep draught for liquid courage (her throat even went pop as she swallowed, reminding Enjolras even more of the one he sought!) ere she finally resumed her tale:
"No sooner had all the tears fallen from my eyes, and my eyesight cleared, that I found myself at the rightmost corner of the circle of stones, in the ditch beside the high road that crossed the open heath, and the evening twilight was giving way to darkness; whether my steps carried me towards Calais or Paris, I did not know, but then, I saw arrive a grand, magnificent calèche driven by two snow-white, ruby-eyed horses harnessed all in green; their harnesses seemed to be made of climbing plants. Within the carriage, there was a regal, graceful, beautiful lady with a pelisse and a winter bonnet, or shapka, that seemed to be made of maidenhair ferns. The calèche itself was painted dark green, and its inner upholstery was of bright green satin the colour of wormwood leaves.
'Halt!' she seemed to say wordlessly; the carriage stopped for an instant, as the lady turned towards me and gave me a friendly sign. One would have said that she knew me already.
Then, she beckoned me in, as the sleet whipped around so thickly, so heavily, that I could barely see her features as I entered the calèche to sit down by her side. 'Coachman!', a whiplash, and, after having toured twice around the village, the carriage took off, cantering away as rapid as lightning. Once we were out in the country, the carriage kept on advancing always faster and faster. I tried to scream for help, but no one heard me scream, in the middle of the storm in the open countryside.
The sleet whipped around, and the calèche seemed to have grown wings. Time after time, I would feel my heart rise up to my throat, as if we were darting up and down sharp slopes and over yawning chasms. By now, I was scared stiff... I didn't even care for Cosette's betrayal or for my parents' concerns... I would have gladly cried for help, but the word froze in my throat, I had even forgotten how to say it... and, ever since that day Cosette had broken my heart, I had forgotten everything I could have done... I could not recall anything more than... this axiom: that two plus two makes four, and two times two makes four as well."
Her eyes were pretty teary by now, and Enjolras could only reply with a fixed expression; he seemed to be in a state of trance.
"Tout à coup, suddenly, the lady in the carriage stopped and stood up. Her pelisse and her shapka were made of living, writhing greenery, which remained fresh and alive in spite of the seasonal cold. Only then did I recognise her..."
"She was... la Belle Dame Sans Merci!" Enjolras gasped, now pale and cold as a statue of ice, as Éponine nodded in response, and kept silence for a while, before knocking back another shot of liquor for courage and resuming her life story:
"And I sat there all frightened, because I had not at hand, as I would have had at home, any fire into which I could toss her... 'Viens donc avec moi', said she in a voice as lovely and alluring as it was sinister. 'I will stow you into my pelisse and keep you snug and warm...'
And, as if it had been impossible for me to make any resistance to that order, I let myself be led as she made me sit down closer by her side, and wrapped me in her pelisse. It seemed to me as if I were putting on a straitjacket, or a corset, or if a constrictor was squeezing all the air out of my lungs..."
Here, the Thénardier girl clasped her own waist as tightly as she could.
"And... then...?" Enjolras eagerly chimed in, quivering like a leaf on the branch.
"I cannot recall exactly... everything is so hazy from this moment on, but let me see which pieces of the puzzle I can piece together. Oh yes. She asked me if I was cold... 'Eh bien', she asked ere she kissed me on the forehead, right between the eyes, 'as-tu toujours froid?' And, under the impression of that kiss, it seemed that the blood froze in my veins. For an instant, I thought I was about to die, yet that malaise only lasted for an instant, and equally suddenly I felt as right as rain once more, without a worry or a care; the impression of cold having completely disappeared."
The fair prisoner leaned backwards as Éponine scratched her head and toyed with her raven hair, as if she were rummaging in there and searching for important memories, until she finally uttered an "Aha!" of elation:
"Aha! She takes out from her pelisse a crystal cup full of a glittering green liquor, with a sweet herbal perfume that is really intoxicating. That is something I will never forget. Some elixir, she explained, that could heal broken hearts and soothe every pain... And she offered the cup to me and offered me to drink. Of course the long run and crying bout had made me thirsty, and my head was aching, so I gladly took her elixir and drained it in one quick throw."
Enjolras now realised that this was the draught Grantaire had been knocking back since his change of heart and until his sudden disappearance. "And what did it taste like?"
"The first cupful was so strong and so bitter that it made me wince, hollowed out my chest as it went down, and made my eyes swim with tears. But no sooner had I drained it that I felt my throat on fire with thirst, and I asked her for a refill. The second drink, however, filled me with elation, and swept away not only all of my troubles... I forgot all about Cosette, and my surname, and our village, and whether it was ivy that clung up the walls of our inn, and the rank Papa had held in the army, and Maman's wise upbraidings, and the identity of the lady who had given me to drink... everything about the home I had lost, and it had all vanished into the haze. I could only remember my first name, Éponine, and a few things more... and, instead, something stirred within me at the sight of the regal presence of the lady beside me.
'Et maintenant, ma petite,' said she, 'And, in the meantime, my little one... you shall not have more of my blood until later on, or that would poison you to death, am I right?'
I looked at her once more and found her presence irresistible; never had such an intelligent or such a lovely face appeared before me. No sir, I felt no fear or awe towards her at all, and, in my own humble opinion, she was the most perfect thing I had ever seen up to that point.
So I told her that my name was Éponine, and that I could read and write, and that I already knew my nine times table by heart... that I was quite skillful at telling stories and making up verses, that I knew the lyrics to some pretty indecent songs no child should ever know by heart, that I would love to perform on a stage in Paris... that I could forge the signature of anyone whose handwriting I had come across at least once, and that I could fend for myself, whether with a loaded gun or with my own fisticuffs.
And she asked me if I would forgive anyone who betrayed me.
And I replied, resolutely, that no one who had stabbed me in the back would escape unscathed.
Then she burst into a ringing, lilting noblewoman's laugh:
'Hoo hoo hoo! Allons, allons, you are definitely the warrior that I need, ma jeune fille... Would you like to be uniformed in green maidenhair and spider silks, armed with a silver bâton and gloves to match, with a breastplate and a backplate brighter than the sun itself?'
Of course it all seemed so attractive that I could only wearily raise a hand and whisper 'oui' in response.
Then, everything turns hazy... I have no more recollections of that fateful night, when winter was changing to springtime, than the last fact that I felt my head swim and my limbs sapped dry of strength, refusing to perform their functions; and then, yielding to fatigue, I fell asleep at the feet of the regal lady. Then, for ages unknown, my head is full of darkness, fog, and chaos. Rien de rien. Nothing more. Nada de nada." She felt her throat dry up, and her eyes fill with tears.
Enjolras wondered if Grantaire had also felt the same way; now understanding fully that it was from the Green Faery that he had received the draught that bound his senses and turned him against everyone else, and that she had spirited him away with the promise of more of her intoxicating elixir.
But, if Éponine was now back with her parents again, they surely had found a way to rescue her, right? When they finally broke out of prison in the dark and found their inn repossessed by the Gendarmerie, the Thénardiers would have surely missed the only daughter they had left, especially since she had vanished into thin air in the chaos, and gone forth to find her... Thus did Enjolras figure out that the account would conclude.
As he told Éponine about his guesses, she nodded, even winking an eye when he mentioned the prison break, and assured him with a rough right hand upon her heart that so it had been all along (but refusing to give any details on the prison break itself, saying it was a secret trick of the trade that not even a maiden her age ought to be told!).
"There were no druids proper in those days, but still there were wise old crones, of the kind that pick herbs and mushrooms at midnight, in the light of certain phases of the moon; and in that shire there were three wise old maids who lived at the edge of the northern woods, not far from the inn. They knew how to interpret the signs of the seasons, which the people of the shire, ever since the children had begun to go to school, had forgotten, but they still could give advice that 'when the frogs in spring awake, melon seeds to soil you take.' 'Cherries grown to fruit too soon, please beware the next full moon.' 'June without rain, thirsty sick grain.' 'Summer solstice thistle, bloom to clean one's whistle.' 'When the linden blooms in June, 'tis the time to mow hay soon,' and the linden blossoms themselves they brewed into the sweetest soothing tea, that warmed the hearts and lulled the worries away. For these three weird sisters also knew how to make several household cures (so-called 'old wives' remedies' by those graduated doctors who know nothing about that), even for the harshest illnesses; when their daughters, one after the other, fell ill with the croup and were a hair's breadth from choking on their own phlegm, one of those old maids had given them red handkerchiefs to wear for cravats till the next full moon; and do you think 'Zelma and I lived through the ordeal? Well, we were healed when the moon was full! No wonder that we Thénardiers, in spite of our then-impeccable reputation being the stark opposite of their local infamy, had quite a history with the weird sisters, who, in spite of being bent with old age, still went about gleaning herbs or berries, or ministering to the sick. The healing art, or science, or whatever, will always be vain compared to this ancient lore. And thus, while her husband set their sutler's carriage and their personal effects in order for the flight from the gendarmerie, the landlady broke prison in advance and came to these wise women, offering them her best egg-laying hen, which she had tricked out of the gendarmes' grasp, in exchange for advice.
'That's a pretty sad tale,' the youngest of the three said when Maman had finished her account. 'And Madame, we've heard a lot of sad stories, being out where we are. You ever see a baby die of pneumonia? We have.'
'I wouldn't compare our plight to the death of a baby,' quoth she with a frown. 'But now you see how far I've come, and in what dire straits we are to find her.'
'You don't know if she's alive,' the eldest of the weird sisters pointed out. 'But you think she is and that's enough for you, isn't it?'
'She is alive.'
'And you've prepared yourselves for any uncertainties?'
'There are no alternatives,' the querent disagreed. ''Ponine is alive. Trust me.'
Then the middle sister sighed loudly.
'So you want our help, that's what you're here for,' she said with no uncertainty.
After scrying into a rosette of robin eggs that floated, like a blue lotus, in the middle of a stone cauldron, the old maids finally turned to their querent with the tale of who, and why, had spirited her daughter away: 'We have an agreement. We can’t help anyone reach her. Every living being who wants to see her, must cross her court alone.' Thus they replied with friendly toothless smiles. But nevertheless she remained determined and unfazed. The eldest had no direct power against la Belle Dame sans Merci, but she was not completely helpless, for she had the ability to speak to the spirits of those who had died—and she knew that the korrigan guards who kept the stronghold were spirit creatures, the imprisoned souls of all those who had lost their lives as soon as they had disappointed her.
As for the sutler? Hastily she sought and found the ones she knew would aid her, and they bade her hurry to the Dark Queen's gate. Upon returning to the edge of the village, she found the Sarge, who had already broken prison in her wake, unusually sober, and unusually concerned. Clasping him in her arms and nearly squeezing him to death, she tied around the sergeant's neck, under the cravat, a lucky charm in the shape of a little sachet that protected against evil spirits, reassuring him that he would surely need it.
'We shall find our 'Ponine. Both of us, together. There is a lead, and I got it from the wise women, from the weird sisters themselves; the Green Faery, the Morrigan, has spirited her away. Thankfully, we know where her stronghold is; 'tis a castle up not far away: upon a heath along the North Coast where it's always foggy and cold, even in mid-summer, and no trees grow. They say her lands are empty of all living things, and that her castle is surrounded by a circle of menhirs, and built of cold dark stone, so cold that its walls and gates will freeze the skin off any man who touched them. But a woman, on the other hand...'
'But...' the husband interrupted his wife, his voice quivering, 'we should have to pass through a thick woodland full of all sorts of enchantments and voices, which would try to frighten us and make us lose our way. And thus, most of those who have gone before us have wandered they know not where, and perished from cold, hunger, or fatigue.’
'Haven't we walked through fire and ice?' the landlady grabbed her husband by the collar. 'Haven't we lived all through the Revolution and through the wars, at Austerlitz, at Leipzig, at Waterloo... in many a distant country during the wars, far from here, in a strange land, living in strange lands and suffering many hardships; as lieutenants, colonels, generals, not only officers, but even high-and-mighty great lords, have fallen off their high horses; while we paltry lowlives thrived in the shades; and thus, have we not kept our eyes, our ears, our limbs, and most relevantly our wits throughout those years? Is she not your daughter as well as mine? Pull yourself together! If so it has been, we shall find our 'Ponine, alive, come hell or highwater! Love will always find a way... or won't it?'
The sergeant, though still a bit fazed, regained a slight resolve, knocking back a sip of eau-de-vie for liquid courage and fingering the little lucky purse under his cravat. 'But if she is with the Lady, in her palace, or fortress, or whatever, will be bound to have enchantments that even a magic mirror cannot penetrate. Well, suppose we get through safely? And... what did the wise women say?'
'If we do make it through, we shall then meet a host, or at least a whole regiment, of some sort of faeries, each one armed with a needle-like sword, like a rapier, of fire which burns to ashes all it touches.' The Sarge, trembling like an aspen leaf, downed another sip from his flask to warm himself from within. One swig comforts one; two are better still. No matter how many lucky charms one is armed with.
'But what...? Rise and shine! 'This is suicide,' I know you're thinking... We've made it through redcoats and Cossacks, through Austrians and Prussians, through enemy fire and snowstorms and surging rapids, and now through gendarmes... so what chance do we have of defeating those korrigans? It's actually the same, for Christ's sake, just another enemy in our path, but with flaming swords!' she fired at point-blank range into his face. 'Furthermore, we've got the upper hand; not only are we two taller and stronger, but also armed with cold steel, which the Fair Folk of all kinds shun like the plague. And the little purse I tied under your cravat will also shield you against them. So... Listen up; we make it together as far as that, to the last living tree that marks the edge of her realm, a large holly bush that yields red berries like droplets of blood; and then our ways part; you face the korrigans, at least diverting their attention, while I rush into the fortress and save our dear 'Ponine. Right. Allons-y!' And thus, the wife shaking the reins and the husband polishing his bayonet inside the cart, they set off in her old sutler's wagon for the dangerous forest up north."
Enjolras had listened attentively, as attentively as he could, to the story... He could not even believe that her parents, as neglectful and self-indulgent as they were, could have at least a little shred of feelings for Éponine, let alone that they would take so much into their hands to rescue her. Clearing his throat to make a little pause, he interrupted:
"And let me have a guess at what comes next... the parents freed their daughter from the Green Faery, or did they not? This tale is so far keeping me on tenterhooks, in spite of the end being a foregone conclusion..."
"And why else should I not be here by your side? Listen now; you already know from the first impressions of us Thénardiers that Maman rules the roost, as she has always done. Generals and kings and czars come up with battle plans as effective as hers!
They gathered berries, and nuts, and mushrooms, the few they could find, and washed them down with spring water and morning dew, rationing their eau-de-vie to a sip a day for each person, for the moment of truth; they guided themselves by the North Star. It seemed to the sergeant and the sutler woman turned landlord and landlady that the ordeal had made them at least a decade and a half younger, or at least as brisk and pure as they had been in their youth, during early wartime.
Only once, during the rationing, he drew out their keg of eau-de-vie twice, thrice, filled and emptied the cup several times, and laid it down with a hoarse ‘Ha, ha, ha! now this old scoundrel is a man again!’
'Mon cher!' his wife chided him sternly, slapping him twice in the face, first on the left ear and then on the right.
‘But oh!’ he went on (still sipping, I am sorry to say), 'ere war gave way to peace, I needed not this intoxicating draught; once I detested the hot brandy wine, and quaffed no other fount but nature’s rill. It dashes not more quickly o’er the rocks than I did, as, with blunderbuss in hand, I brushed away the early morning dew!' the non-commissioned officer remarked to his lady, as he knocked back one last sip of eau-de-vie by their campfire. 'Thus easily do we deceive ourselves! Thus do we fancy what we wish is right!'
'I had never seen that side of you... that Shakespearean, sentimental side, beyond the patina of wit and intrigue...' Madame Thénardier chortled, more used to his Voltairian remarks than to this sincere, heartfelt outburst of iambic pentameter. 'It seems you paid heed to my reads as well!' she swaddled herself in a blanket by his side and began to unbutton his uniform jacket, as he shoved his hands deep under her skirt... Now listen, Enj: I had sometimes seen my parents together in bed, as well as several of our guests, looking rather excited... but, ever since Cosette left with her new guardian and I got my first bleeding, they just slept side by side without playing any of their serious games. They have never done it since those nights during the quest. And you, Sir Galahad the Pure, given your circumstances, will never, ever, ever understand!"
Enjolras tried as hard as he could to stifle the hearty laugh, so uncharacteristic of him, that was surging up from his lungs as he listened to Éponine's experience with her parents, and their guests, making love to one another. Needless to say his own sheltered upbringing and childhood may have contributed at least slightly to his lack of experience in matters of the heart and in matters of the flesh.
But still he would listen to her story until the bitter end, in spite of knowing that the ending was a foregone conclusion.
"Sometimes lightning struck, the trees burst into flames and husband and wife found themselves in the midst of a fire; often in the act of crossing a stream the water rose and threatened to sweep them away, all the way into the Channel; and again, great rocks would roll towards the sutler cart, as if they would crush away lock, stock, and barrel —husband, wife, cart, and horses— beneath their weight. To this day, I have never known whether these things were real or only a hyperbole of what really occurred, but the sergeant pulled down his military cap so as to cover his eyes, and trusted his wife, who drove the cart, and the draft-horses, as well as the crone's lucky charm, to carry him down the right road.
At last the forest was left behind, and they came out on a wide heathland plain where the air blew fresh and strong. The Sarge ventured to peep out, and found to his relief that the enchantments seemed to have ended, though a thrill of horror shot through him as he noticed the adult human skeletons scattered over the plain, beside the skeletons of the casualties' horses. Husband and wife had been riding, without taking the slightest risk to stop or to look back, all the way until they had arrived before a large holly-bush that yielded berried like drops of blood. Beyond it, all was bare rock and frosty heather in bloom, stretching away before them like a great sheet of amethyst crystals. And what were those grey forms trotting away in the distance? Were they—could they be—wolves? Werewolves? Korrigans?
But vast through the plain seemed, it did not take long to cross on foot, having dismounted and tethered their cart and horses to the trunk of the holly, and very soon the Thénardiers stood in the shade of a sort of shady circle of stones. In front there were at least a regiment of korrigans, both male and female, each and every elven warrior holding in his or her hand the fiery rapier which reduced to ashes everything it touched. At the sight of the intruders, each korrigan uttered a piercing scream, and raised their swords, but without appearing surprised the camp follower rolled up her sleeves and shoved her husband towards the enemy lines, as she briskly strode towards the fortress itself: 'Allez! Take up your sword, or bayonet, or wotever; the charm will protect you as well! In the meantime, I make the three runs 'round the gate and open the door with one shove of mine! Trust me, honey, you'll surely make it through and join me to free 'Ponine! After all, a mother is always closer to her child, especially if that child is a girl...'
And, with those words, they parted ways, the camp follower giving her husband a vigorous pat on the back for encouragement, ere she sauntered, without looking back, towards the heavy cold stone doors, and began to storm around the circle in a flustered huff, shouting, though short of breath, the incantation at the end of each lap."
It was a foregone conclusion to the fair leader, how the tale would unfurl from now on, yet still he listened eagerly to her account of how it all had been.
"Meanwhile upon the field of battle, the fight had already begun, and the enemy was getting the best of it, when the Sarge rose up, and in a moment the fortunes of the day had changed. Right and left this strange warrior laid about him, and, though he then was a scrawny fellow, the sword or spearhead at the end of his thunder-wand, for as that the elves saw the bayonet, pierced the stoutest breastplate. He was indeed 'a host in himself,' and his foes fled before him thinking he was only the first of a troop of such warriors, whom no one could withstand. When the battle was over, the few retreating survivors saw the other mortal, the bear-like woman, had bellowed "LET ME IN AT LAST!!" at the top of the lungs, then strode into the circle of stones as briskly as she could. They were powerless, and could only watch as she reached the great doors of the castle. They were so cold that it burned to the touch like metal heated until it glowed. Indeed, so cold were the doors that the skin of her bare hands stuck to them, though, after she had opened them, which was surprisingly easy, she ripped her hands free unscathed, without the slightest scratch or drop of blood on her palms or fingertips. She was right about the quibble: it would freeze the skin off any bare-handed man..."
"But a woman, on the other hand..." Enjolras gasped, while wondering if he qualified as a man or a boy, and thus, how it would be like to open the doors for him at the moment of truth.
"The camp follower strode in through the great doors, leaving them open behind her, for she could not bring himself to touch them again. The floor of the hallway beyond them was cold as well, and damp, her feet sticking a little, or slipping on the slippery grounds, with every step; and the blood on her feet froze to it, sticking a little with every step. Or so she told me, when I awoke in her lap, held in her strong loving arms so tightly that my sides ached and I could not breathe; without the slightest recollection, in the middle of this strange throne-room, its floor covered in engraved straight lines and curves, and scrawled all over with strange, angular characters which I could not read, following the trace of the lines... there were many crystal mirrors on the ceiling, I realised while looking left and right in awe and gaping like a fish, locking eyes with Maman's warm gaze as recognition sparked... I recalled my surname, and the place of my birth, and everything else; something stirred within me at the sight of that tall strong blonde, and of the sergeant in uniform who huddled in the corner, his face caked in dried blood from his nostrils, wincing and bandaging his sprained foot as we rushed to help him up. The words choked in my throat, and I tried to hold back the tears, as the three of us went forth from the great fortress, Maman and I holding Papa for crutches for a while, until he was well enough to lean on his rifle."
She was sobbing, breaking down from sheer catharsis. The rose had thorns, after all, and it took a while for her to have another swig and dry up her tears on her own coattails, as he felt compelled to wrap a crimson-clad sleeve around her waist for reassurance. It was just like having Grantaire slumped next to him, but in female form and with a northern patois instead of that Marseillais accent. Everything repeats itself.
"There was nothing left for us in Montfermeil, but there have always been people who live on the lam, knockabout artistes thriving in the darkness and waiting in the wings for their chance. A six-foot Herr Cules with an iron ribcage, a ventriloquist whose presence was as sinister and concealed in the night as a ghost's, a strapping young Left Bank dandy in late adolescence who had fallen on hard times due to an extravagant lifestyle, and many other knockabout freaks whom no carnival dared to employ out of sheer dread... The Magnificent Thénardiers became the latest family act in the venue of the criminal underworld; a life not unlike the one they had had in the military but during peacetime and far more dangerously; specialising in strangers who had something worth taking. Something that was rightfully ours. Where they were was the risk and danger." With bloodshot drunken eyes and that deep hoarse voice, she gestured like a showgirl upon a stage, now feeling in an ostensibly far sunnier mood, though it was crystal clear that it all was irony at heart. It was as plain as ironic her quip was that the Herr Cules guy was Gueulemer, and the young dandy was 'Parnasse, and the truants, miscreants, and vagabonds saw themselves as much as closely-knit family as any other carnival of freaks --as much outsiders as the mermaids, pinheaded midgets, werewolves, bearded ladies, and sword-swallowers he had once seen in a fête as a child--. It reminded him of his own society of Amis de l'ABC, also lonely outsiders who had come together, though generally of higher descent and with a university education. Not all freaks were equal; and this had left him with a haunting appreciation of the feelings of total outsiders to society. "One day we were highway brigands, the next we were confidence tricksters, the day after that I was cross-dressing as a cadet or a student... we had and have an extensive repertoire; and thus our heists turned into quite unpredictable, yet meticulously planned affairs. Soon, we contrived to knit all those scoundrels together - conniving, connecting, conspiring. As the ones we are, we're on the out, we're antiestablishment, and whatever we 'cook up' must be done surreptitiously, silently. All the world's a stage, and we were and are the ringmasters over all the lesser knockabout freaks, who are not even second to our family act. Wot else?"
"If it is your story... your parents' love freed you..." Enjolras blinked and gasped, not knowing what to say next to the dark robber maiden who had saved his life. "In that case... is Grantaire... all right?"
She hesitated and her eyes lowered in clear sign of holding back.
“N'importe," said she, turning serious and shaking her head. "He’s… alive. For sure. He might not be the same person you remember. He might not remember you. Indeed, your Grantaire is most surely at the Green Faery's; he finds it a delightful place and it appears to him that there is nothing better than that, everything there after his taste, and he believes that he inhabits the most charming place in all possible worlds, because he has everything he could wish for... but it is only because his heart has been poisoned by her evil blood. The reason why is that he has received her blood in his throat, and it has entered all the way into his heart. So, his heart has been frozen. She has caught and entangled him in her snares, and dripped poison into his sickly mind. The air of that realm is as necessary to his life as oxygen once was to his mortal body, and is to ours. Just like it happened to Yours Truly," Éponine explained, as her fair prisoner listened attentively, steeling himself to restrain the shudder that ran down his spine. "What's needed to do, first and foremost, is to get that fey blood out of inside him... or else, she will for evermore retain all her power over him."
"And where does she dwell? Whither is that carriage heading?"
"I know where the Killer Queen's stronghold is," quoth she, grinning fiercely. Her black eyes gleamed out of the darkness of the nook. "Towards her keep, not far from the Channel, upon a heath along the North Coast where it's always foggy and cold, even in mid-summer, and no trees grow. They say her lands are empty of all living things, and that her castle is built of cold dark stone, so cold that its walls and gates will freeze the skin off any man who touched them. The Morrigan lives there now, and the will o'wisp fires in her palace, if it can be called a palace in the first place, burn every evening. Your poor lover must be freezing, right? Now keep calm. Now lie still in bed and shut up, and do not stir like that, Enj, or else, to keep you tranquil, my blade will slip into your side, and plunge all the way into your heart..." she drew steel and flicked the wrist that held her Bowie.
Enjolras sighed listlessly in response, staying frozen in place, without even moving a muscle. But, if Éponine had been taken by the Green Faery, and subsequently set free from her grasp, there was a very important question to ask: "Do you really know the way to get there?"
The dark maiden's expression turned serious, and she nodded in response, her eyes beaming with self-confidence. "Ça m’est égal ! çà m’est égal ! Mais... Qui pourrait mieux le savoir que moi? 'Tis up north I was born, 'tis up north that I was raised, 'tis up north that I leapt for joy over heath and hill; and never forget that the Morrigan has had me in thrall! As sure as I can breathe in the air, I know how to find my way! Who should know better than I do?" asked she, while her eyes shone with some renewed life; sparkling like starry night skies in remembrance. "I was born and raised there, and that's where I used to run free about across the heather-covered plains." Then Enjolras looked sidelong at her, cajoling. "If you were to free me, you could take us there fast as you please."
"I wish I could," was her reply, "but even if we could get away from this lair, we would have to get past the robbers as well." The young wildling regained her serious air and, shaking her head, she said: "Eh bien, cela m'est égal, cela m'est égal." The girl had become serious, but, shaking her head:
N'importe, quoth she.
The robber maiden offered him a cup full of scarlet wine. He declined and just shook his head, observing Éponine downing the alcohol like water. The way she went about it, it looked like she was trying to lose the contest. At that rate, given that she had already surpassed her threshold for strong drink, she would be the first to get drunk. Uneasiness settled within him as he watched her from afar. The more he saw her abandon herself, the more his fingers fidgeted. It was odd. She didn’t seem to have fun, even though she laughed heartily and sung as loud as she could. It felt forced how she threw herself onto Montparnasse’s shoulders and swayed with him in the rhythm. She looked… desperate.
At some point, Éponine must have had enough, because she detached herself from the group and walked away from the fire. She walked as a newborn deer as she approached the outskirts of the camp. Her cup fell down on the ground and rolled on the floor tiles, drawing a colourless rainbow. “Are you angry at meee? Are youu? Am I a ba-a-d grrrl? D'you wanna huuurt meee?” She patted the startled prisoner on each of his shoulder blades adoringly. She leaned on his with her whole weight and continued with her monologue, not really waiting for answers. “I know you are! You should be. And you’re sho pretty. And I’m ba-a-ad," Éponine rubbed her face into the nape of the fair leader's neck.
At first, Enjolras hesitated, thinking if he should enter the scene and casually convince her to go sleep it off. She behaved very much not like a bandit captain would. “No! You’re not bad! You’re fine,” she looked up and glared at him with glazed eyes. Doubtless, in those circumstances, Grantaire would quaff her under the table, he muttered to himself, but loud enough, being slightly under the influence, for her to overhear. She chuckled a few times, tugging at his sleeve again and cooed. "“Tell meee." He nudged her gently away and mumbled. “You’re a very nice girl, who is lonely. I know you will let me go, and show me the way..."
She eyed him quietly, pondering about what he had said. It took longer, since she was drunk, so he almost thought she didn’t hear him properly.
“I will? But he's so bright. So, so brave. A real leader... See?" Éponine put up her fists facing each other and imitated an English boxer once more, but this time with a childish pout. “If only I haven’t let him go...” Her brows knitted and a shadow spread on her face, her hands dropped lifeless to her sides.
Enjolras stepped back, not willing to mock his luck. His heart ached, very close to the sensation he felt when he discovered that Grantaire had disappeared. A strange hurtful hope filled his head, a wish that perhaps just a little - maybe just slightly, he could have a place for her in his heart. That kind one would reserve for family. And maybe that space wouldn’t be small but quite large.
Leaning onto the wall and trying hard to breathe deeply, he counted the stars and traced the bark with his fingers, trying to feel each hard ridge on its surface. Literally anything just to ground himself. Éponine thought of him as a replacement for the foster sister she would never reach, and his presence recalled old memories for her, which hurt her soul for many years. Or so he thought. Enjolras didn’t know what to make of his emotional roller-coaster, but the one thing he knew was that he wanted to help her. He wanted to be kind and show compassion. Therefore he braced himself, coughed loudly and made his appearance.
“Took you long enough!” 'Parnasse grumbled, lifting his head and shifting awkwardly underneath Éponine's weight. Enjolras winced, he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought after all. “Enj!” she called him all jolly. The happy grin on her face didn’t last long, because as drunks tend to do, she switched to sadness very quickly, hanging herself on his elbow like a coat hanger. “Come now, we go to sleep now, right?” She shook her head and pouted. “I’m not tired,” he led her slowly to their corner and thought of what to reply as they passed a log. “But I am. Keep me company?” She considered and affirmed with a nod. “I can do that! Will you tell me a fairy tale?"
To get her in a state prepared for sleep was a challenge. That even sounded like understatement. He could barely pull of her coat and almost gave up midway. 'Ponine rolled in the furs like a fat seal, heavy and uncoordinated. As he cradled her on his arms, he saw her for what she was. Smaller than him and perhaps very similar to him in her sadness. Thus, he pretended that night he wasn’t a prisoner, but that he chose to be her support in her weakened state. "But will you listen to me for a little? I will tell you a little more about myself."
Éponine's eyes gleamed and she sat back on the furs, reclining against the wall, eager for another insight on such an interesting person. Her head was beginning to swim, she felt drowsy indeed, but she was even more curious to get to know about her captive. As the two laid down and covered themselves with the tapestry of Atalanta's last race which went for a blanket here, the swarthy girl hugged Enjolras gently and asked him to tell his story one more time. “I like good stories, remember?” she said. “And I especially liked your one. So tell it to me again.” She couldn't wait for the blond to reply soon enough and ask about the happenings of the day, the houses of the rich, and what exciting things their children did.
"Of course I have had a family once, but it was so long ago... As you know, I was and am an only child, adored by my parents, a stock breeder of horses and a lady of the minor nobility," he told the robber maiden with a sigh. "When Yours Truly was born, both of them were pleased and proud. As a newborn I was handsome and healthy, a worthy heir for the Enjolras surname, as beloved as a prince, beautiful as an angel. Oh, how they loved this noble little baby! He was as delicate as a prince and as handsome as an angel! Of all the parents I could have known, mine are the kindest. Over the years some would-could ill afford a sick child; others would have grown weary of caring for one. In public they feigned love but in private they lost patience. I regret that at times I, too, lost my temper with them. They never faltered in their devotion. And thus, I grew up handsome and healthy, a worthy heir for the Enjolras surname, and as I grew into a toddler and then a sturdy little boy, they started to look out for a horse that their boy could grow up with, and train, and be trained by."
Éponine had heard little to nothing of her southern captive's childhood, and it pained her to know so little in exchange for all the story she had given him. Raised without siblings in a grand estate in the Camargue, instead of the eldest of middling innkeepers' children somewhere up north... "Tell me more, Enj! I feel so sorry not to hear about you in exchange..." She was visibly excited and worn-out, but he could see she was not too intoxicated, the better for her to listen to the stories he had to tell.
"Let me tell you my first memories, and make yourself comfortable by my side." The weary Thénardier girl nestled on his lap as he cleared his throat and began: "At three or four, I am so much healthier than when I first woke in this body. And so beautifully cared for. I sleep on soft sheets in cloudlike comfort. My mother, the local beauty, brings the scent of lilacs with her when she leans in to kiss me, which she does frequently. Her tenderness elicits such a response. It amazes me to feel myself rise to her love. And my father, he’s so kind. Every day he comes with a present in his pocket. They have spared no expense in finding a cure for me. They have thrown both their energies and their resources into meeting with anyone reputedly wise in the healing arts. Yet they’ve never subjected me to treatments that might cause undue pain. I was an amazingly handsome boy, with fair curly hair cut very short, my mother's dark-blue eyes, and a clear pale translucent skin. The only child of exceedingly fond parents, and the object of constant pampering that, curiously, never spoiled my character. Their expectations all rested upon their only offspring..."
Éponine swallowed hard, a sound like a purr forming in her throat. "Awwwrrr..." Enjolras could see that her eyes had become glossy, even slightly teary, and that she would never plunge her knife into his heart in that state, as he resumed:
"On stormy November evenings... The fireplace in my bedroom radiates comfort. Embers make delicate sounds, like fine china splintering. This room, like a princess’s chamber, sparkles. The chandelier bends firelight and sends it dancing across the ceiling. There is a table set with buns and cocoa."
He stopped abruptly, looked at a teary-eyed Éponine, thought of Cosette and of himself, and gasped. The Thénardiers, who besides lived in a far harsher northern climate, had even been willing to steal and to deceive, and led into a life of crime, in order to procure such comforts and a decent education for their own daughters, which had led the whole family to live outside the law, to the point of wresting from the fair leader, and many others, the magnificent presents they had been given. This was the reason why he had to start a revolution. This was the reason why all of his friends, led by Enjolras himself, had to die violently and leave beautiful corpses, before they all turned thirty.
"It must have been quite a cozy spot, right?"
Enjolras swallowed hard and nodded. "A group of holiday revellers, emboldened with drink, defy the storm, shouting to each other on the street beneath my window. My parents host a small dinner party below. The sound of music came softly through their windows, and laughter, and the heavenly aroma of roasted meat." The scene made the dark maiden think of the Christmases of days gone by, back when they were innkeepers... and especially of that fated Christmas Eve when Cosette left the Sergeant's Inn, never to return. Crystal tears streamed down her olive-skinned face as she sobbed only once, but that was enough for Enjolras to produce a silken handkerchief, embroidered with floral motifs and scented with lavender, to dry up the robber girl's tears. "And in summer?" she choked back, eager for memories of hot sun and azure waves.
"How many times have these parents taken me to the dunes? In the summer we would go with a picnic hamper. Mother would make certain my straw hat, with its blue velvet ribbons, kept the sun off my face. I remember insisting I could run down the hill and then, halfway down, collapsing. I had been carrying a chocolate bun that flew from my hands. Father gathered me in his arms. I nestled into him. He smelled of cologne and freshly pressed cotton. His golden moustache tickled my cheek. He bought me a new bun and held me as I ate it." As he said those words and remembered the fond days gone by, Enjolras looked for a while first at the Thénardiers, then looked back at his own childhood, and really learned to love the Camargue.
Not just the horses and the frogs – anyone could love horses and frogs – but the mansion itself and the estate and all the people in it.
It was easier in between the springtime and autumn downpours because it had at last stopped raining; patches of dry ground appeared, and the artificial lake showed glimmers of blue.
Though not literally a count's child, he had been quartered in a castle-like mansion in greatest comfort; a nice-looking, well-born little one...
"I have never known boys or girls whose greatest pleasure arose from tormenting others," he told her with a sigh, as he locked eyes with her, night-black with day-blue, "not in this life. I have known no one like that in this life. These parents would not allow such a child near me." The thought of his own parents not allowing such bullying children to come near him made the fair leader think of M. Fauchelevent cutting all ties between Cosette and the Thénardiers, and Éponine's subsequent feelings of betrayal. "With Combeferre and Courfeyrac, however, it was a different story. Combeferre lived in the centre of Arles; his parents were a doctor and a female tutor, who took care of their patrons' children in another region, and thus his unquenchable thirst for knowledge about life has been with him for as long as he has lived; he often ventured out of town to study the plants and the bugs in the bush, and the little things the sea washed upon the shore. The Manoir Enjolras, with its surrounding gardens and kindly masters, became a spot this clever little boy would obviously frequent on the way home to Arles, bringing now a bright green emerald-like jewel beetle, now a piece of sun-whitened coral, now a shell with rainbow mother-of-pearl on the inside, now a fossil shaped like a snail which he had found inland in the hills or near Roman ruins, now a fallen leaf which had been so withered away that only the vessels remained, just like a lacy gauze... Ever since his parents lived at their employers' in Gascony, our own Arles-based household physician, the one who had advised that there should not be more children than Yours Truly in the nurseries of the Manoir Enjolras, was a good friend of the Combeferres' who respected them, even the best man at their wedding, and had taken up their boy under his wing in their absence. I waited for whole days for his return, being too small to go outside on my own and too young and privileged to go to school, and therefore I had more than one private tutor. Presently, down the straight white road which led from the village, a small figure appeared, looking even smaller under the weight of the school satchel on his back. Little Combeferre couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and looked less. His skin was a clear olive, and burnt darker still by the sun, with a spray of freckles across his face like a dusting of gold, and he had thick auburn hair that looked as though it had been cut with shears – so that his strange light-flecked eyes were very noticeable. Those honey eyes were flecked with lighter colours; with bronze and hazel and with gold. The boy came back without his satchel, dressed in a pair of breeches and an old linen shirt. Without his cap, and with his spectacles on, he seemed even smaller. Though he was so small, the child was not shy. He took my hand and led me with absolute assurance to parts of the estate, and the surrounding pinewood and lavender-fields and shoreline, I had not seen before. And, in my grander bedchamber, his own eyes widen as he looks at the chandelier, the table laden with food, the enormous gilded mirror, the library stuffed with more books than he had ever seen before. And, from sharing all these little rarities, and all those grand rarities as well, with the scion of the estate... in that auburn boy with spectacles I found first an acquaintance, then a dear friend, and finally the very best lieutenant that any leader could ever wish for. It didn't take long for me to warm up, he was a bright and smart boy who loved surprises. Especially surprising others. It helped that he knew the stories in all the Enjolras library by heart. Soon we begged the Combeferres to bring home new ones. And they did, borrowing them from a kind employer... and thus he became the truest friend I ever had. We shared a tutor, we rode together, we went climbing together. I looked up to him, and vice versa, but really we were like brothers. We used to come together and talk about all the things we were going to do."
"And Courfeyrac?" Éponine raised her head eagerly, bringing Enjolras back to the bright side of a childhood otherwise so wearisome and bereft of a purpose that he would rather forget it.
"I had only heard the surname every now and then... and I knew that they lived in a far grander mansion, a real château, in Gascony, and that they had an only child as well, a boy slightly older than we were... Once they had been proper French aristocrats, surnamed de Courfeyrac; they had been driven out from the land and gone south with the flamingos and left for Catalonia or Valencia during the Revolution, until they returned to our land post-Thermidor, without the particle before their surname, having "abdicated" the particle as Courfeyrac still says. Of course now that France is a kingdom once more, his parents are de Courfeyrac, but the lad himself has never used the particle before his surname, not even when he is drunk. Anyway, Madame Combeferre was the dark, lively Courfeyrac boy's personal tutor when it came to etiquette, and Monsieur Combeferre was their household physician. There you have it, who were the Combeferres' employers! Every Monday morning they left Combeferre at his guardian's, then departed to take care of foreign children and bid them a good day. But sometimes, let's say for holidays around Christmas or Easter..."
"Lemme guess... They would sometimes bring their boy to the Château de Courfeyrac for playdates, in spite of the distance, and His Lordlingship would have heard a lot about Enjolras from little Combeferre as well..."
"Exactly! And the end of it was, that I had made two friends at the age of twelve or thirteen. The little Gascon came over each summer to stay at the Manoir Enjolras. Courfeyrac at our place had roughly the effect of a live firework lobbed into a box of cartridges. He was, in a word, incorrigible. He had been sent there after causing too much trouble living at home, but his parents had objected not so much to his defiance (which he had, gleefully, in spades) as to his habit of seducing the chambermaids. Or at least that was the word going around among his classmates. Whatever the original incident had been, it grew, fed on rumour and exaggeration, until Courfeyrac had acquired the reputation of a veritable sixteen-year-old Don Juan Tenorio. At first Yours Truly, unaware that Courfeyrac was perhaps not as complicit in this reputation as he appeared, wasn't sure whether to be charmed or extremely irritated by him. To keep from finding out, I did my very best to avoid him. Courfeyrac, however, was not very easy to avoid. Was he really more ubiquitous than the other students, or was he just impossible to ignore? Hard to say. At any rate, there he was, talking back at the professors and sneaking off to smoke pipes with the kitchen wenches and generally making himself noticeable. A boy, then a young man, who saw and sees the world as something to revel in. He was and is the centre of any party, the teller of tales, and the heart of every warm touch. Even when I walk alone, I felt and still feel like surrounded by his presence. Years passed and the boys grew to young teenagers, a gap of only four years between them. They --all three of us-- still hung close to each other, but we soon noticed Courfeyrac released his hand quicker in the presence of others when they were teased. He seemed restless, always wanting to move. They spent a lot of time in nearby woods and fields, exploring the nature or playing with the other children. We three would go on swims, and explore ruined watchtowers together... whenever our parents allowed us to be together... though I easily grew weary of these pursuits, no matter for how long my friends seemed to enjoy them... The most irritating thing about them was that underneath Courfeyrac's habitual flippancy and Combeferre's habitual rationality, they often had opinions Yours Truly agreed with, and my friends would champion them in what the Enjolras heir considered the most counterproductive ways imaginable. There was also Jehan Prouvaire, a shy little boy who looked more like a girl with that crisp Titian hair and those dreamy honey eyes, who came over every summer from Collioure. Oh, he was an only child too, and his family, descendants of the last surviving Cathars who lived through the Inquisition, had made a fortune distilling lavender and pompom-rose perfumes; he was as shy as a violet, and turned red as a pompom rose and stuttered whenever he had to speak, so he spent the summers with us, with his parents' hopes that he would open up, but he often detached himself as I did, and would rather be left quietly on his own...
"But you come home for the holidays, won't you?"
"Only for Christmas, and in summer for the days from around the 14th of July to the rentrée. Of course they always miss me and the others..." Until that fateful conversation, he had not realised the least that he was actually harbouring feelings towards his parents and their servants.
"It must have been an exciting day, right, Enj?"
"Well, on the evening before, they had a grand soirée with all of their friends in society; it was so that Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and I could debut ere we left for Paris. The following day in the morning, after breaking my fast and donning my travelling clothes, including my brand new hussar-style waistcoat, I asked that the staff could be assembled in the courtyard so that he could make a proper farewell speech. Yours Truly knew that this was what the heir to the Enjolras estate was supposed to do, but the ceremony fell rather flat. Our old coachman was too deaf to hear a word that I said, and the new maids hadn’t been there long enough to understand what an important occasion it was."
Now he was almost a grownup: fourteen years old and as clever and learned as anyone and handsomer than everyone.
The castle looked as large and impressive as it had the first time one had seen it. The park around it had not changed either; but all the servants were strangers, not one of them remembered.
How tall and thin he had become, but he had the same eyes and the same angelic mouth. He looked at the others but didn't say a word. He turned as if he were going to leave, and "That is enough," he said, and left the room.
Now he was tall, fourteen years old, a bright, beautiful boy.
The castle was as magnificent and the gardens as lovely as ever, but the servants were all new.
How tall, thin, and lanky he had grown, but he still had his beautiful eyes and angelic mouth; and he looked straight at the others without a word. Certainly he had no recollection. He turned to go, "All right," he said, "that's enough," and then he left the room.
"Awww... but, knowing you in spite of what little time we have had, you must have done your best, right?"
"Why such a doubt, 'Ponine? All the same, I did well, asking the staff to give my parents the loyal service they would have given him if he hadn’t been going away. Then our coachman brought the carriage round, and my three friends stepped in after me, as we picked them along the way across the southern lands before heading north, for the capital. After we had driven off..."
"I know the end of thish shtory," she replied, slumping down upon his lap. "But one more queshtion, Enj... why did you travel dresshed as a husshar?"
"For caution," Enjolras replied, "to ensure I remained safe and sound. A cadet or a little lieutenant is not such a helpless-looking prey for innkeepers or brigands, as you well know, right?" He winked a wistful eye at Éponine as he resumed his tale yet again, while the maiden listened intently; for the fair leader's story of his own boyhood had appealed to her imagination.
Thus he looked back at the trials and turning points of adolescence; aged thirteen, sweetly embarrassed by his breaking voice, aged fourteen, growing into the size of his hands and the breadth of his shoulders... Aged sixteen, laughing, aged seventeen, in uniform-like waistcoat. In Paris, where they had gone to University together, the freedom they had fought for and would soon win from the King. Their first stray cat, their first swords, the first time they tried to cook, the first time... Aged nineteen, searching for a longed-for je ne sais quoi that was as relevant to him as ideals and human rights.
"As you may remember... Even though I had found two or three friends I still hold very dear, and even though my life was charmed right from the start, I was very lonely, even though I was surrounded by people. I was always different from other boys. I never cared much for games. I took little interest in those things for which young boys of rank usually care so much. I was not very happy in my boyhood, I think. My one ambition was to find the ideal for which I longed. It has always been thus: I have always had an indefinite longing for something, a vague something, a je ne sais quoi that never quite took shape, that I could never quite understand. My great desire has always been to find something that would satisfy me. I was attracted at once by sin: my whole early life is stained and polluted with the taint of sin. Sometimes even now I think that there are sins more beautiful than anything else in the world. There are vices that are bound to attract almost irresistibly anyone who loves beauty above everything. I have always sought for love: again and again I have been the victim of fits of passionate affection: time after time I have seemed to have found my ideal at last: the whole object of my life has been, times without number, to gain the love of some particular person. Several times my efforts were successful; each time I woke to find that the success I had obtained was worthless after all. As I grasped the prize, it lost all its attraction - I no longer cared for what I had once desired with my whole heart. In vain I endeavoured to drown the yearnings of my heart with the ordinary pleasures that usually attract the young. I have been striving to cheat myself into the belief that peace had come at last - at last my yearning was satisfied: but all in vain. Unceasingly I have struggled with the old cravings for excitement, and, above all, the weary, incessant thirst for a perfect love."
"Wot kind of perfect love?" Éponine asked with a shrug of her shoulders.
"Just before coming to Paris, and without my parents' knowledge, I had written an icily polite letter to the family of the girl they wanted me to marry. The Enjolras heir regretted, in the most formal language he could muster by imitating Father's business correspondence, to inform them that the engagement had been made on false pretenses, that they were under no obligation to abide by an agreement he had not been party to and could not in good conscience uphold, that their daughter could seek a more suitable match, etcetera. Now that I considered the public sphere more-or-less irrelevant to my personal life, Yours Truly began to think more seriously about the private side of life.
"And you shettled down... flower boxesh... the Café Mushain... revolution... new friendsh, Grand'R, he ish no longer himshelf, he dishappearsh," the robber maiden said in a slurred tone, with a shrug of her shoulders, before she fell once more on his lap, trying to have some rest, but too wide-awake and excited in preparation for the upcoming morning.
The robber princess took her captive by her shoulder and brought him back to bed. They tried to sleep, but sleep didn’t come.
“What are you going to do now?” the robber girl finally asked.
“I will go search for Grantaire,” Enjolras said.
“If you go, I will have to kill you,” the dark robber girl said. "Instantly, but painfully."
“Then I will go and die,” he said firmly.
“I’ve stripped you of your clothes,” the robber girl said. “Naked among the snow you will freeze to death.”
“Then I will go and die,” Enjolras said. “I knew from the start I wouldn’t make it. There’s just no chance a little gentleman all alone could go for a journey like that and actually find the person while having no clues. I knew I would die having made it halfway through. I went for it nonetheless. I couldn’t do otherwise. Learning that Grantaire is still alive, actually finding some kind of clue is already a miracle. I’m happy with it. But I can’t stop. I have to go on. And if it means dying, then I will go and die.”
“This kind of love…” the robber girl exhaled in amazement. “Dying for your beloved… that’s the most romantic thing ever. The act of true love. I’ve always strived to find such love...”
“That... your parents did that for you,” he noted.
“I know,” the swarthy girl nodded. “I mean the other way around. I’ve always wanted to love someone so much I would want to die for them. And seeing this kind of love in you is what made me fall in love with you. So deeply, so desperately… I can’t resist it anymore…” the robber girl nodded at her dagger.
The awakening came abruptly. "Get up!" Éponine said, swinging a slight kick to his solar plexus, making a convulsed Enjolras curl into a ball at first. A loud whistle whipped the morning air, Enjolras jolted from his sleep and grabbing his coat he ran out of the nook. The pure whiteness blinded him momentarily and he held his hand in front of his face, squinting around to get some picture what was the alarm. As the dawn cleared up the skies, Éponine sauntered from her upholstered straw-bed, now completely sober without a trace of a hangover, as nimble as a stray cat (reminding Enjolras, for the umpteenth time, of someone equally dark and jaded).
The following morning, Éponine rose her prisoner while it was still dark. After checking on something outside, the darkhead nodded to herself and made her way to the horses, who shied away from her.
The two rose early and had some breakfast (leftover rabbit stew) as they thought over the problem. Then she jumped out of bed, rushed over to kiss her mother, and flung her arms around the virago; she threw her arms around her mother's neck, clasped her mother by the neck, pinched her in both cheeks, pulled at her eyebrow bristles, and startled her: "How is my dear old bitch? G'day, my own sweet fine li'l dear old hussy; bonjour!"
These are quite uncouth words, and even more uncouth if spoken between mother and daughter (no matter whether it is the daughter who addresses the mother, like here, or vice versa); and, in fact, Enjolras believed at first that the sutler woman would lunge with clenched fists at her child in response to such an exceedingly irreverent address. But Madame Thénardier simply burst into sarcastic laughter, muttering something.
"Argh, 'Ponine, my li'l bratty hussy!" Then, she slapped her daughter right across the face, gave her a few headbutts, and boxed her ears, making Éponine at least slightly wince, yet this was by no means a punishment, or a correction, but rather the opposite of that; those were little Thénardier-style signs of friendship and tokens of endearment, for their displays of affections were wild and of unusual nature. The mother tweaked her daughter's nose, flicked finger-snaps at her nose so that it turned both black and blue, and gave her a few headbutts, but all of it was done out of love. Those were tokens of true robber-mother's love. And then Madame Thénardier scored a right hook on that same maiden's nose so that it not only turned black and blue, but even swelled and bled from the nostrils, but all that was done as signs of friendship, out of sheer affection and pure, true, burning maternal love expressed brigand-style -- that was all done from the purest of pure, loving kindness.
Then, at mid-day, just as Éponine had said, the robber mother turned on the keg-tap and knocked back a little swig from her keg, and then by a second, followed in turn by a third, to warm herself from within: gluck-gluck-gluck! (one sip was good, she thought; two were better; and all good things came in threes)... and then, after draining the keg to the last drop at one single deep draught, she looked all around herself with a puzzled air; then, she lay down, as she had the custom, to take her customary little mid-day nap. Then, as soon as she was settling down for a nap, twice or thrice more, she opened her glazed eyes. At last, her loud roar-like snores came to announce that everything had unfurled exactly as foretold by Éponine.
As soon as Madame Thénardier had tipped off that keg, draining it to the last drop at one fell swoop, and was settling down for her forty winks, then dozed off to sleep, and was taking the first winks of her "little" nap, her daughter, staunching the blood flow from her nostrils, sauntered off towards the prisoner. So as soon as the mother had tipped up the barrel and had had her drink and, after having drunk from the keg, dropped off into a snooze and was taking a little forty winks, the robber girl put her Bowie knife in her pocket and ran to his side, seizing him by the wrist. The robber woman even talked in her sleep. The words she spoke were all dreadful: death, hunt, fight, pillage, raid, steal. And thus, Enjolras wondered if she'd ever had anything kind to say to anybody aside from maybe the semi-spoiled Éponine... who had just tossed into his lap a slightly bloodstained tangle of his rumpled shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, and even the ribbon for his hair, and was commanding him to dress up as soon as possible.
Once he was fully dressed, hair tied back and all, the robber maiden packed Enjolras by the wrist, sheathed her Bowie, and, after opening the door so that it stood a little ajar, she looked back over her shoulder, to see if anyone of the others was coming, while crouching low and glancing left, right, left, right. The blond barely had time to turn his neck before Éponine was back again, and then gone, and then back:
"On ne saurait prendre trop de précautions", quoth she. "Tranquille. Luckily, the coast is clear. I could still find the greatest pleasure for ages in tickling your lilywhite throat quite many more times with this sharp Bowie... I'm still after tickling your gullet a lot more times with my sharp 'little penknife,' because it makes you look funny, I have such a good notion to keep you here, really have this peculiar urge; for, though you try to hide it as much as you can, alors you're so frightened that I'm about to burst in twain and die laughing! Though you don't chicken out like 'Parnasse, and rather freeze, putting on thar brave face of yours... c'est trop drôle! Car alors tu as si peur, que j'en crève de rire! Mais n'importe... But nevermind, no matter -- Ha! And me what? -- who gives a hoot? Nevermind that! So I'll put my best foot forwards, detach a horse off a rope, take you out of doors, set you free and help you outside so that we can run off and return to the North, but it's not without one condition, that is, that I shall carry this storyteller, this rebel leader, to the castle of the Morrigan. Right now, we'll leave this place, so that we'll head up north...! Haven't you listened to what I said... but then you heard for for, like Cassio, I am one of those who talk in their sleep, quite loudly, and you know how to listen, and you were listening! Couldn't sleep a wink with all that chitchat! I suppose you've heard what I told, surely, for I spoke so loud, loud enough, and you were probably eavesdropping, as you always do! Since I was taken away by her, I know the way, more or less, and we will soon find ourselves before the keep of the Green Faery, where your companion is." Éponine was quite restless, really on tenterhooks, heart pounding against her breastbone and rising up to her glottis: on the one hand, racked with insecurity and with her deepest fears of betraying her parents and the Patron-Minette gang; on the other, overflowing with excitement at the prospect of impending adventure. She let this positive excitement override the fears that made her waver and paralysed her. "Alea iacta est!" she finally decided, without stopping to think anymore, no longer mulling upon the question, and decided to leave with Enjolras on horseback.
"Do you engage yourself positively?" Enjolras was still insecure.
"I swear! Robber’s honour! Foi d'Éponine Thénardier! You shall descend in the very courtyard of that keep." She cleared her throat and avoided his eyes, and then added a "Hush" forcefully with a glare. "Don't say anything," she snapped, cross again.
"We won't get in trouble for this, will we?" he asked worriedly, thinking again about what consequences both of them would face as a result of their leaving. Though they hadn't gotten to a good start in their friendship, and she would often be temperamental, Enjolras did feel that, over the past few hours, Éponine had thawed a little and warmed to the fair leader -- her first friend. And Enjolras didn't want a friend to receive punishment or difficulty for helping him on the quest. "If there's another way we can do this," he started, but she shook her head.
"They'll not have a clue I had anything to do with this," she said as her face shifted between being casted in the moonlight's warm glow and the shadows of the tall, imposing pillars that surrounded them. "Most of them are drunk! They won't have any idea what happened tonight and simply assume we ran off. That their li'l girl now all grown up eloped with her Suskewiet. And stole Papa's military gear to make matters worse." She pulled out her knife with her left hand.
Then she suited deeds to words and darted towards the horses' corner. And she loosened the knots in the rope halter that tethered one of the carriage horses claimed in the ambush, a nutbrown gelding with a silver blaze, to a pillar, and outfitted the horseback with a saddle, and a little pillow for a cushion for the fair leader to sit on, behind it, not seeming surprised when the beast immediately danced backward, out of reach. Enjolras watched on, surprised, restraining tears of joy as many as he could. She had decided to help him herself (even while warning him that, if he didn't lie still in bed, she would stick her knife into a vital point of him)!
Éponine eagerly helped him to climb onto horseback, before handing him a small pillow for her to sit on. Next, she led them out into the main hall, where a good number of the robbers were sleeping. Enjolras watched her sneak around the room with surprising finesse, shoving a few loaves of bread and some ham into a small sack that she tied around his wrist.
"Thank you for everything, 'Ponine. I will never forget you or your kindness. You won't be in too much trouble with your mother, will you?"
She smiled softly. "No, Maman is wild and violent but she loves me. I know she does, even if she won't say it." Then she made a dramatic pause; for he was so touched by her thoughtfulness that he became teary-eyed.
"Ah! I cannot suffer that your eyes get teary, Enj, it doesn't suit you at all; you should, maintenant, be in a sunnier mood, since we are gonna find once more your companion. I don't do things half way," she said. Now... Here are Papa's old fur-lined Wellingtons for you," said she, as she took a pair of old, battered, worn-out military boots from the bottom of the pile of provisions the robber band had captured from others, and held them out to him, “for it's getting cold and it's gonna be very cold, bitter cold, freeze-your-balls-off cold, and there will surely be patches of thorns that will tear your breeches to shreds, so try stay as bundled as possible. They'll reach up to your knees indeed. Still, you, you won't freeze. And here's his fancy old bicorn hat, and Maman's big old woolly mittens, for it will get cold as hell, and I don't want you to freeze your wrists off either, or to leave the skin on your pretty palms torn off on the keep doors; here, allons, stick your hands in! They'll almost reach right to your elbows. Put 'em on!" The hat was plumed and decorated with a golden cockade, definitely too fine for a non-commissioned officer, and thus, most likely to be stolen goods; while the equally gold-laced military boots were a bit too wide for the stripling's slender legs, if it weren't for the soft, fluffy lining of rabbitskin that Madame Thénardier had lined them with on the inside, most surely to keep her husband's feet warm and healthy during the Russian winter.
The Sarge's feet were just a little bigger, but the boots that Enjolras had hastily put on, before donning the bicorn, were still warm from his feet.
"There! Now you look just like my dear old Papa!" Éponine told him with a flourish. "At least when it comes for the hat and the footwear..."
"More like Puss in Boots, actually..." Enjolras muttered as he donned the thick winter mittens of wool, lined with the same fluffy rabbitskin within, that reached so that his arms entered into them half-way up to the elbows, but the robber girl just scoffed.
"At least your li'l lily hands look as nasty as old Maman's big ugly bear-paws! You ought to be looking delighted, overjoyed, right, Sir? You oughtta look pleased now. You oughtta be delighted! I'm so glad I could help in some way. And here also is your pack that we took from you. Not only are our mutual friend Shakespeare's tragedies back in there; I have put two loaves of ration bread and some salted meat inside it, both ham and bacon, for the road so that we needn't starve. And there's this li'l keg of eau-de-vie inside, too... for we shan't die of thirst either, shall we? Here, take these provisions along, so that we won't starve or die of thirst." In a quite uncommon gesture, most likely spurred by trou normand consumption, she gave back the knapsack; she wasn’t looking his way as she spoke and busied herself with tying the opening of the pack, to keep the provisions inside safe. Enjolras looked at the bag and back at her in confusion.
"'Ponine, stop! I have to leave now. I can’t stay any longer. I must-” His attempt to sound resolute and imposing was cut off by his backpack thrusted roughly in his arms. If he didn’t catch it, it would fall down.
Enjolras found himself near to sobbing in gratitude, and he asked the robber maiden if she would not leave this place and come with him on his journey. "Truly, you are so kind,'Ponine. Perhaps you should escape this place, this life. You are better than it. For this life that you are living now is no life for a child. You are better than it."
In response, Éponine grinned fiercely, and shook her head, as she took up, and slung over her shoulder, the musket her father had carried for so many years.
Ducking her head shyly, she shook it. "I have been cutting men's throats all my adolescent life, I am merciless as the winter, and I have not been a child for almost a decade. Those happy days shall nevermore return... No... I may not like this life and I know I am not well-suited for it but all of the people I love are right here. Still, I have been beginning to grow weary of this life I lead in a ruin in the middle of the woods (here she yawned slightly); so maybe, at the end of our quest, if we ever make it through, with this musket and these franc notes I have pocketed from Maman's purse (here she winked an eye at the fair student and produced the bundle of banknotes), I can go south to the Camargue, or most surely to Montmartre, or to the Left Bank, where all the art and where all the excitement is forever filling their hearts... though it's unfair indeed that no woman can enter University —I wish I could someday, and I hope it comes true after that Revolution of yours!—, and try my luck at being an honest writer or actress; and perhaps also demonstrate for women's rights to vote and to a higher education." Then, when these provisions in the knapsack were tied on her back over the gun barrel, she frowned, and studied him carefully.
"Once we go out, we can’t stop. Can’t look back. If we do any of that, we’ll never make it to her castle. Y'know, I could still use some pleasure in tickling that lilywhite throat of yours with this Bowie knife of mine, and bursting into laughter at your reactions. I have a good notion to keep you here... But who gives a hoot anyway? Nevermind that! You oughtta be delighted! Keep your spirits up... we shall find that friend of yours, shan't we? And, in his absence, such a stripling still needs a companion worth fighting for; someone quick and strong and able to survive in the wild, someone who knows that way up north, someone who would gladly fend off some obnoxious korrigans while you set your squire free... For who would care when the others wake up tomorrow and find the two of us gone? Nowadays, Maman and Papa know I'm nobody's fool and I can fend for myself! I’m really bad at this. I won’t say goodbye. For we're in this together!" The girl squeezed Enjolras' knee with a sparkle in her eye.
Then, she unwrapped a bundle and handed it to him, and Enjolras saw that it was his peacoat, his gift from the Fauchelevents. She stood in front of the fair leader, effectively barricading his field of vision completely, the smug troubadour smile on her lips and a familiar crimson velvet coat wrapped under her elbow.
"You'll need this," she said gruffly, "for it will be very cold. You’ll need it more than me.” She threw the coat over his shoulders and kissed him heartily on both cheeks. The loud smooch almost popped his ears. “Thanks for borrowing it to me, chéri!” Borrowed? How..? And then, somewhat embarrassed, she added, "I'm afraid the others have already sold your other horses." She was donning her old dark overcoat, which the fair leader had just given her back in exchange.
The fair leader, as he donned his warm crimson coat once more, knew it was much more likely that they had eaten his horses, but he didn't want to upset her. Restraining himself, he accepted the gifts with thanks, as formally as a commanding officer would have thanked someone under his command. This pacified Éponine's pompous side, and she smiled contentedly, glad to be part of the story. "That's all right," he said hastily, anxious to be gone before the other robbers realized what had happened. He hesitated, though, just for a moment. "'Ponine—"
But Éponine was already striding away, her back to Enjolras, and there was nothing he could say to change what had happened; she half-opened the rickety gates, so that they stood ajar, before tying the pack of provisions tighter to her own back, and that little pillow as a cushion behind her saddle for the blond to comfortably sit on to the horse's back, and seating herself on the saddle in front, riding astride her steed, with one leg on either side, and turning its head northwards. "You ought to be looking delighted, right? Now hop on, Sir Galahad," she motioned to Enjolras, as she helped him up behind her. "And hold tight to my back! Well, don’t just stand there like a fool! Hurry up!"
In response, he didn’t hesitate a moment more and climbed up on horseback with Éponine's help. She lifted or hoisted him on top of the cushion and on horseback, much to his awe, then carefully tied him in place, attaching him safely into place with leather belts. He stepped into the cradle of her hands, and, letting him use her shoulders as a stepping place for the hop in between, she swung him over the bony horseback before attaching him into place; she had the good sense to tie the rider on, for him not to fall from horseback, and indeed to give him even her own little pillow for a cushion to comfortably sit on. Once he was up, he glanced down on her with strange mixed emotions, as she looked back over her shoulder, to ensure that no one had returned.
"I don't do things half way," she said. "On ne saurait prendre trop de précautions!" said she... and gasped the last syllable when she noticed that he was also looking at her.
Their eyes met and the fair leader really wished she was his sister. He wished he could introduce her personally to all of his lieutenants. He wished he could spend an evening with her, together with his friends at the backroom of the Café Musain, or together with his parents in the Manoir Enjolras' garden. But something in her gaze told that she’d not appreciate such unrealistic things. She was a woman of action and sound thinking. She smiled awkwardly and caressed his side for reassurance as if she didn’t know how it felt under her fingers. Once more she was a complete bundle of uncertainty.
As he mounted and clung to the maiden who sat in front, she drew her sharp Bowie and, with a single swing of the left arm, she cut through the tether or rope halter that tied the horse to the pillar, then shook the reins and yelled:
"And mind that we don’t dawdle on the way. Allons-y donc!!"
Their steed at first walked slowly, hooves making only the softest of clopping against the stone floors as Éponine led them across to the archway, where a set of large wooden doors would have once stood, but now were torn off their hinges, leaning haphazardly against the archway. Once she was standing at the side of it, vaulting deftly to ride astride behind the blond on her makeshift pillow-saddle, she turned to look at Enjolras with another smile.
Thus they bounded away; over stumps and stones and through the forest, leaping over swamps as their mount ran as fast as four legs would allow.
Instantly, they set off at breakneck speed, and Éponine flung her arms out to open the off-torn doors completely wide; Enjolras threw himself forwards and wrapped his arms around her waist as tightly as he could as they started careening, departing as if shot from a cannon, launching themselves out of the château, then out of the garden, then through the woods; first following her through the darkness of the ruin, then leaping over the hedges and bushes, over ruined statues and dried-up fountains, in two great bounds, and then out into the star-lit night, through the forest. He stretched out his hand, quite bare now that he had given his gloves away, and the robber-maiden took it. "Allons-y," she said, "and I wish you good luck."
In a moment he had donned the rabbitskin mittens in haste and they were outside, in the woods, plunging over stumps and stones, leaping off over bushes and stubbled fields and fallen trees, over hedges and ditches, as fast as they could, through the deep forest underbrush.
"Free! We're free!" the blond panted joyfully as they ran, but the dark maiden, who had just sheathed the Bowie in her pocket once more, clamped her hand over those comely features, trying to shush him.
"Not yet," she hissed. "We've still got the robbers to get past." But her warning came too late—already the alarm was sounding, figures shouting and running through the trees.
A loud whistle whipped the morning air. Madame Thénardier, now completely sober with no trace of a hangover, stood on a small mound and shouted orders on her men, who had returned from their recon mission and rushed back and forth. Everyone was gathering something, people were assembling. The fair leader himself was about to ask, when the virago caught sight of him and her daughter, and stormed off in their pursuit, on foot.
"What's going on?" Enjolras asked, now that they were at a certain distance from the lair. “Ah, the blokes are back, they’re all packing up. They’re moving on to a new location," replied Éponine, plunging the spurs into the sides of their steed. “The camp is leaving. Hurry! She’s not in a good mood today.”
Enjolras could barely connect the dots, the fright of him getting even a bit further away from Grantaire caused him goosebumps. He couldn’t let that happen anymore. He would make final appeals and if need be, he’d fight. Even if he was unarmed and not much of a fighter. He scanned the surroundings, trying to figure out in panic how he could escape from the camp the easiest way.
As he glanced at her sideways, Enjolras could swear he saw a glint, a snicker in her eyes. The dark maiden's wavering had vanished as quickly as it had come over her; her general of bandits demeanour back in full force. A lioness sending him off. This silent approval filled the fair student with pride and confidence; Éponine was strong and recognized his strength in return. Enjolras straightened on horseback and felt as if he grew several inches. With everyone's confidence put in him, he was growing more confident.
Yet this was not yet the time to be safe and sound —as we have said before, already the alarm was sounding, figures shouting and running through the treetrunks.
To the two young people's dismay, the robbers' leader appeared directly in their path, snarling, and nearly took the horse's head off with a vicious swing of her cutlass; the steed was forced to wheel around and race back the way they had come, Madame Thénardier close on their heels. On level ground, the riders would have outpaced the brute in a heartbeat, but in the trees, they were forced to go carefully to avoid catching their hair in the branches, and they barely stayed ahead of that wicked, curved blade.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!! OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!!!" roared the virago in their pursuit, slashing her way through the woods, as she stormed through the underbrush, by cutting down branches to left and right.
To the two young people's dismay, the robbers' leader appeared directly in their path, snarling, and nearly took the horse's head off with a vicious swing of her cutlass; the steed was forced to wheel around and race back the way they had come, Madame Thénardier close on their heels. On level ground, the riders would have outpaced the brute in a heartbeat, but in the trees, they were forced to go carefully to avoid catching their hair in the branches, and they barely stayed ahead of that wicked, curved blade. The gelding soon began to tire, and Enjolras feared his weight would cost the beast his life.
Just as he was beginning to think they were lost, the horse reared up unexpectedly and dodged to one side, unseating him and the maiden who showed him the way. Enjolras flew into a clump of furze and landed with a grunt on top of Éponine, flustering both of them for a mere instant, but they barely had time to think about whether they'd been hurt; when Madame Thénardier saw that she had frightened the beast, and most surely killed her own beloved daughter, the only child she had left, leaping to conclusions, a cold fist seized her own heart.
For a long moment, Enjolras and Éponine were transfixed by the dreadful sight. Then the robber sank to the ground, and the cutlass with her. It was the most terrifying thing either of the riders had ever seen. The two young people held their breath, watching their master's body crumble under the terrible weight of her dismay. Before she could scramble to her feet and try to run, Madame Thénardier's body came to rest in the furze and moved no more for a while, until she came to her senses and found that both riders and steed had vanished into thin air.
She was already striding away, her back to the North, and there was nothing she could say to change what had happened, nothing but to cross her fingers and hope that at least her dear 'Ponine was still alive. During her mother's seizure, the maiden, after jumping onto the horseback and helping the blond southerner up as well, had turned the horse's head northward and urged him forward, blinking against the stinging sleet as it began to fall thickly, laying a new carpet of white for their journey.
"You saved me," he said at last, still not able to believe it. But Éponine only shook her head, unable to look at him in the eye.
And then both of them turned and galloped away through the great, dark forest, their steed's hoofbeats taking them north, towards the edge of France.
One could not even follow them with one's eyes; leaping over thorny bushes and gnarly roots, storming across valleys, and rivers, and heathland, and marshland, and cultivated countryside, as fast as they could go, and they never stopped to look back; as if they were riding a pegasus, not being stopped by the howling of the night-wind nor by that of the wolves behind them, in the forest depths. The robbers' den was made up of forest and marsh that shaded into its landscape... Wolves howled in the forest's depths, and ravens screeched harshly in the branches overhead, but Éponine kept on clinging to the reins, unafraid: she had grown up in the wilderness; she knew all the ways of the forest; she understood the souls of the beasts and the plants and the fungi that lived in it; and she loved it. On and on they sped very swiftly, over the rocky paths of the forest, through marshes and plains, all at a break-neck speed, as fast as she could spur the horse onwards. Faster and faster they ran, through the night, through the day... It seemed that they were riding a pegasus, flying rather than galloping; fire was breathed out of their steed's nostrils. Sparks of fire seemed to fly from the horseshoes and reflect in Éponine's eyes, while Enjolras clung dearly to her waist for his life, the hoofbeats and the heartbeat of the dark maiden throbbing within his head.
Just then did he comprehend how much force there was hidden in behind her kind eyes and watched amazed how the colourful particles rushed from underneath the hooves. Day turned to night within a heartbeat, the woods were gone... their steed had slowed from a full-on sprint to a brisk jog once they had cleared the part of the forest that the bandits lived in.
"Ah, oh, voilà our North Star! Look, Enj, look at it flash; how brightly it's shining!"
And, upon beholding that sight by night, following the North Star, she shook the reins and doubled their speed across the frozen wastes, running on faster than ever -- night and day. He just clutched to her back purely on instinct, since the ride itself didn’t seem dangerous. Although it was ferocious, their bodies felt light and weren’t fighting with the air. In fact it seemed like the air flowed around them like a steady current. It was contagious now, the happiness that had come with their freedom. It was like seeing the sun for the first time after being shrouded in darkness for a decade. It brought with it new clarity.
There was something wrong with the time, neither one could put a finger on it. Just the full moon, round as a polished silver coin, watched on as they cantered through the land.
All day we waited for mother to get drunk,
As soon as she fell asleep, we both crept outside.
I untied a horse and helped Enj to mount him,
and swapping boots and our mittens, we bade crime goodbye.
She adjusted her knapsack, which became lighter as they spent their supplies, and made their way through the autumn forest. The rain subdued and night pulled its curtain over the land, bathing it in darkness.
Yet still they felt hope welling through their chests as the air soared through their hair and washed their faces. Enjolras couldn't believe he was free, and neither Éponine that she had finally flown the coop. Both of them had expected to remain with the bandits for much longer, but her goodness had let them escape.
Off they bounded away, over bushes and stubbled fields and briers, over stumps and stones, straight through the great forest, over swamps and across plains, as fast as their steed could run. They crossed through the great dark forest, then clearings, fields, marshes, plains, up valleys, across rivers, once more through profound woodlands, through those territories she knew uniquely well, all the way to their goal; over stumps and stones, away through the great forest, over marshes and heather, as fast as their steed could go and as quickly as they could, as if their mount had wings... and away they went very swiftly, over the rocky paths of the forest, through marshes and plains, all at a break-neck speed. Through the forest and across the great plains, as fast as they could; and suddenly the sky was all filled with light. Then Éponine was sure she saw some blue lights like flames quiver up in the night sky on the horizon and thus she grabbed deep inside her reserve for the last bits of strength. Neither she nor Enjolras didn’t feel so cold anymore, perhaps it was the heat from moving and the effort or excitement. Hope filled both of their hearts as they pursued those elusive faery lights; neither one couldn’t wait for finding the nearest person and ask the questions which burned upon their lips.
They galloped like that, without allowing themselves any rest or respite, riding in that stormy pace for six days and seven nights, and the two loaves were eaten, and the ham and bacon within the pack were gone as well, and the eau-de-vie had been drained to the last drop to stave the cold away.
Great balls of greenish light, and sickly green streaks of light, ripped through the heavens, rolled crackling across the sky above.
Six days and seven nights later, and far to the north, at the end of the trail of faery lights, they stopped at an old, crumbling abbey, beside a lake. It looked quite empty, as though no one could have lived there; the roof was entirely gone, and the walls were made more of holes than wall. They went inside anyway, for both questers were quite tired and hungry, and, led by the Thénardier girl, who had stooped to pick something golden along the shores of the lake, they decided to encamp for the day.
The closer they got to the lights, the clearer it was that it wasn’t any ordinary land. There were only ruins before them, but still a lot of commotion. The two questers arrived at that large lake. It was full of life, the frogs croaking for their dear life in spite of the cold (it was about time for their winter sleep), floating lights above the water - the faery dust. It was pure magic, but they knew it was real, more real than rêverie itself. They did not stop until they stood in front of the ruined Gothic abbey.
At first Enjolras, so worn-out that he could barely stand upright and even speak clearly, looked around the ruins, all over the place and at the broken faces of virgins and saints crushed during the Revolution, while wondering why Éponine had chosen this for a campsite... when suddenly she smiled, as if she could read his thoughts, and beckoned towards a low, rough wooden door; to enter, one had to nearly slither over a floor littered with what looked like a carpeting of bones and thorns. Through this door he followed her into a cramped tunnel that led into the cellars below the abbey.
It was relevant to perceive the differences between the two of them. He had lived since birth in a large mansion, and been wealthy, and raised, though not with siblings, with a decent education, even attaining a University degree, and, though his upbringing had been so sheltered, knew how to behave himself well in society; but already she, his polar opposite, seemed more interesting, because she did not know how to behave herself or what decency was, for she had been spoilt by her parents, living in village taverns or abandoned castles in the middle of the forests, together with a band of other scoundrels and miscreants and vagabonds and whatever of less than desirable reputation. She had been pampered to the point of commanding all the others, even her own mother, the one who de facto ruled the roost, thus contriving to subjugate authority, imposing her own will and desires. Even though at first his situation as a prisoner had seemed unfavourable, Enjolras had discovered, with the sister he'd never had, a brand new light in which to see everything. If this rescue journey was also one towards a full, admirable coming of age, it would have been incomplete without sympathetic experience of the lives of the marginalised, the helpless, the incapacitated, the criminal, incurring gratitude and affection; not censure and judgement; to accomodate the existences and even the personalities of those of less firm clay than himself, of those inclined by chance and skill to err. And thus, they had managed to conquer one another, to help one another back to the freedom of the road up north, and were helping each other on the last leg of this quest... She exhibited an efficiency and resolve, as well as an intolerance to gentler emotions (though her façade had cracked under the influence of strong drink, nights ago) that gave her a somewhat masculine, or rather androgynous, cast, not unlike Enjolras' own. This robber-girl turned out to be the greatest facilitator of their travels: the gift of her company had ensured rapid and expert coverage of the vast distance between the felons' den and the very precinct of the Belle Dame's palace.
She’s far from inconspicuous. She stands head and shoulders taller than many women. Maybe some say her nose is too long and that she is far too slender and that her hands are so twisted. Maybe some say she’s too plain. But I’ve seen her laugh. I’ve seen joy in her dark eyes. That is among the things that vindicates each day. She may have failed in her particular love magic, and we continue our quest together --this time she finds it right to be friends.
"That was nothing - or it must have been chance, was it?" she smirked.
"I would not have got far without Courfeyrac either, for he directed me to Marius and Cosette, and they gave me provisions and fine horses and a fine attelage - conspicuous enough for me to get captured by a certain band of brigands; and now you yourself are giving me direction and advice; a certain robber maiden who was ready to grant my wishes."
As he spoke, he realized that it was the truth. He had felt so terribly alone since Grantaire's departure, and felt alone, in truth, even before he disappeared, from the day that he began to drink that bright green liquor that entered his heart and turned him cold and unfeeling; but at every stage along this journey, there had always been someone to offer aid and friendship.
The fair leader, as he donned the boots and mittens and bicorn hat after having buttoned his coat, agreed that this was perfectly fair, and, moreover, he asked her if they could not leave immediately, for the knowledge that they were but a few miles from finding Grantaire at last made him too eager to sit still any longer. Throughout the nighttime, by the fireside, both of them had warmed themselves cozy, as they had drunk and eaten and slept together.
"Allez, Enj! This way."
He uncovered a familiar door in the wall, it had dead leaves scattered around it though. It was clear, the hideout ended behind it.
The door opened and both young questers stepped out dressed for the autumn towards the yellow covered ground, leaves making a soft carpet for them to walk on.
"Allons-y donc!" With that, she clapped her hands together and led them back through the small wooden door, up the tunnel, and out into the crumbling ruin of the abbey; they all ventured forth and out into the cold once more, and once they were outside beneath the dark sky that always comes before the red of the dawn. Then she cut the horse's tether with her Bowie and swung more onto horseback. With one easy lift, Enjolras was picked up and placed on horseback. Before he could answer, he had been once more hefted up behind her, and they had begun to gallop, even quicker than before, faster than ever -- both by night and by day.
After timidly peeking over the horizon, the sun had begun to climb the sky. The robber girl had insisted that they leave first thing in the morning, as daylight in the winter was minimal up North, and they'd be racing against the clock to arrive at the Green Faery's while it was still light.
They had already galloped just like that, in that pace, without allowing themselves any rest or respite, for six days and seven nights more, and on and on they ran, day and night, night and day, ever faster. Faster and faster they ran, through the night, through the day, but even with this great effort the last crumbs of bread had been eaten, and the last chunks of ham and bacon within the pack were gone too, and the eau-de-vie had been drained to the last drop to stave the cold away, and both Othello and King Lear had been read through (and the Hugo translation was safely tucked and carried inside the pack once more).
And Enjolras had already seen all the way through the dark maiden and found that she was a gem in the rough: elle était libre, rieuse, franche, avisée... aux allures garçonnières... et le regardait d'un air frondeur. The fair leader would, indeed, have fallen immediately in love with her, if his heart did not belong to Liberty (for he still did not realise that it also belonged to another man) already.
But... they had reached the end of the treeline! By the time they'd finished their provisions, right when they had eaten all the ration breads and the ham and drunk all the liquor they were in their destination.
Day turned into night within a heartbeat, the woods were gone and there were just endless plains of heather in sight. Huge calm sea of purple flowers, glittering like diamonds with the twilight frost.
Flash, flash, went the beautiful blue North Star in the air the whole night long.
Enjolras agreed that this was perfectly fair, and moreover, he asked Éponine if they could not dismount immediately, for the knowledge that he was but a few miles from finding Grantaire at last made him too eager to sit still any longer.
The robber maiden clapped her hands together and shook the reins, digging into the flanks of her horse for what could have been the last time in her short life.
The two miles flew by in the twinkling of an eye, and then they came to a stop before a large scrubby holly-bush, or rather a holly-tree, warped and wind-blasted by the frozen air, but covered in bright red berries, like freshly-shed droplets of arterial blood. The two young questers had been riding, without taking the slightest risk to stop or to look back, all the way until they had arrived at the large red-fruited shrub. Beyond it, all was bare rock and frosty heather in bloom, stretching away before them like a great sheet of amethyst crystals.
It was their destination, and they had reached the far north at last.
They found before them a vast plain of heather in bloom, full of bare rocks and here and there a clump of furze or a low, scrubby barren spruce-tree, warped into strange shapes by the wind. At the moment they arrived, it was wuthering, and the gale whipped their youthful faces, rosy with warmth, yet already weather-beaten.
And, in the middle of the heath, on a low hill surrounded with three terrace-rings, there was a perfect circle of stones, something like a solar calendar, in the centre of which they could make up a dark shape of something similar to a fort. All that moorland was lit with an eerie and bizarre flickering green light... It was as if there was fire in the sky.
Overhead, the sky burned with sickly green fire, which Enjolras supposed could only be the ward that defended the keep; that supernatural courtyard wall where one had to do a certain thing in order to enter the castle. The walls were enchanted...
The Green Faery's fortress. They had reached the place at last. They saw the stronghold looming on the horizon.
It was exactly as Éponine had described it.
At first, Enjolras thought of Combeferre and what he would have given, a remark about supernatural, monstrous beings and especially antagonists in folklore always dwelling in outpost-like, isolated castles or estates in the middle of an expanse of countryside, if not a desolate wasteland, without any other structures around, and the Otherworld itself being depicted in the same fashion, as a kingdom without settlements, only a bright pastoral scenery with a royal castle of preternatural artistry and magnificence; setting them apart from society as monstrous Others. Then Prouvaire would have launched a tirade in defense of the noble Other and against society, and there would be a tad of back-and-forth, like a tennis match, and the leader himself would have to tear them apart and make peace... What if they were having this argument right now, in his absence? Could Courfeyrac's swordsmanship be as efficient as Enjolras' own rhetoric? Hoping it would be, the leader stopped his train of thought.
Now what was it they should do next? What had Madame Thénardier done while her husband staved off the korrigans? To open the ward and enter the keep? The dark elves would arrive as soon as they detected intruders...
Dismounting from her horse and then helping the fair leader dismount, after having tethered the steed by the reins to the tree-trunk of the large red-fruited bush at the edge of the moorland realm, she aimed at him another of those inquisitive, wistful stares:
"Don't you remember, Enj? There is only one way to break the ward cast by the Green Faery upon this circle! Go round it thrice, withershins, running as fast as you can, and the first time say:
'Open from within;
Let me in! Let me in!'
"Then go round the second lap and say:
'Open wide, open wide;
Let me inside.'
"Then go round the third lap and say:
'Open fast, open fast;
Let me in at last.'
And the third time, as soon as those words 'at last' have left your lips, the ward will vanish closing with a click, only for an instant, and you may go in, as soon as possible. Only remember to go round withershins. If you go round with the sun, or the hands of a clock, the ward will not open. Nevermore. And come what may, come hell or highwater, never slow your pace, and keep on running without wavering.” She tsk-ed, flicking her index finger back and forth, like a metronome.
Enjolras braced himself. Suddenly, voilà that great dark forms were already beginning to loom out of the thick bluish fog, up behind the heather bloom. Korrigans. A whole army, a whole host, if not at least a whole regiment. And yet they were but the vanguard of the Morrigan's forces, the tip of the iceberg seen from the surface...
It would hurt indeed to take his leave of Éponine after all they had been through, after how much they had got to know one another and looked at one another's true self, beyond first impressions. Now he had to let her go in order to set Grantaire free.
"Halt!" said she, seizing the fair leader by the shoulder as he strode forth towards the fortress. It was time to bid one another farewell, and Éponine obviously felt the same way, tears welling in her dark eyes as she drew her sharp Bowie and took a glance into her reflection. It could not be more obvious that she was choking back some really heartfelt sobs.
"Opening the ward is not enough, Sir Galahad, but merely the first trial. After you have entered the courtyard, you will find a large cauldron hewn out of dark rock, and filled with rainwater, on the threshold of the Green Faery's keep. Now pay attention; walk round the cauldron and push the gates inward, but drink no drop, no matter how thirsty you be; for if in faery realms you sup one drop, never again will you see our Earth, but you will remain trapped, within the ward and without entering the fortress, until the Green Faery herself finds you and forces her blood down your throat. Above all, don't stop; and remember that she has far less power than she herself believes..." Then, as she let the tears flow freely, she clasped Enjolras in those strong arms and planted a kiss upon each of his cheeks. Maybe it was the last bear hug that she would ever give in a short lifetime. And he dried up her tears on those soft scarlet velvet sleeves of his. At the moment of truth, in the last minute, their ways had to part, even though their wish was for all help not to leave them!
As he started forth towards the circle of stones, Enjolras said these lessons over and over until he knew them by heart, not even daring to look back at Éponine. The korrigans were closing in, hastening not only to cut off the intruders' passage, but to surround them and envelop them and put an end to their short lives. They were advancing in a more regular order than ever regiment of National Guards had ever marched, against a sky which was crisp and pure and all brilliant with stars, in spite of the fact that it must have been the middle of the day.
In response, the robber maiden braced herself in a catlike stance, setting her opera hat right on her head, her trusty Bowie knife held firm in the grasp of her left hand, and her warm overcoat wrapped around her right arm for defense.
The closer the korrigans came, the more terrible they grew and the clearer the young people could see what the Green Faery's host looked like. Each of the little pointy-eared dark elves, both male and female adults the size of young children, was armed with a needle-like rapier blade of fire. "A needle of fire which burns to ashes all it touches," she had told him that night in the robbers' den. And all of their blades were so hot that they crackled and glowed in dazzling white. Their dreadful features were the most bizarre you may picture yourselves; some of them had pointy furry ears like those of wolves, while others had catlike or snakelike golden eyes with vertical pupils; they all were the vanguard of the Lady in Green. It seemed as if all these korrigans were ready to ask: "You two and what army?"
"We tower over them, don't we? And our cold steel, furthermore, gives us the edge as well! Now, I storm through their ranks, stabbing to left and right and wreaking havoc in their ranks; so in the end I will have cut a fine path for you to the fortress," Éponine reassuringly said as she winked an eye at Enjolras.
At the sight of the human intruders, each korrigan uttered a piercing scream, and raised his or her sword, the fiery sword which reduced to ashes anything it touched; but without appearing surprised the dark maiden strode forth with a resolute pace, her opera hat still on her head, her knife still in her left hand and her coat wrapped around her right arm, as the young man by her side steeled himself, taking care to remain at a little distance.
Before, the thought of being killed by the swarthy girl’s hands had made him… happy? no, rather than that, it made him somehow comfortable. Now their positions were switched, so Enjolras could perfectly understand the girl’s feelings. They shared a special bond of each of them being comfortable with being killed by the other. And Éponine was now choosing the being-killed side so that he could continue that search for Grantaire. Of course both of them knew that the robber girl could just end her foster brother’s life with her own hands as she did with all others. Enjolras would die young anyway, so what’s the difference? But his story reached deep into the robber princess’s heart. She have always been dreaming of sacrificing her life for her beloved. And now she was not just sacrificing her life for her beloved Enjolras, but doing it so that the fair leader could sacrifice his own life in a similar fashion. It wasn’t a perfect fulfillment of her dream. It was better than perfect.
She straightened his collar caring just as a sibling he had never had would. “You’ll be on your own, and I won’t be able to help you.” He took a hold of her wrists and pulled them away gently. “I’ll keep you all in my heart. Think of me and wish me strength.” Two light kisses, one on each side, painting his cheeks rosy sent him on his way. "Now... Go! Go!! Your lover needs you! GO!!" she pushed the blond in the back, giving him a generous shove forwards as the korrigans lunged towards her where she stood, her Bowie in her left hand and her coat wrapped around her right arm.
Then, she clapped him on the back, and wished him well, and, before she departed, she blew one last kiss at Enjolras; and then she left him without another word, as he thanked her and set off, marching forwards across the stone and heather and frost as quickly as he could. His feet were soon tender and maybe even bleeding, and, while he walked, the lashing rains from the ominous clouds overhead flew thicker and faster, forming a wall of bluish-white fog around him, but somehow never seeming to touch the ground, which remained icy and bare.
It was then that Enjolras, as he kept on running and holding back the tears, once he was on his own and felt the impression of the cold, reached up to the crown of his head and found it bare, topped with nothing but soft golden locks. "My hat... I am not wearing it anymore, it must have dropped off during the ride!" he thought. There he was, bareheaded in the middle of that blistering ruthless cold and those obscuring mists; all alone and shivering in his crimson peacoat, he was boldly striding into enemy territory. Looking over his shoulder at Éponine for one last time, he still marched forwards as fast as he could; he gulped down and braced himself, ready to enter the sacred ground as he left her fighting off the enemy vanguard; and then he hastened on to the Green Faery’s castle.
"Say 'allo to my li'l friend!", he heard, behind the nape of his neck, her defiant warcry rising to the skies. "En-en garde!!" From his peripheral vision, he could see Éponine bracing herself, complete with her trusty knife.
Seeing herself in danger of being lynched by all those monsters of whom she had always heard others speak, yet of whose existence in real life she had not even harboured the slightest idea, the dark maiden began to gather momentum for her first strike; the opera hat on her head, the Bowie knife in her left hand, and the coat wrapped for a shield around her right arm. As they grew near, one of the largest of them, a male who seemed to be an officer due to the raven plume in his hat (most korrigans, male and female, wore none), lifted his spear and threw it at the maiden's face. Éponine brought her right arm and musket up in front of him, and the spear struck the cold steel in the gun barrel, and bounced off quite harmlessly. Then she picked up the spear from where it lay on the ground, reversed it, and flung it back at the korrigan; it flew through the air and struck the creature in the neck, where it stuck fast, and the korrigan fell over backwards.
"Strike that! Reverse it! I meant the other way!" had been her war cry as she launched this successful counterattack.
The maiden felt a burst of satisfaction at having dispatched at least one enemy, though she could see that the korrigan army was far, far to vast for her to defeat single-handedly. She thought of Enjolras, and their quest, and her promise. She thought of her mother, of Cosette, of a tragedy she did not want to see repeated.
"I was born a Thénardier, and raised a Thénardier, both for good and for evil," she told herself. To the right, her small, sturdy figure with thick raven curls would dart in agilely with the stock of her gun, scoring a hit against one of the opponents; then, turning to the ones directly before her, she wielded her knife like a shortsword with breathtaking precision, forcing the pack to back away. Éponine threw her Bowie with such ease and skill that it was just like watching a real valkyrie. Though it looked like she hadn't aimed at all, she got a female korrigan in the throat, sending her flying back several metres until she crashed to the ground with an explosion of dust and sparks. A searing heat went all the way down to the bone, but her opponent shattered into a thousand pieces.
Though all alone, on her own, without more weapons, in the middle of that dreadful frosted heathland, she began to run against the enemy lines, head first, as fast as she could.
Though... this was different; those soldiers, the mercenaries, were running for the wall too. They were a little more difficult to scare... Was this what everyone was literally up in arms about? They had repelled armies before; the walls were enchanted... Wait! At least one korrigan must have felt a sense of déjà-vu, noticing her resemblance both to the past general at Their Ladyship's service, a dark young female, and to the oversized bear of a human woman who had swept the floor clean with them, taking down their friends and relatives, ere she left the keep cradling the maiden general in her arms.
Once more she leapt into their ranks, and found herself surrounded once more by the enemy; there was no other way out than to break free through the enemy ranks, even if it meant to take a great risk. A Thénardier. Her father had fought off a regiment of hussars all on his own. Her mother had saved people from the Beresina ice that shattered beneath their feet, their hooves, their cannon-wheels. They were scoundrels, brigands, truants... yet their resolve was also in her blood.
Nailing the muzzle of her rifle to the ground, she gathered all her strength and vaulted over the korrigans where their circle was the loosest. A blade flashed in the corner of her eye, and, upon landing, she felt the smell of something burning behind her, even though she felt no heat searing her skin. The shock surprised her so much that she crash-landed, a female korrigan landing, flaming sword in hand, on top of her. Éponine reacted quickly, from muscle memory of tavern fights, by placing the gun barrel, held in both hands, in front of her face and throat, as she pushed the korrigan away with all her strength. As she tore herself free from her assailant, the stock of the rifle struck Éponine herself on the left temple, right above both the eye and the ear; for a while, countless bright sparks of light flashed before her left eye as she scrambled back on her feet, wincing and clutching her swollen eyelids. This was not her first black eye by any means, and she knew from first hand that her injuries could have been even worse.
There isn't anyone I respect more than my mother, who is, without a doubt, the most intelligent person I know. She always has these words of wisdom, although not in a "fortune teller" sort of way, because she's not vague or subject to misinterpretation. You can always count on my mother always to get straight to the point. Take for example these various little one-sentence lessons she's passed on to me throughout the years. "Never go to sleep without a knife under your pillow." This has saved my life quite a number of times.
When the battle was reaching its climax, Éponine had sustained a few second-degree burns to all four of her limbs, and her fine pair of white gloves and her fine pair of white spats were slowly turning red, dyed with blood whenever she pressed her palms on her open wounds to stanch the bleeding; though her eye was all no longer sore... and the enemies were counterattacking, as half a dozen enemy warriors advanced, surrounding her from all sides, and pressing hard upon her. Clutching her right leg, she stumbled to the ground, and landed face-up on the heather.
As she crouched in wait for the finishing stroke, a sudden maelström of thoughts dawned upon her. The inn. Maman. Cosette. Enjolras. The reasons that had brought her into that scenario in the first place. The reason why she did not even dare to retrace her steps. "I was born a Thénardier, and raised a Thénardier, both for good and for evil... I have been shown a way to set all those wrongs right... Once more into the fray..." And with one final pause to gather her courage, Éponine suddenly began to press forwards, all but running at the Killer Queen's guards.
Her thigh muscles tensed like springs; she felt no longer sore as she gathered momentum and suddenly came up, and threw herself into the thick of the battle; lunging so strongly that she roared like a lioness. Each time one of these blows landed, each time she thrust her blade into the terrible enemies, a korrigan would shatter into a thousand fragments of embers and sparks, so that they split into a hundred thousand pieces, and disintegrate into nothing. For a while, in astonishment and instinctively to defend herself, she fought her silent battle, until one by one, all the fire-elves were vanquished. When it all was over, she had batted and pulled at the korrigan army until they were all torn into a hundred pieces, and then her momentum had died away, and she once more stood alone, nursing her wounds; nothing but a few second-degree burns, scraped knees, a black left eye, both gloves and both spats dyed bright red with her own blood, an opera hat lost and burned to a crisp by the enemy. It all hurt like never before, she had to admit. Thankfully, she could still remember the location of the royalists' abbey, and the last lake where they had quenched their thirst, and where she now would tend to her own injuries, and surely spend her recovery re-reading more Shakespeare.
The fierce wind of her lithe fighting frame had entirely blown away the storm clouds, and the sky was quite clear and glittering with the North Star, while the air was, if possible, colder than ever before. It was then that she realised that she stood alone, and that Enjolras most surely had entered the fortress at least alive. Reassured about the fate of her companion, and the pain in her left eye having subsided a little, she thought that those injuries could doubtless have been worse.
All around her, at her feet, the korrigans were catching fire from their own flames, disintegrating into piles of glowing embers. Strangely enough, one of their bright scarlet headcovers, right before Éponine, had not burned with the rest of it all - one of those woolly pointed bonnets that looked like gnomes' caps, or like the Phrygian cap she had seen Marianne wear in drawings in the newspapers. What better accessory to make an entrance in Paris? she thought as she bent to pick it up with her left hand, then tried it on for size. It fit like a glove, and, furthermore, as she tucked it over the nape of her neck, she noticed the singed ends of her bobbed hair, which had been cut off by a flaming sword during the fight, dark hair cut to the jaw, long black tresses falling around her like autumn leaves. And besides, she had got a haircut in exchange for her injuries - talk about a lucky strike! That same evening at twilight, while looking at her own reflection in the pool where she would drink and spend her recovery re-reading Shakespeare, she would admire, and give the korrigans mournful thanks for, her new haircut and her new headcover.
And then she heard yelling from the walls.
"Hey so... we're opening up the walls?" a surviving korrigan yelled. "We've always really hated Bear-Lady... and... we are super-happy you're here! We're surrendering to you. Please pillage to your heart's content, but... try not to kill us!"
"Right, lower in the drawbridge! The ward itself is crumbling already, and it may shatter at any given... Thank you!"
Agreeing to those really great terms (while realising that they had her same sense of humour, and that they saw her own Maman as a fearsome beast to be reckoned with), she watched as Enjolras entered the walls. After a fair bit of searching, the former mercenaries found a weary Éponine, sleeping by the wall. She was alive, and too worthy an opponent not to spare her life. Besides, who was this Shakespeare she was muttering about...? And thus, the scarred survivors simply kissed her goodnight and went forth into the dark woods to start their lives anew. They knew what this meant, and they fled in every direction. And just like that there were no more. The circle of stones stood before her, the path clear. Almost collapsing with relief, she hastened forwards to the holly bush lest more soldiers appeared.
Even though the sun was in the western sky, and the heather was in bloom, the cold was so intense that Enjolras could still see his breath steaming out of his mouth every time he exhaled, like a puff of vapour or white smoke, or a long cirrus cloud, and gradually turning thicker and thicker; still he marched forwards as fast as he could. Presently he looked up, eyes scanning the impossibly warped shining blue-green crystal tower that pierced the frozen wasteland of endless frosted heather, a beacon of colour against the otherwise bland environment; a conical structure that spiralled up into the clouds, or at least the glimpses he could catch every now and then through the thick mists of the protecting wards. The day sky above was a dirty white, as dark storm clouds hovered menacingly overhead. It was mysterious and foreboding and magnificent all at once, with its wide and tall turrets, encased within a frozen wall of pitch black rock bereft of greenery. He remembered the advice of the kind robber maiden, whose warcries and the crackling of flames made every muscle in his limbs tense; gathered momentum, and stormed towards his right. It took him until nightfall to circle the holdfast thrice, and say the rhymes for each lap, thinking that this was a weird way to get around... Each hesitation seemed to be like a magnet for the merciless gale, especially now that he was running against the current of air. It barricaded him unwavering and his limbs trembled from the effort.
The hailstones or snowflakes pierced his skin, glued to his cheeks and froze in the place where they fell. The few attempts to keep them out of his face proved to be pointless and he just held his arm in front of himself to have some sort of protection. He had no idea how long it would take to get to the castle and how far he would have to go.
Or if there would be any more trials awaiting within the keep.
As he ran around the courtyard walls of green light for the first time, his strength gradually dwindling and his ponytail fluttering in his wake like a shooting star, locks of hair freed from the ribbon's grasp one after the other, a short-of-breath Enjolras, clutching his solar plexus yet still running onwards at a steady pace, heard the painful groans of both the elves and the robber maiden, and his thoughts wandered, every now and then, towards hopes and anxieties regarding Éponine.
She appeared, by first impressions, as a brash young girl, but the authority accorded to her did neither arrive from her intimidating velleity, nor from being the daughter of a non-commissioned officer who spoilt her rotten. Enjolras thought of shieldmaidens, valkyries, Celtic druidesses, even of Queen Boudicca herself... not to mention Queen Christina of Sweden. Few female characters in Mediterranean lore enjoyed such agency, and even then, the stories of Atalanta, Caenis, and Cyrene were few and far between; enough to be counted with the fingers of one hand. It appeared that the hot sun of his own native lands predisposed southern maidens and women to be languid, sultry, and receive a vain education that caused them to feel most at ease in being still and kept sheltered and dolled up, like lovely ornaments. The cold of the North encouraged all children, male and female, even into young adulthood, to strain their limbs, for the constant movements to keep them warm and alive. And from frolicking and play-fighting in forest and heath to bearing arms in defense of the clan or the kingdom, once they had come of age, there was not a long stride, and neither was there one that told the role of a male from that of a female, both of them alike, equally active and full of pluck in both wartime and peacetime. In spite of the fact that she physically did not look like the northerner she was, the vigorous blood of the North, the strength and valour of the Gauls, the Germans, and the Scandinavians, throbbed within Éponine Thénardier like it all had once throbbed in all of her shieldmaiden ancestors; but so marvellous are the fascinations and so grand the prestiges of the northern lands that this caused Enjolras no surprise.
'Open from within;
Let me in! Let me in!'
Already he was beginning to freeze, his ears and cheeks and nose burning with the false heat that he knew meant frostbite. His breath crystallized in the air before him. Once inside the gates of the first roundabout, during the second lap, he began to run for real, for his life, hoping that he could keep his blood flowing and his body warm enough so that he wouldn't die of the cold, heart beating uncomfortably in his chest. His system had just been put under a spell of exhaustion, he was sure of it. And if he could easily find himself easily falling under spells, then he'd be no good rescuing Grantaire, who was already under several. He had to be, had to be staying here with the Green Faery. Grantaire wouldn't have put up with this frozen wasteland for long. Where would he grow his flowers? Where would he draw or paint his pictures? When would he be able to see their loved ones?
'Open wide, open wide;
Let me inside.'
He thought about radiant days on fields of lavender, of dark-haired young men with stubbly faces, of bright orange flowers and the hands that planted them, of galettes golden warm as the sun and the hands that flipped them. La Marseillaise and legalese, Marie Brizard and barmaids. Love, he realised, was in the little things.
Leading his little society and planning the Revolution, Enjolras was everything: confident, beautiful, skilled... But Grantaire made him dizzier than pirouettes, wilder than river rapids, and shyer than buttercups. Grantaire just took that perfect Enjolras and made a mess of him. And he loved every minute of it. There was no epiphany or shocking realization about it. Loving the one he sought to free came to him as easily as breathing, as singing, as running.
It was the easiest sentence he had ever said.
“I love him.”
It didn’t bother him, since he felt his blood pump through his veins and steadfast calm guarded his limbs.
And thus, the third circle around the fortress was finally closed:
"Open fast, open fast!
Let me in at last!"
Gathering all the strength he had left, the fair leader, his queue undone and all golden locks fluttering in the wake of his head like the tail of a shooting star (the ribbon having fallen down among the frosty heather mid-way across the second lap), took a resolute, firm step forwards, the light within the circle fading as he took that stride into it. It didn’t bother him, since he felt his blood pump through his veins and steadfast calm guarded his limbs.
Quite suddenly, the snow and hail and winds stopped. The madman’s run had its end when a thick milky fog of an icy blue separated in front of him and he realised that, as he uttered the final words, he was immediately enveloped by darkness. The air grew stale, and colder than ever before; and he could no longer see the sky, or the ground. Nor hear the clash of battle from what might be Éponine's final stand. But he knew exactly where he was. He had made it inside the courtyard of the Lady in Green. He felt around, and found he could feel a sharp prick on his palm, a warm liquid streaming through his fingers. As he withdrew the wounded hand, his eyes gradually began to adjust.
And then, he was quickly forced to take a step back... for a circular hedge of dark thorny bushes had begun to rapidly grow around the fort, until it was as high and as thick as the walls of the Thénardiers' lair. At the crossroad grew a bush full of thorns; it stood naked in the winter cold, not having any blooms or leaves, and its branches were covered in ice. The impression was such that the pain from that first thorn-prick was soon overcome and forgotten. And he did not know which way to go. It was impossible for Enjolras to know if he should turn left or right to enter the threshold of the circle of stones, so thick was the hedge, whose thorn-bushes were entirely bereft of both leaf and bloom, and thus seemed to be rather made of black wire, the thorns themselves as long and sharp as dagger blades. The frost hung like silvery or crystal lace from each and every thorny branch, creating a stark contrast of black and white, and icicles like crystal bayonets hung from the longest branches. Only one single leaf, a little one in a crimson or burgundy shade, had just sprouted on a twig next to the thorn where the blond had pricked his palm and shed his blood.
What would Grantaire or Courfeyrac have said? "The Morrigan must have tightened up security," or something like that. She must be dreadfully cautious of losing her prisoner, especially since Éponine's parents had freed her.
As Enjolras stood panting before the hedge of thorns, its rustling in the piercing gale seemed to reply to the questions he was too breathless to ask:
"I have, indeed; but I will not tell you the way they have taken, which way you should go, unless you have not first warmed me against your heart, warming my heart with your life-blood, for, as you see, the cold has turned me into a lump of ice, and not even the Lady of the Green Kirtle herself has ever come to take me upon her bosom... soon I will be entirely made of ice! I will not tell you which way to go unless you warm me with your heart. I am freezing to death! I will turn into ice! For the winter has chilled my sap-veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year. If you want a way, stain my sleeping rose-buds with your own life-blood. You must sing to me with your chest against my thorns, and the thorns must pierce your flesh, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine. I can tell you where they went, but I am turning to ice, irreversibly... I am frozen through, I turn into ice, and a young leader's heart is so warm... I shall tell you if you warm me in your bosom..."
Without wavering for a single instant, the fair leader bent the knees, as if in prayer, and, thrusting himself forwards, pressed the thorns to his chest in order to warm them up, for the hedge to show him the way and let him into the sanctum.
"Be happy, be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will stain it with my own heart's blood."
The dark frosty thorns pierced a scarlet coat and lilywhite shirt, and the silky skin, decked only with a few sparse golden chest-hairs, that lay underneath; the same thorns plunged right into the flesh, deep into his pectoral and intercostal muscles, so that great drops of blood gushed out and fell into the light of day, staining the golden soutaches on his coat and the frost on the thorny branches to his left and right; and the thorns went deeper and deeper into the flesh of his chest, and the life-blood ebbed away. It was crimson blood, the consistence of runny honey, due to all the liquid that the perspiration already had wrested from him. Yet the thornbush grew leaves that were green and fresh, the blood turning to sap as it was drained, and, in spite of the cold winter night, the whole hedge covered itself in blooms, such was the warmth against the chest, and even more inside the chest, of that youthful leader. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-Hedge there blossomed a marvellous thornrose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river Seine at sunrise - pale as the feet of the morn, and silvery as the wings of the dawn. As the reflection of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadowy image of a rose in a water-pool, so pastel was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray.
So the fair leader pressed closer against the thorns, and louder and louder grew the reassuring song, for he sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and... not a maid, but another man, who nevertheless turned his back to his lover.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the crowning thornrose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. Yet the rose's heart remained as white as the pale dead, for only heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a thornrose.
And the branches of the hedge cried to the fair leader to press closer against the thorns. "Press closer, or the Day will come before the rose is finished. And the Ruthless Fair herself will come back home at Break of Day..."
So Enjolras pressed closer against the thorns, and the sharp tips of the thorns grazed his lungs and his heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through the pale ribcage. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew the song, for it sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the Grave.
And the marvellous thornrose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern skies. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a bloodstained ruby was the heart.
And thus, as the stripling's bosom was torn and his blood flowed freely, the bushes gradually budded into life, for the blood turned to sap as it was drained, until the whole circular hedge was covered in the freshest, loveliest green leaves and thornroses, some of them arterial scarlet like bright rubies and others in the darker venous crimson of garnets, in the quiet of the cold wintry night; so hot was his blood and so sure his conviction! But the rosebush shot new leaves and flowers bloomed in the drearily cold winter night, such ardour there was within him, so warm was the heart of a grieving lover and of a young leader; and the rosebush told which of the roads to take. The thornbush grew leaves that were green and fresh, and, in spite of the cold winter night, it covered itself in blooms, such was the warmth against the chest, and even more inside the chest, of that youthful leader. Then, thus, the rosebush showed him the route that he had to take. He had found a way on the paths of regret and suffering, and in his wake red roses grew. Each and every drop of blood that had dripped from his wounds had turned to a crimson or scarlet rose. And, when the thorns that grew before him had retreated, baring the cold dark ground, the fair leader could finally see which way he had to go in order to cross the threshold.
"You will find the one you seek on the route to the right..."
It was warmer now, warmer than he had felt at the entrance to the shrine, whether running laps around it or overcoming the thorns. As he trudged into the courtyard delimited by the circle of stones, Enjolras felt as if he breached a sacred forbidden ground, staring at the surroundings with wide eyes. He was in an outdoor courtyard, surrounded by frost-covered statues and thick pillars made of sparkling blue-green ice-like crystal. Everything looked beautiful indeed, but everything was void of warmth in its austerity. He wasn’t sure how to feel, since this was his goal. To arrive here and face her.
No matter if his knees were already buckling, no matter that slight dizzy feeling in his rumpled fair head, or that his throat was beginning to burn with thirst, he took the most vigourous strides he could across the courtyard, towards his goal, hoping that he would not be too late; on the threshold of the fort, before the closed door, stood a cauldron hewn out of the same dark granite as the holdfast behind it, and filled to the brim with crystal-clear, pellucid, rippling dew and rainwater.
Given how much liquid had been wrested from him through perspiration and blood loss, this proved to be quite the hard trial to resist; at first, he felt tempted to wet his parched lips therein, but his strength of will overpowered his thirst.
And yet he staggered forwards towards the font, breathing heavily, his head reeling, his knees giving way as he leaned forwards upon the brink of the stone cauldron for support and to rest.
Through that liquid mirror, an empty-eyed, weary likeness of himself, rumpled straw-like hair framing a white haggard face, met his gaze. This reflection was staring at him with dead eyes, with a face like stone and a piercing glare, reminding him of the marble Apollo in the gardens of his native estate, but with the gaunt features and matted hair of a consumptive on his deathbed. Those glazed eyes of a duller blue screamed out to him, begging him not to drink any of it.
That reflection did not show who he was inside; rather, that was what he could become if he chose to quench his thirst. This was not the one he was and the one he hoped to die as. The enormity of the stakes washed over him.
Without hesitation, the young man stood, and, gathering what little strength he had left, punched the reflection in the mirror cauldron with both his clenched fists, causing the crystal-clear water to slosh everywhere, to spray all over his skin and all around him on the thirsty ground. Washing all the blood off his clothes and stanching his open wounds, and, where the mixed liquids trickled down around his feet, shooting up as the tiny stems and buds of blood-red anemones, some of them arterial scarlet like bright rubies, others in the darker venous crimson of garnets.
He had done it. He had passed the test.
"Not a sup will I swallow, not a drop will I drink, till Grantaire is set free...!" Enjolras declared.
Then, there was a sound like a crack of thunder or a shot of cannon from somewhere off in the distance. But there was no lightning, no flash of gunpowder. The fair leader steeled himself, restraining the shudder that ran down his spine; and his eyes flew towards the granite doors. He felt a malaise, a darkness, that an ominous presence was coming.
It seemed as though one moment he stood alone against the trials that lay within the stronghold, and the next he was confronted by a pale, ghostly figure, carrying a gun in her left hand and brandishing it against him. And wrapped around her right arm, she wore the French tricolore flag. Directly before him, this figure of a petite woman with shining blond curls just like his own, coiffed with a scarlet bonnet, and wearing the loose white robes of a goddess, wielded a bayonetted rifle with breathtaking precision, holding the fair leader at gunpoint.
Though he seemed to see right through the translucent body of this ghostly warrior, he recognised her, and watched in astonishment as the ghostly figure put the bayonet to his throat; the long sharp blade felt so hot that it glowed red, just like the setting sun, and Enjolras held out as she traced his throbbing carotids, until she finally took one, two, three steps backwards.
When it was over, it seemed to him that the figure solidified a bit, and he was more easily able to make out the face of the warrior who had aided him. Her bright, piercing eyes were now icy blue like the fair leader's own, now steel-blue like her bayonet. Glaukopis, to quote the ancient epics. "How can I thank you?" he asked her, looking beyond the wings on her spirit, the talons on her hands, the sharpness in her teeth, and the colourless bloodstained plumage on her limbs; looking at one kind and noble countenance.
"No thanks are necessary," said the Athena-like figure, in a beautifully accented voice that Enjolras immediately wished to hear again. "You care for Grantaire, and that is more than enough."
"You've seen him?" the fair leader asked breathlessly, hoping it was so.
But she shook her head, smiling sadly. "Not for a long time, I'm afraid," said the blonde maiden-goddess, gallantly doffing her scarlet cockaded cap.
And, as she spoke, he saw that she had been fading away little by little, until only the barest outlines showed against the fog and sleet.
"You'll tell him?" her deep female voice, which he recognised as that of Marianne, asked, her Athena-blue-gray eyes fixing Enjolras with demanding insistence.
"That he is loved?" His voice broke only a little, and he nodded. "Oh, yes."
In another moment, Enjolras stood alone in the austere garden, only the cauldron hewn out of stone for company, but it seemed to him that he felt the cold less, and his feet carried him more rapidly toward the Green Faery's hold. Already the battle seemed to have taken on the surreal quality of a dream, and he wondered if it had happened at all, or if he were experiencing the delusions that came with a slow death from freezing or thirst or exhaustion. No matter. He had come at last to the end of his long journey, and the inner gate rose up before him. All his thoughts were flying towards the one he sought. Almost collapsing with relief, he hastened forwards towards the fort, lest more trials appear. Now Grantaire was within his reach, and almost within his grasp.
"You know what is bloodier still than any battle, heavier than the dewdrops of death on the brow of the dying, torn more cruelly than the victims of revolution? 'Tis a great, lonely, forsaken heart, torn to shreds and full of vast solitude..."
But for now let us forget for a while about Enjolras, on whose fate we are left at least slightly reassured, and peek into the stronghold, to see what Grantaire was doing in the meantime; we must see how he was faring. Let's first see what he's up to. Since the effect was wearing off like ever before, he may have been thinking of his fair leader in scarlet, but most surely, most certainly, he did not doubt at all that Enjolras was so close to him. As the fair leader valiantly fought his way through thorns and pain and cold, the dark lush thought of him not at all. Whatever his thoughts, they were not of Enjolras; he certainly did not dream that the blond was just outside. He was certainly not thinking about the fair leader, and least of all that he was standing there outside the keep; the thought never as much as crossed his mind. And of course why should it have? All memories of the past had been erased. The mere idea that the one he had loved stood out there, so near, was quite far from his mind; in truth, all the while he thought nothing of the once he had loved, and never supposed that Enjolras could be standing right in the threshold of the keep; he could not even imagine that the fair leader was so close! Still Grantaire, with the fey blood in his heart, that which had completely deprived him of feelings, sat before the throne of the Green Faery and did not even suspect how close to him the one he had once loved already was.
COMMENTARIES
(Once more, feel free to see a "to be continued" arrow in your mind's eye and hear the guitar riff at the start of Yes's Roundabout in your mind's ear as you picture yourself the last scene in this chapter!)
And so we get to the ambush and some interaction with an unexpected saviour... The robber band are basically the Thénardiers and the Patron-Minette. The robber maiden who had to end up escorting Enj, who ends up with his gloves and boots while giving him that military gear is, of course, Éponine.
I don't ship Enjonine (I think Enj is as straight as a rainbow), but I know there are those who do... as a way to pair the spares for Mariusette... 'tis not my intention to start a shipping war... I have not come to bury Éponine or to criticize the pairing, but at least some Enjonine found its way here (like the Renlienne scene in The Queen Beyond the Wall), solely because the Thénardier girl fit the part of the robber maiden like a glove (also being a composite with the Finnmark woman for some odd reason...). There's as much Gavroche as there is Javert in this AU, but doesn't the sweet content of this chapter (and of the whole fic) compensate for it?
warnings: Enj is robbed by the bandits, they knock him to the ground, he momentarily loses air. Also has a nosebleed. Mme. Thénardier is making advances at him in a quite handy manner - groping and offers for sex. She also mentions torture. Nothing happens. Enj is bound by a rope and led like that to their lair. Then things get real, including some explicit violence and sexual innuendo. Éponine gets very drunk; there is a slight attempt by her to make an advance on Enj which is quickly cleared, nothing happens.
The risqué song sung by Sgt. Thénardier was originally a Spanish barrack-room ditty, which I have done into French. Maybe the Sarge translated it in his free hours... I thought those lyrics sounded really risqué and really worth a shot, and wished to use it somewhere in my fiction, right? PS. Here is the tune, as used with original lyrics in an operetta by Chapí: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmC551ong08 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vq6oQGJL-4 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPy4kAscr-k (It's the first stanza: to sing it in French, where the words are one syllable shorter, just lengthen the final words in the rhyming lines, ie as "ava-ant" and "lieut'na-ant").
Speaking of innuendos, the "pox" Jolllly mentions in Enjolras' imagine spot is actually syphilis - I heard the euphemism first in the pharmacy sketch by Monty Python.
Mme. Thénardier, while thinking of how sweetly Enjolras would "sing" when made drunk or tortured, mentions a trained Flemish finch: raising and training male finches of the species Fringilla coelebs for song-offs is part of Flemish culture since the days of Jan van Eyck, and the Thénardiers know Belgium so well from their wartime days! "Suskewiet" is both the Flemish onomatopoeia for the chirp and the regional alternate name in Flanders for a male Fringilla coelebs ("Suske" is short for François, while "wiet" means weed). This is what the chirp sounds like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ni3NsrZW5BE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBQb5Nsj7Bk&t=129s
Sgt. Thénardier also says Goethe's line about Lilith to his daughter --- and oui, the villainess is the archetypal Seductress in all her names and in all her glory. Archetypes and neopaganism fascinate me and I had the idea as part of the plot bunny ever since the Silver Chair/Moulin Rouge idea resurrected its premise.
Also, Éponine became a Finnwoman+Robber-Maiden composite. I couldn't find the right people in the Mis-verse... OK, I skipped a few stories in the original tale (Story the Third and Story the Sixth, because I could not find Mizzie counterparts for those characters... all right, I fit the Finnwoman's role into the Thénardier girl, who already makes a perfect robber maiden (being a military brat, a plucky tomboy, and a delinquent-bad girl in canon)! Story the Third, by the way, or at least most of it, is a big-lipped alligator moment, and so is the first leg of the journey in Story the Sixth! So, cutting out all these big-lipped alligator moments, the basic story of The Snow Queen fits neatly into a classical five-act structure). As for Éponine's literary preferences and nostalgia of the days gone by... we couldn't but, for instance, skip those lively conversations about Éponine's interest in classical fiction: kind of going through Shakespeare, the Napoleonic Wars, corruption, gender, how literature mirrors real life... It's not very often you get a cultured robber maiden, for all that her parents were a non-commissioned officer and a camp follower turned outlaws. As for her fujoshi tendencies (like all that Iassio-shipping, for instance ;) ) and awkwardness around young men of flesh and blood in general (with those three exceptions), all that's from Nina, her Fire Emblem Fates counterpart: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/FireEmblemFatesSecondGeneration The character Nina (Éponine in the original Japanese version) from Fire Emblem Fates was based on Éponine Thénardier and the two share some similarities this includes her pre-localised name, finding it difficult to talk to men (in reference to Éponine being unable to speak to Marius Pontmercy), mentioning enjoying plays and reading, and being a thief.
The Reflection Cave of Kalos, in the Pokémon series, is based upon the Northern French lore of miroirs aux fées (fairies mirrors). Fairy mirrors are usually caves with bright quartz veins or lakes where there are said to live fairies and like to see themselves in them like a mirror. Also, this links to the mirror motif in the original Snow Queen tale, right?
I'm not sure if my favorite thing about it is the bit of homage, or the fairy-tale nature of it.
Éponine as the robber maiden was actually the very first cameos I decided on, and half the inspiration for the story (i.e. "Oooh, and 'Ponine would be the little robber girl, and her Maman would be the bandit leader, and the Patron-Minette gang would be the rest of the band...)
The little robber girl was actually the first character substitution other than Enj and R for Gerda & Kai that I thought of.
Oh, this is just gorgeous. I really love the translation from the Les Mis universe to Andersen's; once I saw this posted tonight, I went and read all the previous parts, as well, and I'm just completely blown away by how beautifully you've combined the two worlds.
Yay, new chapters! I'm very in love with this story, its fairy tale tone and the skillful way you insert other characters.
Oooh yay. I have a ridiculous amount of love for this. I actually figured out who was who pretty quickly this time, and hurray for Éponine! The description of the Queetn's castle as me worried for R again. Jeez it's been so long. I want Enj to get there, but then I don't want this story to end D:
Yay, thanks! I think this section might rival the Mariusette cameos for being my favorite part of the fic so far. I heavily abused wikipedia to come up with appropriate background details for Sgt. Thénardier's old companions (though, because I am a sad history geek, not quite as heavily as you'd think - mostly to remind myself how to spell things).
*grins* There is only the coda left now!
This is my favorite thing to come out of the fairytale challenge. Thanks you so much!
Wow, I can totally spell. <3
*grins* Thanks!
This story is so cute~
Oh, man, this is shiny-sauce. I loooove it.
I'm officially giving up this prompt and handing it over to you entirely, by the way. I wrote an entire femslashy version of the Snow Queen for a friend for Christmas, and so I'm all Snow Queen'd out at present. Besides, this saves me the inevitable embarrassment of trying and failing to measure up to what you've done. ;)
And yet, despite the fact that I've read and reread this story a dozen times or more in the last week, reading yours is still distinct and fascinating. Excellent writing.
Femslash snow queen? Oooh, that sounds all kinds of shiny-sauce, too! Is it posted anywhere?
Since it was a present for a RL friend, and thus--gasp!--printed out in hardcopy, it isn't anywhere. But if you wanted to see it, I'm sure something could be arranged~. (I totally cribbed from the same copy you did, I think. I love fairy tales; the same source story can turn into a whole bunch of different ones, depending on what you emphasize or change.)
:D The thing about him giving up his white gloves and boots and spats and feeling like he'd given part of himself away was beautiful and subtly done. I'm not sure if my favorite thing about it is the bit of Mizzie homage, or the fairy-tale nature of it.
The thing about him giving up his white gloves and boots and spats and feeling like he'd given part of himself away was beautiful and subtly done
Yay -- I'm glad someone picked up on that part! I'm kind of proud of myself for managing to work that in without my anger & bitterness over the bit of canon it's referencing leaking in too much. I had to go over the scene in my head several times to make sure it didn't come out completely tonally wrong for a fairy tale. I had to give Enj a little more action scenes afterward; it was only fair, since he had his costume taken away (but Gerda does lose her gloves and boots in the story, so Enj had to lose them, too).
I'm not even guessing, or trying to eke out symbolism or anything. I'm just chilling, and losing myself in a great story.
Is it wrong that my strongest feelings about this part were sadness and frustration that Enj lost his gloves and boots? Also, I just read your responses to someone else's comment on this bit and I totally missed the symbolism when I read it, although it's obvious now that I know. But I'm amused that I had an appropriate emotional reaction anyway.
*hugs Enj* Hang in there!
There was a Shakespeare translation of all the dramatic works written by Victor Hugo fils (junior), the son of the author of Les Misérables, at about the same time that his dad was working on the "Brick." Moreover, I took the quote spoken by Iago about his feelings towards Cassio (Act V, Scene 1), which Éponine reads out loud, directly from the Hugo fils translation (This reference is far harder to spot than the silver candlesticks in last chapter, but still worth the pain). So pardon me if I attributed the translation to Hugo père (senior) and take it as a license; on the other hand, Combeferre would have read and relished the 1830s de Vigny translation, which does all the pentameter as French alexandrins!
As for the chanson about Poniatowski drowned at Leipzig (which actually was how he died in real life!), it is not a folk song, but was composed, both tune and lyrics, by Pierre-Jean de Béranger in 1831. There is a lot of likelihood that Feuilly would have sung it and adored it, but not the same could be said about the Sarge, in real life. So pardon me for the license of making it look like a folk song (the same as for advancing the Hugo fils translation of Shakespeare in time and attributing it to Hugo père)!
Bowie knives were invented in the US at the start of the nineteenth century, so this detail, on the other hand, is historically accurate (aside from a veiled shout-out to a certain starman waiting in the great gig in the sky...)!
As for the Korrigans and Morrigan, and the Green Faery being an "evolved" form of the Morrigan/Morgan le Fey (and so many other similar figures among mythology), that's my own contribution. Partly to contrast the Thénardiers' Northern descent with Enjolras' from the Mediterranean. Also, the Korrigans' flaming swords come from the Grail myth of Peronnik, one of the oldest Arthurian tales, in which there is a single Korrigan as keeper of a poison apple tree en route to Kerglas, literally Grue (Green/Blue) Castle. Also from Arthurian lore; Morgan/Morrigan/Morgause is such a greatly misunderstood character (I see her, myself, as a powerful woman who made herself).
The Morrigan, though a warrior goddess, needs no weapons - her powers alone are enough to take on the enemy. They say that her battle-cry is as loud as that of ten thousand men!
Against this chaotic, natural presence, we see Marianne-Athena-Rationality, of course. She is as similar to Enjolras as the Belle Dame is to Grand'R, so of course here the Marianne dream from last chapter ties into the trials!
There is an actress allusion to another of Bonham-Carter's famous roles as a literary villainess from the public domain in this chapter, when she pursues her daughter and prisoner - so we challenge you, dear readers, to see if you have spotted it!
The fight scene with Éponine and the Korrigans, and her line to Enj ("GO! GO!! YOUR LOVER NEEDS YOU...! GO!!") before he leaves her, are a tribute to the You Shall Not Pass moment starring Puss in Boots in Shrek 2. If I ever have time to continue In the Shades of Dawning, most surely Aoi will be boxing off against ice knights as she urges Akira to carry on into the ice palace; while shouting to Aoi: GO! GO! YOUR LADY NEEDS YOU...!! GO!! as a tribute to that fricking epic scene of legendary badassery:
You Shall Not Pass!: Puss-in-Boots holds off a pack of guards, in payment of his debt. He's not honestly in much danger from them, but that makes him holding them all off no less impressive, especially for a normal-sized housecat.
Jennifer Saunders' cover of "Holding Out For a Hero" may be better than the original. Helps that the scene accompanying it was awesome. It's often brought up in discussions about which covers are better than the original song.
The entire "Holding Out For a Hero" sequence is one big Moment of Awesome for all the characters involved.
The assault on the castle. From [···] to Puss in Boots holding off a dozen guards, all accompanied by an amazing rendition of "Holding Out For A Hero" by Jennifer Saunders. (And Puss holds off the guards to "like-a-fire-in-my-blood, like-a-fire-in-my-blood...")
Puss in Boots does so many awesome things that it's hard to pick just one. Nonetheless, there's a scene where Puss decides to repay his debt by staying behind to stall the enemy guards chasing the heroes and then disarms the guards (figuratively) by making an adorable sad kitten face. Before they can regain their senses, he whips out his rapier and goes to town on them.
A really badass scene to a really badass tune that always keeps me on tenterhooks and gives me enough power from the fight-or-flight response, hence my decision to have the robber maiden stall the guards in these two epic Snow Queen AUs starring OTPs of mine! Whether Aoi or Éponine, the one standing in for Puss/the robber maiden in both retellings is a real badass, right?
(PS. The reflections R made in Chapitre II on being unable to reach Enj are also a homage to an action scene earlier on in Shrek 2...)
The way to enter the circle of stones into the keep of the Morrigan is also from Celtic/Arthurian lore, from the tale of Childe Rowland. In particular, it is the gate to the Dark Tower that opens if a hero goes withershins (counterclockwise) around it thrice, saying "Open, door, open door, let me come in!" each time the circle is closed. As for the detail of running around the circle of stones the fastest one can... it is in the preparation for the third trial, with the cauldron full of rainwater before the entrance to the keep; which is also from the Dark Tower: "drink no drop, no matter how thirsty you be, until you are safely back home." Of course Childe Rowland, though he at first wavers in this test hof character, finally steels himself: "Not a sup will I swallow, till Ellen is set free." If Enj does not withstand and sips at least one drop of the rainwater, the doors of the keep will never let him in, and the circle of stones will never let him out, within his lifetime.
As for the hedge of thorns that blooms into red roses when pressed to someone's chest, the thorn bush warmed up and watered with heart's blood, I took that motif from an Andersen tale, where, according to Jacob Böggild, it symbolises suffering, more specifically emotional pain translated into physical pain by the thorns that draw blood, as well as hurting oneself unconsciously in pain (Ritva-Liisa Cleary adds an interpretation of sharing psychological pain with others, and making them benefit from empathy, while Jacob Böggild reiterates that the physical pain reflects and symbolises the emotional pain); while Maria Tatar says that "the thorns of the bush conjure associations with the Crown of Thorns, and the love becomes transformative, turning the icy branch into one that blooms." Marianne Stecher-Hansen points out that the tale can be read in biographical terms, that "this sacrifice may represent the creator's sacrifices for their art: when one's blood flows for the thorn bush, it is the artist offering their heart to the public (Stecher-Hansen, 103)."Just like both Enjolras and Yours Truly, and so many other authors who have echoed the motif, have done. The motif has been echoed in subsequent literary tales by Oscar Wilde and Magda Bergquist, both deeply influenced by Andersen's fairy tales.
And she was gradually wasting away, little by little; life ebbed forth through the wounds she had open on her wrists, no sooner freshly scarred till slashed again into bloody fountains where Grantaire drank his fill of respite, drinking in as if it were a rill which ever gratified, but never removed, the pleasureable thirst it excited...
And so Queen and companion idly spent away the hours in the silent beauty, and not a single heart was beating.
...
Enjolras settled down on his seat in the calèche, happy and comfortable, putting a chocolate macaron to his lips before wiping his fingertips and plunging back into the world of tragedies that was the open book on his lap, one of the many lavish gifts he'd parted from the palace with, upon the insistence of the Fauchelevents, as he pulled the velvet blanket with the gold thread trim around his lap. Othello had just landed at the end of the pier, and Desdemona had stormed forth towards the gangway; then he clasped her in his arms. Now, what would Iago do to ruin this lovely scene? If Combeferre were by his side, he would have been dissecting Hugo's Othello while quoting the translation from Count Alfred de Vigny, objectively paying attention to the foremost differences between both French versions and the English original. That single thought of his lieutenant leader at the Café made the blond steel himself and swallow hard. Had he been right to appoint Combeferre, just as Othello had been right to appoint Cassio, as his lieutenant in both the senses of aide and steadholder? Enjolras had, hitherto, always been too busy with his studies and leadership duties to allow himself a pleasant distraction. And now, that distraction was more pleasant than ever, even though he would, every now and then, become carriage-sick and have to take a peek out into the wayside, which was exactly what he did next, after reading all the way to the end of the scene.
The calèche followed the road that took them past meadows and farms, to swamps -- which they had to detour around -- and through forests, both thick and thin. The attelage had been travelling for so long that they lost all sense of time. The coachman and footmen in the scarlet and gold livery did not speak a word.
The leaves on the oak and willow trees were brown and yellow, and the path beneath the carriage-wheels and hooves was covered with them. They would most surely make a dry, crackling sound at his every step. "Springtime is gone, and summer as well," they whispered to him as he walked. "Winter is coming."
He tried to consoled himself with the thought that he would not know how to find Grantaire were it not for Feuilly's account of a northward direction, but everything around him was dreary and cold, and the dying leaves dripped with autumn fog and rains. He thought about how far he had left to go, and how close it was to winter, and the whole world appeared dark and weary to him.
Definitely, reading himself back to sunny Cyprus would prove something far better, he said and opened the Folio once more. One of the things he had shared with Combeferre and later with Grantaire was a love of reading, and so each afternoon, after he had washed down a pair of macarons or croquignoles with a deep draught of lemonade (for the carriage was still lined with delicious eatables), he would reach for the book into the trunk and settle down to read.
The night was still deep, and the further he got from the Fauchelevents' castle, the quieter it got around him. Just the pale light of the stars sprinkled on the sky watched him ride through the carpet of leaves. Enjolras' heart was soaring, the moment he spotted the thicker forest leaves on the ground he knew he was close. His mind rushed, perhaps faster than the horses. It stopped at various treasured memories, he shared with all the others.
For instance, he remembered the warm cups of café royal, coffee laced with eau-de-vie, as his fingers in the gloves started to feel the creeping frost. The same cups that they shared, and the same Combeferre offered to him and made him smile just a little. The fair leader still didn’t know which exactly caused that, the gesture or the warm drink.
At full speed, the carriage rattled along a stony path. Enjolras looked out the window. The trees around changed fast from thick colourful lindens and beeches. Instead the heavy pines and spruces caved under their cones' weight. Crisp freshly-fallen leaves crunched under the hooves and the wheels. The rhythmic clip-clop pace, broken only by the occasional bump on the path, made him feel a little sleepy.
For a long time Enjolras travelled in the calèche, until one evening in autumn, when the night falls early and the darkness creeps on swiftly, the carriage rolled on into, then kept on quickly driving on through, a dense, thick woodland or forest of mainly tall, dark pinewood, where the chime of the silver bells on the horses' bridles echoed off the vast pine treetrunks, and the hooves crunched the carpet of pine needles, sending the squirrels sprinting for the shelter of the undergrowth, while tiny brown birds with sweet red caps (finches?) chirped overhead. They rode through the thick woods and the carriage sparkled and shone like diamonds. Here, for the first time in quite a long while, the ground was not covered in moisture, not even damp, for the branches grew so thickly overhead that not a single raindrop touched the ground; yet the autumn leaves were crunching beneath horseshoed hooves and carriage wheels. Though light filtered through the treetops, the forest was dark and cold, and the air was still within the wall of trees that seemed to whisper, yet this didn't send a shiver down the fair leader's spine. As night began to fall, they found themselves at the entrance of these gloomy woods, which were even more darkened by the evening twilight. They started through this thick forest, a dazzling thing of beauty in the grim surroundings. Such beauty was truly a curse in that place, for it caught the attention of a group of robbers, who were crouched in ambush in the underbrush. It was so rich and fine they knew they were sure to be great treasures within. And so they set upon it.And thus, when the sun had set, the coachman and one of the postillions descended and lit the lanterns of the calèche, and continued to travel well into the dying light; so that the flickering lamplight cast an eerie glow on the passing treetrunks as it reflected on the carriage's dazzling panels, which already glinted in the moonlight; thus making the whole carriage shine like a sun, and turn the night into day, illuminating the pathway. Among the tall black treetrunks, even the bridles and the reins and harnesses glowed like bright orange flames. The swinging lanterns of golden yellow light created an eerie atmosphere, and the passenger watched as they flung their scary and haunting-looking shadows across the treetrunks. The sounds of the horses' hooves and the rattling of the carriage was all he could hear... They had arrived in a twilit forest, but they could see very clearly in the lights cast by the carriage's lanterns and reflecting on its panels. The forest was dark and cold like it was trapped in an endless night. You could see nothing beyond 20 feet. Shadows seemed to move between the trees. The trees seemed to whisper sending shivers down the entourage's spines. Enjolras told himself it was just the wind, but the air was still within the wall of trees.
"Look, look, what is that!" called an androgynous hoarse voice, ambiguous whether it was a boy's or a maiden's, from in between some ferns in the underbrush, as something like a moving torch gleamed through the evening forest. It was the Fauchelevents' carriage.
One freezing, dark night in the middle of autumn,
I was out with my parents on a robbing spree,
when we saw a bright carriage that glistened and sparkled
as it drove through a forest, between the tall trees.
The chiming of the bells on the horses' bridles, furthermore, had echoed off the vast tree-trunks for a very long way, until it reached the ears of that band of robbers, who could not bear to let a traveller with such a fine attelage pass unmolested.
“Voilà de... The saddlecloths are pure silk!” they cried out, rushing towards the horses all at once. "Surely the passenger has gold!"
The long and the short of it was that they could no longer remain indifferent; the whole attelage was too beautiful for them to let it escape.
Because a fancy shiny carriage is a pretty conspicuous means of travel through a forest, it was soon waylaid by these bandits, who killed all of the men except the passenger and stole the horses.
"Halt if you value your lives!" The robbers surrounded the carriage quite suddenly, two young men grabbing the horses. A woman with rumpled fair hair and fierce green eyes and a generous bosom ruthlessly cut the throats of the coachman, footmen, and the postillions, to ensure they were all dead. Not a flicker of remorse crossed her features as she did so. As she busied herself with that task, the young men calmed the horses.
They grabbed hold of the horses and killed the coachman, the servants, and the soldiers; within an instant, they sprang forwards out of the thick underbrush and lunged into the middle of the barely beaten path on the ground, stormed upon the carriage, and rushed lunging forwards towards the horses' heads, to seize the horses all at once, precipitating themselves upon the attelage like moths around a flame; then, after they had rushed forwards and seized the horses by the reins, they shot the coachman and the postillions dead, slaughtering the whole entourage, making a massacre out of the little postillions, the coachman and the valets; ere they, forcing the door, tore the utterly startled young passenger out of his seat, out of the carriage, and into their midst.
Courfeyrac had stayed with Enjolras for the first four miles of the carriage ride before he’d decided to go ahead and wait in the next town; a chance to really stretch his muscles. This left the leader alone in the carriage, on the path that rolled into a dark forest. And being made of precious woods, the carriage caught the attention of some robbers who couldn’t bear it.
They sprang forwards, seized the horses to keep them from escaping, killed the footmen and the driver, before dragging the passenger out from the carriage, as he stared out at them the whole time.
"Tally-ho! tally-ho!" they shouted, rushing forward. They seized the horses, killed the coachman, servants, and outriders, and, prying the door open, tore Enjolras off his seat and into their midst.
Maybe he was being lulled to sleep by the pace, too. It would explain why he didn't see the bandits until it was too late. He thought they were just ancient brown leaves in the trees. It came as more of a surprise when those leaves leapt onto him, grabbing at his peacoat."Tally-ho! tally-ho!" they shouted, rushing forward. They seized the horses, killed the coachman, servants, and outriders, and, prying the door open, tore Enjolras off his seat and into their midst.
Right before the ambush, Enjolras had stopped looking around at the thick autumnal woods and sunken back into his chair in a pensive mood. He did not know where to go next, but, for the first time since he left the capital, he finally felt that he was able to carry on his search the right way. Then, he saw the blood.
Suddenly the bells on the harnesses went off from their lulling song and the coachman had to grip the reins firmer, his eyes shooting ahead of the horses backs. Their strong necks flicked through the cold air nervously, but they headed on with the speed the driver commanded them to.
Once their mane settled, he could see what made them so nervous.
"It's real silver - the carriage is real silver! Tally-ho! Tally-ho-o-o!!" shouted many a greedy-sounding voice, distracting Enjolras from his thoughts. As they were bumping along the road the carriage was suddenly halted, and the passenger was thrown from his seat. Perhaps they had hit something... or someone? He was about to call out when he heard many footsteps, hoofbeats, gunshots, swords being drawn, and shouting."Look at that!"
"Tally-ho-o-o!!"
"Seize the horses by the reins!"
"I'll take out the coachman."
Bang! Bang! Suddenly two loud shots sounded. Suddenly he heard some more horses approaching and some shouting and whistling. Next moment the carriage stopped and there were sounds of fight outside and cries of dying men.
A gunshot went right through the driver's chest, and stuck into the wall of the carriage. Blood poured on the upholstery, as Enjolras stored the book in the trunk to keep it safe.
The promise Courfeyrac had made him make completely flew out of his mind as they seized the horses. He stood up from his seat to get a better view over the horses’ backs and cautiously called out to the lifeless form on the ground. The person was an adult man, at least judging the voice he heard they sounded like one. The moans appeared to be painful, and thus Enjolras called out: One of the postillions, judging from the livery he wore.
“Hello? Are you all right?”
For a while nothing happened, and the fair leader felt a shiver of anxiety creeping up his spine, the memory of Courfeyrac's request not quite clicking in the place yet. Quiet groans winning on intensity threw him from his focus, and he strained his ears even more.
"I should help those servants immediately." If the coachman and the postillion who had fallen onto the path were badly hurt, the attelage might have to return to the Fauchelevents' and delay the travels. Enjolras was desperate, but not heartless.
That was when he heard the screams, all around. The area erupted in noise. The yells of many men and at least one woman combined with the horses' frightened neighing, and there was the unmistakeable shing or tzing of swords being unsheathed. He could hear more gunshots being fired, whirring, thudding into the driver, and how he was being dumped in a dark corner of the carriage; heard both the coachman and guards and postillions give strangled cries of pain before their bodies could be heard hitting the road. The doors swung open, there were scrunched-up faces peering in, people climbed aboard, and the passenger, sitting on his trunk and shifting to duck his head down as the driver was thrown in, looked out through the corner of an eye, for he could hear the screams and pleading of the servants that had left the castle with the attelage... before the sounds of daggers... Then, there was more yelling as the carriage and horses were claimed... Someone was trying to calm the horses, this voice sounding slightly more female than the others... Then... Silence. And one last jolt of the carriage that threw him off his seat, on all fours onto the carriage ground; he cringed, quite frightened by all the sounds from outside. "I should help those servants immediately." If the coachman and the postillion who had fallen onto the path were badly hurt, the attelage might have to return to the Fauchelevents' and delay the travels. Enjolras was desperate, but not heartless.
Brigands. Dangerous men. They had immediately realised that the carriage was worth a fortune. They had just waited for him to pass by and surprise him.
“Who dares trespass in our woods?” A time-shrivelled face materialized at the window.
There was an instant when Enjolras was hopeful that they had left, but then the door, opened by force, exploded off its hinges. Someone had kicked it in. Surely some experienced and strong savateur... Could Grantaire had joined the band? Enjolras felt as relieved as he was tense. Once more, it was not Grantaire, but some big, ugly, gorilla-like man, who dragged him out by the arms, pointing a pistol at his left temple.
The next thing he was aware of, he was being pulled by the arms out of the calèche. No matter how much he struggled and kicked (and he knew that he was a leader, not a fighter, but nevertheless forced to struggle under pressure), it was to no avail, and the passenger found himself face-to-face with a group of dark-haired, tall, ugly, fierce-looking men in torn-up clothing, some of which was purple and some of which appeared to be part of worn, re-used military uniforms, surrounding him, their figures dark among the treetrunks. Forced to climb down from the coach, where he was apprehended by that band of thieves. Their voices carried across the open air. They were some ugly men reeking of alcohol and wearing torn and dirty clothes. Everything in them was disgusting, but the worst part was the look in their eyes. It was a look of a hungry beast with no sign of sentience. And those eyes were all over Enjolras, evaluating him as prey.
‘Tally-ho!’ shouted Father as he grabbed the horses,
‘Tally-ho!’ shouted Mother as she killed the coachman.
They finished off the postillions, slit the throats of the footmen,
and, with a blood-curdling cry, they yanked open the door.
Inside was a young lad, pretty and charming, cowering on the floor
amongst candied fruit, nuts, pastries, and sweetmeats.
Mother pulled out her knife, flashing and gleaming,
meaning to... ready to...
Dressed in dull colours, their worn jackets trimmed with rows of metal buttons, they looked like ramshackle soldiers, flashing their swords and bayonets menacingly. The youngest member of the band he could see was in his twenties, and assumed airs which made him look like a dandy; raven-haired, slender, dark of features and with an ill-shaven face (his upper lip took great pains to raise a moustache, but the hairs were so coarse and far between that it resembled the whiskers on a stray cat's nose), but definitely far better-looking and more sharply dressed than Grantaire, but he was a savage dandy, who was far from resembling the more cultured and adroit Courfeyrac; this young fellow, on the other hand ---a rather insignificant youth, of a face in which there was malice enough to show that he may commit any act of cruelty and consider it a pastime; though he looked good in general, his nose was slightly a decided snub, and his eyes fishy---, was the typical dashing dandy highwayman, sharply dressed to kill in a Prussian blue three-piece suit with a well-tied cravat, white fingerless gloves, a datura flower in the buttonhole, and a fancy top hat, an opera hat, that Enjolras supposed had been stolen from a previous unfortunate traveller (this hat was worn by our dandy according to the fashion of the decade, cocked to the left to make place for the fluffy quiff of raven hair on the right side).
Well, well... most surely Grantaire, if he had ever joined these merry men, would be waiting and drinking and taking it easy in their common lair, Enjolras thought while steeling himself, for he had never felt so frightened in his life, nor so powerless, surrounded by open blades.
Their leader was, or at least seemed to be, a filthy, vicious cur or rather a filthy, vicious fox of a man with short fiery red hair, in a worn uniform, who had coiffed his head with a sergeant's bonnet until his hair stood up in a great red ginger shock at each temple, not unlike walrus whiskers; of middle age but who had an age of superiority and power, even over those in the group who were clearly much older. He and his men seized Enjolras and dragged him off the carriage before the frightened geldings, and though he fought with all his strength, the blond was far outnumbered, and they had him bleeding on the ground before they were done.
The moment he stepped from his seat and his feet sank into the carpet of leaves, a whole apocalypse broke loose. The man on the ground jumped to his feet, but sank down as quickly as he had scrambled up, clutching the hole in his bleeding solar plexus, crimson staining his livery, as the dandy blew away a puff of smoke from the muzzle of his pistol. A lot more men encircled Enjolras, without a means to escape.
The mere thought that such filthy people exist in the world made him wince; but he was not given any time to show any disgust, it took the robbers only a second to class him and the attelage as a lucky strike, so with predatory smiles they unceremoniously grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged out of the carriage.
Now he saw out of the corner of his right eye that while two of the men held him in place, squeezing his slender arms and pinning them behind his back until Enjolras could hardly even feel them, the rest were taking the coach apart for its silver.
"Where is the driver?" the captive wondered worriedly. "Where are the footmen the heiress gave me?"
To his horror, Enjolras watched one of the men, a pot-bellied fellow with a gold arm-ring pushed up onto his left arm, lift up the driver's seat of the carriage and saw it was covered with blood.
So he was gone, then. The postillions and the footmen, and the guards of the escort, too, probably. Enjolras' stomach lurched; "It is after sunset, and you aren’t even half a mile into the forest, which is dark and scary and full of noises, when bandits ambush your escort, and slaughter them all. If I hadn't been so terrified about my own fate, I would have vomited. I had liked the coachman -stupid though he'd been- and the footmen and postillions had been kind, too. How horrid it was to think that in one flash they were gone."
They stepped out of the carriage. There were more robbers outside. Enjolras looked down and saw the bodies of the coachmen. Crouching over, he started to throw up, but nothing came out of his wide-open mouth.
"What is that disgusting noise?" growled one of the men. The blond felt a cold blade pressed in his back.
The attack had been swift and terrible, and the bandits had soon slaughtered the coachman and small escort that accompanied Enjolras. All the escort had been slaughtered. He was the only one of the entourage left alive. Now, for the first time in forever, he had to face the fact that his friends were dead. "That I might go next." Yet still he refused to die, not yet, it was too early... if Enjolras died himself, who would go and bring Grantaire back home? In spite of his disbelief, the estranged, dark sceptic was his brother in arms at the end of the day. They all had to stick together facing the guns; they all had to fall together, before turning thirty. There was simply no other way to die.
Though not being much of a fighter himself, though the Fauchelevents had not given him as much as a pistol which he could have fired to kill one of the robbers stone dead in half a moment... though the rest of the gang were upon him so quickly that Enjolras, breaking free from the thugs' grip from all his strength, braced himself and tried his hand at savate for the first time in a short life, and so he was reduced to hitting about him with an empty box that once had been full of macarons and croquignoles to right and left, as though it were a club, fighting as best as he could against the captors but it was no use, there were too many and they were too strong.
This worked for perhaps a minute, maybe two, but then the sheer weight of their numbers overwhelmed him, and they bore him to the ground. The moment he stepped from his seat and his feet sank into the carpet of leaves, a whole apocalypse broke loose. A lot more men encircled Enjolras, without a means to escape.
He was now circled by a bunch of those disgusting people. They were laughing at him to his face and loudly discussing what they would do to their captive. To Enjolras' shock among the things they said just killing him was the least terrible one.
"He is worn and battered, for all his fine boots and overcoat," mocked the one who seemed to be the head robber, that ill-looking fox of a man with an unshaven jaw and wiry, bristly red muttonchop whiskers, dressed in a worn and torn sergeant's uniform. "Perhaps he stole the horses himself." And he held an old bayonet to the golden-haired stripling's throat —which made a little rill of blood trickle, red on white, on Enjolras' lilywhite skin—, saying, with a sardonic grin, "Justice is served, then."
Then he shouted an oath, for one of his fellows, a young person of indeterminate sex with a fierce and wild grin, had stabbed a small knife into his arm. The redhead cursed the dark-haired youngster, and called that person an insubordinate lout, and a tall, stout, muscular bear of a blonde woman dressed as a camp follower, but who looked somewhat more like a wardrobe or a female impersonator (with a sprig of holly in a mop of messy ash-blond hair), set to bandaging the wounded man's arm with a strip of cloth torn from his ragged shirt, and the gang forgot all about killing their prisoner. Enjolras himself reeled backwards in shock. Air was knocked from his lungs and he was thrown to the ground with a boot pressed to his chest. A boot at the end of a shapely, muscular thigh beneath a sutler woman's worn skirt. The tall, broad lady towering over him, wore a red coat and wore the biggest grin he had ever seen, and her piercing green eyes held much similarity to Grantaire's, but she was very different.
Suddenly the crowd got silent and made way for their leader. Surprisingly it was that woman. Her fair hair was a mess and her clothes had so many patches on them, they seemed to consist of nothing more but those patches; she sported long, bristly brows that hung down over her eyelids. But at least, though grizzled as she was, though she looked fearsome and bold, she didn’t look as wild as the men. Her movements were steady, her eyes looked sentient. Probably that’s why she was the leader among the robbers. Thus, Enjolras thought that while the blonde woman would most probably still kill him at once, it would come as a conscious decision and not beastly instinct. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse though.
Although they themselves were mostly men, their leader was not the sergeant, Enjolras thought, but that tall burly woman with the hair colour of yolk and pointy-looking teeth, wiry bushy bristly long tangled eyebrows that hung down over her eyelids like an eagle-owl's, eyebrows so big and bushy that they almost hid her eyes... and a smile that was much too broad for his liking. She leaned down to put her face in his own.
The leader woman, now that her men had gathered up all the silver they could carry, had turned her attention to the golden-haired passenger, and eyed him from crown to toe. The moment she saw Enjolras, she turned to him predatory, grabbing him by the wrists and lifting him up to her eye level, so that the lad's bare feet didn’t reach the ground. This slightly-old woman who looked fearsome and bold had quite a strength for her age. She looked at the prisoner curiously, considering what would be the best use for her to put him to as her flashing green eyes travelled down his glossy hair, expensive crimson coat, and new leather boots. Upon seeing his face, her own twisted in lust and she violently pulled him from the carriage. Finally she spoke in a husky, sultry contralto voice, yelling delightedly at the sight of him: "Hoo hoo hoo hoo! Wot's this? Who's this?" grumbled that woman with a particularly hairy head and bulging neck. She had long, bristly eyebrows that hung down over her eyes.
"Better finish him or her or whatever you want to call 'em, quick," said a man, jabbing his side with a fat finger. "Oooh, he's or she's nice and plump!"
"Full of butter-milk and macarons, no doubt."
"Well, get on with it!"
"So wot have we got in here?" As she said this, clutching Enjolras between the legs to sex her prisoner, she drew out her knife, a dreadful, flashing thing. And then she pulled out her shiny knife that glittered so it was frightful.
“Why, it’s a lad, and a comely one at that. Come here, come here to Auntie Thénardier! I suspect you are quite tender and will make a splendid... Aren't you far from home, Your Lordlingship?”
"Are you?" Enjolras groaned in reply as he tried to squirm out of the grips that held him firmly in place, but of course it was still no use. Her fierce, sinister laugh curdled the blood in his veins, and so did the words she uttered as she touched him all over, examining his physique:
“Well, I’ve yet got to see under that last coat. Darling, you are dressed up like an onion, I’ve got to peel you layer by layer,” she purred in a low voice, as she pulled Enjolras to herself, wrapping her hand tightly around his wrist, and hit his chest with her own bosom. He would try to get out of that grasp, weren't it for Madame's hands firmly pressing his hips to her own, kneading his ass as best he could. The shock was so huge, Enjolras couldn’t find any words nor strength to muster any action. He simply froze in the virago's arms and watched as her face got closer and closer, alarm ringing in his ears.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to cause any resistance which could cause him trouble. He just wanted to go on and let the group take what they wanted. He didn’t care about the possessions. One coat was enough, he would find a way. But this was something he didn’t count with and it pushed against his threshold. "You look deliciousssss," she leered as she licked her lips, and Enjolras, who looked as helpless as a chicken chick, froze and turned pale in her embrace, which caused her to roar out laughing. She clutched Enjolras' glutes tighter, like a cat claiming a plump finch.
“Chéri, I hope you taste as delicious as you look. You won’t mind me taking a taste, will you?” she kissed his jaw lightly and whispered into his ear with a sirupy oath. “I promise I’ll be gentle and I know how to reward… very well.” Her short stubble tickled Enjolras on the cheek and if it were any different circumstances, he might like the soft quality and enjoy the pleasant fragrance of eau-de-vie and mushrooms, but the only thing he could feel was anxiety gripping on his throat and a shout crawling up, as she kept on kneading upwards, now having moved her grasp from his glutes to his lower back and sides, and laughed that fierce, sinister laugh once more:
"Hair like beaten gold... skin like porcelain or silk... hands like lilies... and this scent of lavender... he's so gentle, and dressed to the nines, and dashing in scarlet..." Since she was not only a robber but also among the likes of Phaedra, she wistfully added those words with a mirthless cackle, while licking her own lips and baring her sharp teeth as she kneaded his thighs, his buttocks, his lower back, his sides, his arms, his chest, flustering the tense young captive, whose attire suddenly felt tight, the cravat digging into his collarbones just above his racing heart. "Look what we got here!" quoth she triumphantly as she held Enjolras' arm up at an awkward angle. "We got ourselves a lordling to ransom! How tender he looks, just as if he'd been fed on macarons! He's most surely a lordling! Shall we make him sing before we have the ransom paid?" she then asked in a sultry deep contralto voice, in the most alarming and ominous tone imaginable, as she, smacking her lips, tapped and subsequently drew from a scabbard on the brown silken sash she wore for a belt on her apron the longest shiniest scariest-looking butcher's knife that Enjolras had ever seen, a dreadful flashing blade in the evening twilight, flashing so bright that it hurt the eyes, holding it to his throat. The crowd cheered. Enjolras couldn’t believe it. Some of the men mentioned it a moment before, but then he was sure it was just their way of joking. But when the woman spoke, he felt she was quite serious; his own speeding-up heartbeat and breathing were drowned out by a group cheer of the virago's comrades. He stifled a scream as the hairy lady raised a knife above his throat."Hoo hoo hoo hoo, what a ball we will have tonight indeed! Oh, quel régal nous en ferons; comme je vais me régaler ce soir! Look how pretty he is, il est si mignon, so lovely, he's a real delicacy, how tender he looks, ce sera délicieux à coucher avec lui; one might say just as if he'd been fed on nothing but macarons... Long story short, il est par-r-fait!" the leader of the robbers said, baring her sharp teeth in a most frightful grin and licking her lips. The look in her eyes was lustful and cruel, and she twitched her thick owl-like eyebrows, that hung over her eyes. "I bet he has been fed on treats. Full of macarons and milk tea, no doubt. He's thin as a rake, but his flesh is pale and tender, just like icing sugar. If we stuff him with nuts and berries, just think how nice he will taste! Oh, comme il doit avoir bon goût! Let's see how pretty he is when we bleed him dry... Wait! No, that's it! If we stuff him with wine and eau-de-vie, just think how nice he will sing! This one will be as good a singer as a trained Flemish finch! Of course his voice must sound as sweet as that of a little well-trained boy finch: suskewiet, suskewiet! My word, I'll enjoy him for supper!" And as she said this, she drew forth a bayonet out of the stomach of one of the dead guards, pulling out that long shiny gleaming knife that glittered in the moonlight to fill anyone with dread, that glittered so it was frightful enough to even such a stoic leader; that blade flashed with a sinister gleam, so that it was grisly... as a shudder ran down the prisoner's spine, and raised it with vengeful dexterity to his throat, cold blade grazing the skin over the throbbing carotids. His heart raced even faster. She knew how to act during such assaults, from her own experience, aside from how to wield a knife in order to threaten her prisoners.
Meanwhile, the redhead in the worn uniform was tying the stripling's hands behind him with a sturdy rope. Enjolras was so shocked and in turmoil, that he barely managed his head to stop spinning. Once it did, he noticed the large group of the attackers seized his calèche and rummaged through his belongings greedily.
"Take all you can! There is something for everyone, and there is enough for everyone!"
They shouted excitedly and brayed like donkeys with each new item in their hands, exclaiming how rich they would be once they could sell all the fine clothes and the team of horses. They were dragging the bodies from the carriage and going through the pockets of the dead men for any valuables. The bags of provisions were taken as well.
It would be fine, he told himself. He would just wait through this and then head out on foot if he had to. The bandits would take all he had and his life wouldn’t make them any richer if they took it as well.
The despair clung heavy on his chest and he felt the familiar arrival of helpless apprehensions. He was trying to swallow them away so he wouldn’t appear weak in his captors’ eyes. But it seemed his was really out of luck that night, since the virago happened to oh so sit beside him and not so subtly slide his palm to the inner side of his thigh. She managed to murmur to his ear. “Won’t you consider? I’ll keep you extra warm tonight.”
“Wow, Madame, looking at your resolve, I’d almost say you’re serious in settling down!” the dandy mocked her loudly.
But before the brigand leader could cut the captive's throat, which he didn't try to protect having already lost all hope, she made a shrill grunt of pain, for then something weird happened, something unexpected, something that changed the course of events. Enjolras heard a growling in the underbrush, and then the tall woman screeched, grimaced in pain, hopped up and down and spun around.
“Hands off!” A threatening yell cracked between them like a whip. Their heads shot towards it as on command. At that moment there was a fierce growl as another face appeared: much younger, finer, more androgynous. That small person with haggard hair and a fierce grin marched towards them and flapped their ragged cape aside. They flung their arms around the virago's neck, their legs astride her sides, and rode on her back, clinging to her back like a limpet, and had bitten her fiercely on the ear.
The young person who had stabbed the sergeant in the arm had jumped onto her from behind and was now hitched up on her back, watching everything with shining eyes, arms flung around that muscular neck, legs pressed against those broad sides, pulling at her short braids of frizzled hair and chewing at her left ear.
Preventing the virago from using the cruel implement. Keeping her from killing, or torturing, Enjolras.
"Aoooww!! Aïïïe!! 'Ponine, you loathsome brat, you minx, you hussy, you...! It's not for nothing you're a sutler woman's daughter, eh?" the furious robber woman suddenly cursed as she pursed her lips and propped her hips; she thought of stalling her idea to make the prisoner 'sing' for later, as that nimble dark young person bit her in the left ear until she bled, and tore tufts of matted fair hair from her head; and she had no time to kill her prisoner then. "Mauvaise bête," said the mother, and her hand stopped. Wrapping her left arm around her mother’s neck to use it as a support and threatening her with a dagger she held in her left hand, the girl grabbed her mother’s right arm with her own right hand and pulled it away from Enjolras, along with mother’s dagger.
“No, he won’t! I said hands off!” The girl stretched forward and bit the hairy lady's right hand like a wild animal!
"Owlch!" the robust woman shrieked, at the very same moment, clutching her bitten hand -- right then her own daughter had fiercely bitten her ear once more. The adolescent girl, whom she carried riding on her back, was a wild and reckless creature, who looked so untamed that she was a sight to behold, looking delightfully wild and reckless. "You beastly, horrible, nasty little brat!" her mother exclaimed, but it kept her from using that knife on the prisoner; she simply didn't have time to butcher the hostage or to unsheathe even.
The maiden was still both quite wild and quite fearless, and had bitten her fiercely on the left ear once more. The robber leader struck out and scored a glancing blow, aiming a rippling left hook against 'Ponine's nose, but she fell back ere her mother's fist could strike her and, with blood still dripping from her teeth, she cartwheeled back into the underbrush, which then made way for her, rustling ominously; in the excitement, the robbers forgot about killing Enjolras.
The men's voices suddenly grew quiet, and the virago's knife-wielding hand stopped altogether. The only sound they made was the rustling of their boots in the grass and carpet of leaves, growing closer and closer until they discovered the girl's dark head popping from behind a juniper bush.
While travelling at night, the carriage was shining in the moonlight, and that attracted the attention of some nearby robbers. The group of miscreants attacked the carriage all at once, and dispatched of the soldiers, servants, and coachman. And by "dispatched," I mean (Pause) they killed them.
She is just about to slit your throat, as you stand there, politely pretending not to notice the blood that is pooling around the bodies of the dead guards, the cold steel that is at your throat, when a girl about your own age, but slightly younger, jumps onto the robber queen’s back, pulling at the robber queen’s braided hair as if it were reins, Enjolras thought to himself.
There is a certain family resemblance between the robber queen and the girl who right now has her knees locked around the robber queen’s throat. “I don’t want you to kill her,” the girl says, and you realize that she means you, that you were about to die a minute ago, that travel is much more dangerous than you had ever imagined.
The fair leader might have found himself upon a stretching rack, had the youngest of the bunch not taken an interest. “Leave him be, Mother,” she commanded. “Let me interrogate him, see what his business here might be. Perhaps, should he disappear, someone might come looking for...”
Now the girl, Éponine, was simply in want of some company. Thieves, on the whole, are a closemouthed lot, and not much good for conversation.
"You mustn't kill him yet!" the maiden said, pouting yet in a clear, commanding young voice. "He looks so nice... P-lease, Maman, he looks so innocent and kind! Let us not kill him. I have never met a real lordling before, and I want to keep... I have to keep him! This stranger has to be my friend! P-le-e-ease! He must gimme his nice waistcoat and that pretty velvet peacoat he wears, and his nice leather boots, and keep me company, and come and sleep in my bed with me tonight!" the robber girl declared as if her words were the law, stamping her feet as she bit her mother once more, making her hop another time. And just to make certain that her mother had understood her, she bit her again as hard as she could. The robber woman turned about and jumped high into the air from the pain, writhing and spinning like a spinning-top... "He will give me his coat, and read me stories before bedtime, and he must lay down beside me upon my mattress... for he looks very wise, and he's a brave boy, I can tell..." Her mezzo voice, hoarse from strong drink, sounded like a croaking frog. A thoughtful look came over her simple features, and she cast a glance as dark as midnight at the prisoner. "You're all forbidden to kill this one. He will be my friend and sleep in my bed. Can he read? Of course, I bet! There's no one else to discuss literature or theatre with. Besides... You and the other robbers are too big to wrestle with and can't play any games without gambling." The girl half–throttled the robber queen, who had fallen to her knees, gasping for breath. "He can be my brother," she said insistently, as her mother, thinking about it carefully, reluctantly put her blade away. "You promised me I could have a sibling and I want him for my own... He shall be questioned and if he proves troublesome I shall slit his throat. But for now, the benefit of the doubt..."The fair leader might have found himself upon a stretching rack, had the youngest of the bunch not taken an interest. “Leave him be, Mother,” she commanded. “Let me interrogate him, see what his business here might be. Perhaps, should he disappear, someone might come looking for...”
Now the girl, Éponine, was simply in want of some company. Thieves, on the whole, are a closemouthed lot, and not much good for conversation.
"Non pas, 'Ponine, non pas, not at all; he's too delicate..." said the big blonde woman. "So he'll be less fun than any of us are for you. We're gonna keep this lad, this suskewiet, alive to male him sing. I claim the man. He's a real looker. Haven't had a good man in three years. Wore out m'last one. I think this one might last a little longer. He's got meat on his bones."
And, in spite of the fact that the blonde was ready to slit her prisoner's throat once more, no sooner had she finished her reply... that her daughter jumped once more on the mother's back and bit her in the other ear, in the right one this time, which made her squeal and leap into the air in pain.
“Fine!” the robber woman said. “Just get off my neck!”
The dark girl let her mother go, and the virago let go of her prey. Enjolras limply fell on the carpet of leaves, still hand-tied; it did not take long for the dandy and the gorilla to pin him down to the ground on his knees once more.
The robber girl glanced heavily at her mother, but said nothing. Then, she kicked the redheaded sergeant where it hurt the most, and he began to squeal like a pig at the abattoir, clutching his hands between his thighs and hopping up and down as he spun around and whirled about and writhed in pain, before he turned round towards his wife. The other brigands just laughed heartily, all of them bursting out into hearty laughter, at the scene and at their contortions, just like whenever the girl played a bad trick on her parents; mocking the sergeant and the camp follower, who held one another and steeled themselves (the sergeant, his face as red as his hair, buried in his wife's cleavage), convinced that their brothers-in-arms were laughing at them as they shouted: "Regardez comme ils dansent avec leur petite! Look at 'em, see the old Thénardiers how they're dancing so youthfully with their li'l brat!" Even the trickster girl who had started it all. And even the fair prisoner himself.
"Let me in the carriage!! Je veux entrer dans la voiture, et garder le prisonnier," 'Ponine roared, gnashing her teeth, as she twice fired her pistol in the air. Then she pushed through to the front of the group and spat. "I see I got left to struggle with the horses again. It's because I'm a woman, isn't it?"
"You're not a woman until you give us some," leered the dandy as he glared up onto her face. The girl pulled a knife seemingly out of nowhere, into the palm of her own left hand, and held it to his throat.
"I," she said, tapping the knife against his throat. "Can," she tapped his chin - "Give," his left cheek - "You," his right cheek - "Scar." She traced over his right eye with barely an inch between his eyeball and the blade. She pulled the knife back down to his throat. "If you give me reason to." When the dandy simply glared at her, she gave him a tight smile and flicked her knife in her wrist, slipping it in her belt, upon her right thigh. "I thought so."
She turned her attention to the prisoner and the men who held him in place. "Give 'im to me," she said in no uncertain terms.
"You?" The others laughed. "What would you like to do with Suskewiet?"
"That is my decision. But you will give 'im to me as my special companion," she continued to her parents. "I will make sure you don't regret it."
Everyone turned to the leaders, looking down on the sergeant and the sutler woman with abated breath. Even Enjolras found himself holding his breath, too perplexed to question his would-be saviour. The sergeant, the woman, the dandy - they all stared without blinking at the maiden. Finally, all three jerked a nod.
"The lad goes to 'Ponine. She will do what she likes with him."
And she must and would have her own way, for she was so spoiled and obstinate and headstrong; and they all made haste to cater to her whim, since the robber maiden's will had to be done come hell or highwater, and no one dared to oppose any of her desires, and her stubbornness as such that it made that not even her mother dared to deny her anything; for every whim of hers was a command; there was nothing to do but to let her have her way -- that's so stubborn and terribly pampered and headstrong for words the dark maiden was that she always got her way, so obstinate and authoritarian and spoiled by all the attention that everyone gave her; so wild and so unkempt and unruly and naughty and so impulsive and fearless a little wild beast that it was a joy to see, a delight to watch her; and woe to the one who dared to contradict her!
Though it was not unanimous; this decision was met with howls of rage, more arguments, and much spitting at the ground, but the virago only held up a hand to commandeer silence as 'Ponine grabbed a hold of the blond's upper arm and dragged him to his feet, marching him away from the group.
The young maiden leaped towards her prisoner holding a knife or bayonet threateningly. She crouched over Enjolras like a cat claiming her prey, and looked him over from crown to toe. He looked at her with wide, terrified eyes, and she returned a startled look. They were frozen, neither knowing what to do or how to react. Her thin eyes widened and she nodded all pleased, producing the thick leather-bound volume of Shakespearean tragedies. As the man in sergeant's uniform was busy with tying the prisoner's hands with a rope, while the young man's wrists were being bound behind his back before the ones who were deciding his future, she yelled at him, and at the virago, sternly. “I’ve got an eye on him first! And on Shakespeare as well! Finders keepers, that’s our rule!”
The robber queen dropped both her knives, and the girl dropped back onto the ground, kissing her mother’s hairy gray cheek. “Very well, very well,” the robber queen grumbled, or rather declared, and the crowd seemed satisfied. The man in uniform sighed, still clutching his private parts, as the dark maiden resumed, trying to wrest Enjolras out of his grasp.
"And I make the rules so I can break them. He’s mine and that’s the end of the discussion. If you don’t like it, you can take your spoils and leave us.”
And just like that the argument was over. The sergeant laughed, the robber woman was insulted, or at least felt insulted, and both of them grew tired of fighting their daughter, for no one dared to oppose the dark maiden. Considering that not a single word had passed between them as of yet, Enjolras thought this rather forward of her. At any rate, it was probably worth it to comply, rather than to protest.
"The Sarge was a soldier," one of the other robbers pointed out in a fine Left Bank accent — he was that slender young man in his twenties, like Enjolras himself, but raven-haired and a scoundrel to the core: the typical dashing dandy highwayman, sharply dressed to kill in a Prussian blue three-piece suit, a well-tied cravat, a datura flower in the buttonhole, and a fancy top hat, an opera hat, that Enjolras supposed had been stolen from a previous unfortunate traveller. This lad, who looked like an evil Courfeyrac, yet at heart did not resemble the courteous Gascon at all, was as dark of features as that young person, whom the prisoner now understood to be a girl.
"That old blighter?" The dark maiden pointed at the Sarge, who was still wincing and clutching his private parts, as she scoffed. "He's a thief and a villain, and so are all the rest of you, and myself as well."
"Very well, you spoilt little brat," the older woman growled. "Keep him then —Suskewiet is all yours— but mind you don't let him out of your sight..."
The Sarge, who was tightening the ties on the prisoner's hands behind him, asked the stripling if he would not like to join them, and try his hand at being a thief himself.
"Look at us," he said, nodding at the brigands where they stood in a half-circle around. "The dregs of half the armies in Europe. We've been at war, man and boy, for our entire lives, and all it got us was sore feet and empty bellies. Well, most of us except for 'Parnasse... posh lad, a real toff who fell on hard times, the poor thing. The mildest-mannered young man that e'er cut a throat; with such true breeding of a gentleman you never could divine his real thoughts. So... where were we? Aha! We've been all, sans 'Parnasse, at war for our entire lives, and all it got us was sore feet and empty bellies. Now we fight for ourselves alone, and claim for our own the spoils of our combat. You have the look of a man well-accustomed to swordplay and bayonet, to fighting, of a warrior, and what's more, of a leader, as I know from all the lieutenants I served under... those expendable striplings I barely got to know, shot before my very own eyes. Well, I am not saying all of them were like you, my lad, for some of them were quite conceited and others were rather puny, but you get the picture. I do not know how you got ahold of those fine horses and pretty silk cloth we took from you, but stay with us and I can promise you more."
Looking about his surroundings, at the darkness and the circle of sinister faces around, Enjolras thought that the non-commissioned officer's promises of riches and ease to be gained by a life of highway robbery did not quite agree with the dismal condition of his living quarters; besides which, he had always been an honest man, and had made his living through his own efforts and not by stealing the property of others. Even during the looting and destruction that followed the end of a siege and the breaching of the walls right before the storming, he would have never taken so much as a loaf of bread or a copper sou from its rightful owner. Why else would he start a revolution, and a secret society, in the first place? He was a far leftist, yet one who would never stoop that far to the left into Communism...
But those were only a small part of the feelings that impelled him to decline. "I am searching for someone," he told the non-commissioned officer. "A friend who has gone away. I have walked so far in my searching that I have nearly walked the soles off my old pair of boots, and I will not stop until I have found my friend and we are together again."
"Ah," said the robber wisely, as he pulled a pipe from within his coat. "A woman. I might have known. I almost gave the soldiering life up myself, once, for a woman. Would have, indeed, had the peace not been signed just in time for her to become Madame Thénardier and the mother of our children... And I would have lived to regret it, mark me if I wouldn't. If she's gone off and left you, my advice is to forget all about her." And he lit his pipe, stuck the end of it in his mouth, and began to puff out foul-smelling clouds of pipe smoke.
Blushing slightly, Enjolras explained to Sergeant Thénardier, who was chewing on the stem of his pipe, that he was mistaken, and that the friend he sought was a man, a visual artist and savateur of great renown, whom he had overlooked until his untimely disappearance, and who had been lured away into the wide world by a carriage and a lady that seemed to be formed all of greenery.
"Ah, you didn't look quite straight to me... he he he... It is my business to know a great many things," the brigand said, with a shrug. "I'm afraid it will do you little good, though." And then he informed the fair student that if he did not see fit to join their merry band, they had no choice but to hold him for ransom. "For 'Ponine likes you, and would like as not cry for days on end if we were to cut your throat." And he tightened the tie around the prisoner's wrists.
"And it could also get use caught if he tells them where our camp is or some of the guards kill him when we try to get the money," another spat, pointing a stunted index finger at the prisoner. "You really want to risk death for that thing?"
"We could find other uses for this lad," the virago said in her sultry, throaty female voice. She glared over her shoulder with bloodshot green eyes.
In response to these words, the maiden came and pried him away from the men holding onto his arms, embracing the hand-tied Enjolras so tightly that he thought she was going to crush every bone in his body, and then told him, very slowly as if she thought the young man might be less than intelligent, that as long as he swore friendship with her she would never let any harm come to her captive.
"Yes," the fair leader said quickly, trying not to think of the driver and the footmen (if only someone could have made a vow of friendship with them!), "we're friends."
The robber maiden smiled with pleasure and nodded, satisfied. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. "Y'see, Papa, Maman?" And the sergeant, the vice-leader of the robbers, was not pleased, but secretly he was was a bit afraid of his daughter, as much as of his wife who spoiled the girl rotten, and rather than let his men see that, he acquiesced grudgingly and let 'Ponine drag the finely-dressed traveller off to their lair by calèche, as co-passengers. "We shall ride home in comfort!" she declared triumphantly, grabbing the end of his hand-tie rope, as the other outlaws, including her parents, stepped out of the way to let her haul the prisoner cheerfully, if rather carelessly, half-carrying Enjolras over stumps and stones and underbrush, back into the calèche.
Let me ride in the carriage with my new playmate;
let me gobble up the gingersnaps and fruits inside!
"Quick! Into the carriage," the robber girl urged the captive, "before she changes her mind! C'mon then," 'Ponine said as she prodded Enjolras between the shoulder blades with a bony index finger. "Move. Allez!"
Right at that moment, the only girl of the roup, with olive skin and raven hair, had swept the sergeant robber man’s legs from under him with her feet, her body still poised in a crouch next to him. Enjolras staggered backwards, and for a moment he thought about rubbing, but another robber had grabbed him, the gorilla brute, his body much bigger than the one on the ground, and his arm was wrapped firmly around the blond's stomach.
“I want him, Gueulemer. How many times do you need...?” The girl spoke, slowly standing up. “You promised me I could have the next one for whatever I wanted and I want him! He’s going to be my friend and he’s going to stay with me in my room.”
Her father, the robber on the ground, finally clambered to his feet and rubbed at his leg. Mostly because he could not argue with his wife. “Okay, okay, fine. You can have him, but you have to ride in the carriage with him so he doesn’t try to escape.”
“Deal!” 'Ponine wrapped her hand around the prisoner’s wrist and dragged him into the carriage. "Là," she continued, "maintenant, je veux que l’on mette le blondin auprès de moi".
Enjolras, feeling threatened, sat down by her side, as she was opening the panel door. They had to put him by her side, after all, under severe penalty.
Enjolras, feeling threatened, sat down by her side, as she was opening the panel door. They had to put him by her side, after all, under severe penalty.
The dandy took up the driving position and the larger man climbed onto the back, the coach rocking from the sudden added weight, and before Enjolras knew what was happening, they were heading further into the depths of the forest.
Laughing, she got onto the carriage and looked curiously at her catch. “C’mon, get up,” she said to the lad who was still kneeling, hand-tied, on the carpet of leaves. Since Enjolras did not react, the robber girl had to grab him by the shoulders and put him back on his feet. Weakly, but now Enjolras stood by his own, upright. “Get in the carriage with me", the robber girl said and seeing that he was still not going to move, dragged the captive by force, pulling him by the hand-ties. Enjolras didn’t resist and climbed into the calèche after her."I want to ride in the carriage," the robber girl had said, and ride she did, and she imposed her will on everyone else; she always did as she pleased and as she wanted, for she was too spoiled and headstrong for words.
“Take us home!” her mother called over the thumping and bumping of the repulsors over rocks and roots on the path. “We'll decide what to do with our new prizes there.”
Éponine looked quite relieved and hugged the boy to her chest protectively. "Merci, Maman! I'll take charge of him and promise to watch him diligently so he doesn't get away!"
Giving her daughter a look of disgust, Madame Thénardier turned to the men. "Let us get going now, there's nothing else here. We can bring the carriage with us. 'Ponine! As you are such an accomplished brigand, you and the boy can ride in the carriage. Find out if he is indeed a lordling of the highest rank!" Several snorts of approval came from the group of robbers. They got up.
That seemed to settle the matter, and soon Enjolras found himself sitting back inside the Fauchelevents' carriage, which rolled over ditches and gnarled roots, over stumps and stones and bushes, through underbrush and across marshes, while away it drove, being driven along little paths that brought it deeper and deeper, into the depths of the forest, now being driven back to the bandits' den or hideout; with his hands tied behind his back, the initial shock already wearing off of him, already saved from certain death or torture; and his captor, the daughter of the outlaw leader, sitting down beside him to hold the other end of the rope. She had half-carried him back into his seat, and sat him firmly down with a warm plaid blanket over his knees, and now she was sitting down by his side, looking in wonderment at the ornate furnishings inside the calèche. She slung an arm around the blond’s shoulders as she took the seat next to him, humming happily to herself. “They won’t kill you unless I get angry with you. What’s your name? Mine’s Éponine!”
A group of adults rode in the carriage to the camp or lair, taking the places of the entourage, and the rest had to walk. There was much activity and the next thing Enjolras knew he was back in the carriage with Éponine pressed close and they were driving once more into the woods at high speed, bouncing over roots and stones. So both young people sat inside the carriage and they rattled as they drove over stumps and brambly thorns deeper into the forest. Though she had saved his life, the captive still looked at her with fear. Now he could see clearer what she looked like.
The robber maiden was not yet twenty, younger and just a bit taller than her prisoner, but her body looked broader than his own in the shoulders. Her skin was tanned softly and her eyes were so dark that he felt like she had the whole ocean in them. She was strong and broad-shouldered, olive-skinned with tangled dark hair and a mournful look in her pitch black eyes, for all that she smiled so fiercely. She was about the same age and height and overall size as Cosette, but she was much stronger and had a far more athletic and robust build, with a far less generous bosom; she was sturdy and rough and dark-skinned from her harsh outdoor life, she had a skin that had been tanned bronze by the sun, her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and her hair was unkempt, coal-black and half-short, tied back so it was fastened and kept out of her face by a ribbon, not fair and long and styled in a chignon like Cosette's. And the outlaw girl's eyes were as night-black as those of the heiress were day-blue. She was stronger, much broader in the shoulders and much narrower in the hips, more muscular of limbs; her teeth were surprisingly well-kept, white, and sharp, that being the cause that hers was a beautiful mouth; and her whole nimble frame dressed in a tattered overcoat and torn trousers of rough fabric, with a deerskin cloak wrapped on top, instead of a corset and silken, lacy pristine petticoats; and her raven head was hatted with a worn, broken opera hat instead of a lacy bonnet. She looked quite scary, but also pretty in her own way. The girl’s clothes, while still barbaric in design, were quite nice compared to other robbers', including her mother's. Seems she got everything best, and she always got her own way. All of 'Ponine's clothes, furthermore, were crumpled and stained; blood-stained, Enjolras thought upon paying closer attention. Long story short, the robber maiden was as catlike as Cosette was birdlike, as much a thornrose as Cosette was a lily, as boyish as Cosette was feminine. Her quite dark eyes flashed menacingly, and there was a dangerous fierce wildness in her uncontrolled nature, but, in spite of that wild look, in spite of everything about the first impression of her, she seemed to be unhappy; there was also restlessness, and at least a little sorrow, and longing, and a wistful melancholy shimmer in those two black holes-almost sad in their expression; they looked almost mournful.
She stared into his eyes, night-black locked with day-blue, for a moment; Enjolras willed himself not to squirm, sensing that this might be salvation. He knew an opportunity when he saw one. She seemed like the only reasonable one of the lot, and if he could make her want to save him, maybe he could make her want to let him go on and resume his quest, too. She focused her eyes on his, and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. He should have been intimidated by the look she gave him but for some reason he wasn't. "She looks like one of the bad girls who loiter under the street lamp by the corner shop, the ones who used to whistle at me whenever I came home from University on autumn and winter nights..." Moreover, she seemed to resemble Grantaire in some way or another... For starters, from so much living in darkness, the robber maiden's beautiful yet brazen eyes were as dark as caves, or rather as real black holes, even darker than the savateur's hazel orbs; she was also far more brusque and more determined than the fair leader himself... After a few awkward moments in which he tried not to tear up from fear, she put her arm around him comfortingly.
She put her arms around the sides of his torso and clasped Enjolras by the waist, so brusquely that he was startled, and held him tight, close to her, as she addressed him at point-blank range in her hoarse voice, that was less like a boy's and far more like a frog's:
"What are you doing in my mother’s forest? Don’t be afraid. I won’t let my mother eat you. My parents won't do nothing to you as long as you're with me. They'll not kill you so long as I'm not cross with you! They won’t slaughter you as long as I don’t get angry with you! So. Keep calm and carry on. There, there, you will not be killed if I can help it. But you must do as I say, cooperate, and try to stay away from my old lady. She rarely allows people to live.As sure as my name is Éponine Thénardier: as long as I'm fond of you, as long as you don't make me get cross with you, we shan't have you killed or even slap you in the face, shall we, Your Lordlingship? I won’t let them slaughter you as long as you're mine. They won’t kill you as long as I love you,” she whispered in his ear then licked it playfully. "I'm sure as sure can be that your real name is not 'Suskewiet', whatever your real name might be... They shan't kill you or hurt you as long as you don’t make us angry with you. As long as I'm fond of you, you're safe and sound, or I'm not a Thénardier! I suppose you are a great general? Tell me, are you perhaps at least a viscount, or at least a baron or a chevalier, right? I think you must really be a lordling. I guess you must be one. With all these fine clothes... Fess up! I assume you must be a noble to be in a carriage this fine. How unfortunate that you would come into our neck of the woods." She clutched his waist in her arms tightly so he could not run off, even though Enjolras was hand-tied already.
He sighed, taking but a little comfort from those words. The attire, trousseau, and attelage he had been given were, though austere, at least slightly ostentatious. "No... No, I'm not, we Enjolras have never been aristocrats. Just wealthy landowners, and horse breeders, in the Camargue. It happens to be by chance that I find myself in such a grand carriage... But you may say that I am a great general, in a certain sense. By the way... Éponine... that's a lovely name, I have never heard before..." he said, holding his nose, which was bleeding, and he feared, possibly broken, with his left hand.
"It's for the Celtic goddess of horses. Maman picked my name. I once had a sister called Azelma, a green-eyed, nutbrown little girl who died in the crossfire, she was shot down when we had to leave our village... She was named after a storybook heroine. But Enjolras... you look as much like a southerner as I look like a northerner... and I have never been down south in my life... what's it like? I've heard it's most delightful as to scenery and climate, laved by the soft waters of the Mediterranean, its climate is ideal, and you have only one season in the year, a yearlong springtime; how lucky you must be! but maybe these are the romantic rêveries of a northerner weary of the cold and rains and snow and frost, so I'd like to hear it from a born and bred southerner..."
"Well, it's rather hot and dry and sunny, so hot that you the month of Thermidor was most rightfully named, and one cannot spend a summer day without having a swim... yet there are cool breezes from the Mediterranean that fan the air along the coast, which is most refreshing; Paris at the same time of year is a furnace in comparison, so I study in the capital and spend my summer holidays down south at my parents' home. The woods are way brighter, without any ferns or berry bushes, and the sea is blue and cool, and there are soft sand dunes along the coast... and the scent of rosemary and lavender, for there are vast fields of lavender, and of citrus orchards in bloom, and of the breeze, cannot be more refreshing... so I prefer springtime in my birthplace, definitely. By the way, you look as much like a boy as I look like a girl, right?" She chortled. "I know a great many stories, and I will tell them all to you, you can be sure."
In response, she smiled with pleasure and nodded, satisfied. “Ah, so you actually talk”, the robber girl noticed. “That’s good! Keep it up and maybe I won’t get bored of you and throw you away after one night! Now tell me what brought you here to the heart of these dark woods all alone...” she smiled so mischievously that he couldn’t get if she was serious or not.
And so, he told Éponine the whole story of his life, everything he had experienced, and presently he began to tell her the story of his adventures thus far in the wide world. Then he thought of the loneliness of an only child of rank, the rambles among ruins and dunes and lavender in the Mediterranean breeze, the excitement of making friends in Paris with the Law degree, the revolutionary spirit of the decade, the little club he had with his friends at the Café Musain, Combeferre's puzzles and earnest discourses on the steering of montgolfières or the similarities between de Vigny's translation of Othello and Hugo's, Jehan Prouvaire's flute-playing and flower boxes, Joly taking his pulse when he was nervous, the quirks of all the others... and Grantaire. How much he missed the wit and the pluck of that drunken cynic, and how much his kidnapper reminded Enjolras of the missing friend he hoped to find. And then he disappeared. Just disappeared like gunsmoke.
"And you knew each other... from wealthy society? From little prince and princess school?"
"I told you," the blond glanced sharply at the dark-haired girl, "he's not a socialite."
Éponine smirked and tugged at one of his sleeves. "And I'm Marie-Antoinette."
"The clothes... They were a gift," the fair leader implored. "From friends I met on my journey to find Grantaire. The coach and the guards too. They were gifts."
She listened all journey long with dark sad eyes wide open and mouth agape, always paying the most serious attention, at the blond young man who had seemed to her such a fragile sheltered little lordling, but to whom such strange things had occurred, and who now revealed himself to be, if not literally a great general, at least a hero like those of the stories and the plays she loved to read, freeing the oppressed from tyranny; a leader, a rebel, a dreamer, a quester. That prisoner boy had everything that had been wrested from her... and now she was his captor. The thought made her seethe with as much rage and envy as it filled her with ambitions and wishes of freedom; thus she balled her fists, clenching them as tight as she could, yet her eyes were wistfully dreamy and her lips curled in an honest smile. That epic tale made her long for both Paris and the Mediterranean, as well as for friends of her own, and out of the dangerous life she led...
I wiped away his fears and took both his hands,
Pushed them deep into the muff and a little further,
To prove he was safe from my parents’ robber band.
In fact, Éponine seemed particularly interested in hearing about the impending Revolution, and so Enjolras elaborated on that part, talking until he was nearly hoarse, and they had reached their destination. She listened sympathetically and hugged him when he had finished, which made Enjolras' heart skip a beat of surprise.
“I see…” the robber girl said as for a moment she lowered her eyes as if she was considering something. Then, she became quite earnest. "Ah," she sighed with contentment, when he was done; she regarded him seriously, looked at him with serious black eyes, and raised her head and shook it, tossing raven hair into his face, with a defiant air; she looked straight again, right into his azure eyes, quite seriously, nodded her head a little, and said decisively, her brow furrowed: "You are a fine storyteller, indeed. In fact, as long as you swear friendship with me, I shan't let the others kill you, and they won't even touch you, even if you do vex me—, not even if we two should quarrel, not even if I should fall out of love with you—, for then, if I ever get cross with you, I'll rather do it myself! If you tell them, I will kill you. Instantly, but painfully."
The robber girl looked at her prisoner gravely, gave a little nod of approval, and told:
"Even if I should get angry with you, even if I should fall out of love with you, they shan't kill you, because I'll do it myself!"
"How comforting," Enjolras said, stifling a yawn. He didn't doubt that.
"It's the least I can do," Éponine replied, oblivious to the finer points of irony. She looked at him gravely, gave a nod of approval, and then spoke again. “Even if I get angry with you they won’t kill you, because I’ll do it myself.”
And then she pulled him into her side, humming softly once more.
When he had ended his tale, the dark maiden looked earnestly at him, nodded her head slightly, and dried up his few tears, as she said, raising her head with a defiant air:"They shan't kill you, the people outside won't kill you if you make any of us angry, for even if Maman or Papa get cross with you, and even if I do get cross with you myself, or as much as fall out of love... as sure as my name is Éponine Thénardier, for I will do it myself! I will kill you. Instantly, but painfully." Enjolras didn't doubt that. "You'll be quite safe if you do everything I've told ya! Nous verrons, nous verrons! We shall see, we'll see!" At this, she pulled a slim, sharp-looking dagger from her left boot and, flicking her wrist, grinned ferociously at her fair prisoner... and then she handed Enjolras a ragged bit of rabbit fur to use as a muff and stuck his own rough hands in the white chamois gloves, which were so soft and warm. And then she seized the thick volume of Shakespeare and placed it, open, on her lap, and spent the rest of the trip perusing those tragedies that were so intense and so harrowing. How exciting it was! Meanwhile, Enjolras wondered if a girl of her rank could be that well-read, and if she could understand such difficult language in the first place.
They drove deeper and deeper into the forest, riding for a long time into thick woods, entertained with their lively conversation, and the trees around them grew larger and larger, until they were riding through great, age-warped firs as big as the columns of a cathedral. The ground was covered by a thick carpet of their needles, which muffled the horses' footsteps, and there were no smaller plants of any sort, no ferns or bushes or flowers, to be seen, not, as you might think, because it was late autumn and nearly winter, but because nothing else can grow where a conifer's needles have fallen.
Enjolras grunted at the bruising blows he received whenever the carriage skipped over a rock or a stump and thrust him against the wall, but did his best to keep up, quite certain that he was better off with this simple yet well-read maiden than the other robbers. It was halfway to the robber band's hideout that Enjolras realised he might survive this night.
Through the window, he caught the outline of a tumbledown, shabby stone keep, which was as black inside as the colour of her eyes, and which would surely smell strongly of dirty straw.
Eventually, the carriage and the band stopped at last in the courtyard; they had reached the courtyard of the lair of the brigands. "Home" was a dark, cold, gloomy, broken-down, shabby, tumbledown Loire-Valley-style estate that looked like it had been abandoned decades ago; this estate had definitely seen better days during the Valois reign, and been left to ruin shortly before the Thermidor coup; now it served as a den or hideout to these miscreants. When they reached the lair, as soon as they came to the hideout, it was past nightfall, and the whole shabby lair-castle was twilit dark. It was old and crumbling and tumbledown, with broken windows and all; the walls of it were split and filled with long deep cracks that harboured lizards (not to mention riddled with owl holes) and that ran from derelict towers through shattered-tile-pavement floor to the dungeons underneath, the windows were broken, the once perfectly-trimmed French garden around had been claimed by the tangled woods, and the carriage had stopped in the middle of the courtyard. Ominous and dreary, the neglected park had stretched out before their eyes; knotty gnarled tree-branches resembling evil spirits that sought to clutch the passersby, weeds thriving in great quantity in between the stones on the path that led straight into the yawning doorless entrance to the ruins. But, though Enjolras feared that this ruin that looked so ramshackle might collapse at any given moment like a house of cards, everything had at first appeared perfectly tranquil, without the slightest trace of any danger. As they entered the spacious courtyard, however, a large cloud of shrill bats and a huge murder of thousands of wild crows and magpies could be seen taking to flight in and out of the big holes in the tower's walls, cawing and fluttering out of every loophole and open window and breach and nook and cranny and treetop, flying out of various gaping holes in the walls and windows, so that a dreadful racket broke out; as if to salute the Thénardiers and their followers, just like the garrison of a fortress would fire its cannons at the arrival of distinguished strangers. Following that salute of loud, long squawks from winged shades that circled the turrets and perched in crevices, a gust of air struck the brigands' faces in silent flight, to the sound of a deep hooting "hi-bou!" Through a hole in a derelict tower roof, a large eagle-owl flew out, in pursuit of the corvids, with an ominous hoot.
Enjolras was forced from the carriage again and Éponine stuck by his side protectively.
They entered the castle ruin, which was dimly lit and filled with smoke and the smell of sweat and of decay. In a corner of the courtyard, eight or nine horses, saddled and ready to depart, were tethered to the pillars, stomping with impatience. Some of them even kicked their front legs forwards, seeming to recognise Éponine. Along the walls, various weapons, both firearms and blades, as well as worn and torn cloaks and uniform coats, were scattered pêle-mêle. There were even little cannons of the light artillery on the balconies and parapets!
"You shall sleep here tonight with me! C'mon then," Éponine said as she prodded Enjolras between the shoulder blades with a bony index finger. "Move. Allez!" The fair leader stumbled in his haste and the robber maiden scoffed. "Not a very graceful gentleman, aren't you?"
Éponine dragged her prisoner along with the rope, with such strength that Enjolras feared that he would stumble with every step he took, pulling him farther and farther across the spacious courtyard until he was running and stumbling, her hand hot around his own.
And although he did not now where they were going, for the very first time he was moving fast enough, was almost flying, his feet were skimming over the night–black tiled floor as if it were the smooth, flat surface of a frozen lake, and his feet were, like those of Hermes, having two white wings at each ankle. “Where are we going?” he asked the robber girl.
At first, the blond could not distinguish anything, and he was dragged with such strength at the wrists that he stumbled and even fell down to his knees more than once on the cracked tiles of the courtyard pavement. Only then he realised that the fashion-conscious young man, perhaps a boy - 'Parnasse -, taking on the role of the late coachman by claiming his bloodstained seat, had driven the carriage into the lair-camp, and was cutting the reins of the calèche horses to tie them to the pillars in that corner of the courtyard; and the rest of the troupe arrived after a while.
"You look sta-a-arving," said Éponine critically, eyeing her prisoner by the smoky, warm light of the peat and conifer fire that burned near the entrance.
"No, not really, thanks," said Enjolras with a wince, for although he was quite hungry indeed, he had a suspicion about what sort of meat the robbers ate.
The Thénardier girl shrugged. "Suit yourself. I reiterate: Don't worry, I'll not let them kill you, as long as you don't vex me, as long as I'm not cross," she said amiably. Finally they came to that large open-air room where all of the robbers spent most of their time.
A few toothless men with gray hair and faces that were not at all nice (maybe the fathers of the male robbers) were sitting around playing cards, spitting at each other and cussing by turn, but, sadly, Grantaire was not to be found. A great bonfire roared in the middle to keep everyone well supplied in warmth and light.
In the middle of the tile-paved, smoky old courtyard that led to their soot-filled hall, there was another huge fire burning and blazing upon the sooty, cracked Renaissance floor tiles, and a large wrought-iron cauldron was bubbling hot with a soup of unknown ingredients. The smoke of it drifted about up to the high vaulted ceiling of the peristylum and wafted from the windows to the night sky, for it had to find its own way out. In that huge cauldron of soup on the fire, it smelled so good that one would have dared to look in the pot. Fire was waiting for them and their cook, whoever they might be, had that soup ready boiling in a huge cauldron over the fire. On one of three great spits close by, a whole fawn or young doe was roasting over an open fire, dripping over the crackling flames, and the two other spits were laden with two dozen wild rabbits or so, which were turning on spits over open fires as well for the outlaws' supper.
“We’re here,” she said, and stopped so suddenly that Enjolras almost fell over.
Éponine pulled him up short and circled him with a critical eye, stopping before Enjolras close enough that he could smell the faint trace of wine and eau-de-vie on her breath. He tried not to wrinkle his nose, or to think of Grantaire.
Then she put an index finger to her chin and lifted the fur around her shoulders. She raised an eyebrow and tugged at the crimson coat, which was clearly made from the finest material in the kingdom. She knelt down and rapped her knuckles on the leather boots before standing again and bringing a long, blond stream of shiny, freshly-washed hair to Enjolras' face.
"Forgive me if I don't believe you, Your Lordlingship," she said in a flat voice. "Perhaps you are a servant and you swapped clothes with your master in your fine upholstered coach when you heard us kill your driver and guards." She gave a humourless laugh. "Oh wait; it was just you in the back of the coach." Enjolras' eyes closed at the realisation that there were too many factors stacked against him to get out of this situation, that there were too many factors stacked against him for this criminal and her gang to ever free him unscathed.
He felt another prod in the back. "Move," the voice said from behind, and both of them started marching again, stepping over loose stones and crunching over dried leaves and twigs. Autumn had been for a while and left its trail of destruction behind it. He continued to walk straight with Éponine's strong grip on his arm.
They were greeted by merry cheers, which told, if the bottles in their hands hadn't, that the men were now getting seriously drunk. "Care for shome booze, darlin'?" one of the men asked Enjolras as he held out his bottle. He burst out laughing and many cackles joined in. "'E can't 'ave any," he said in a slurred tone, "b'caushe 'e 'asn't earned it yet!" He continued to laugh until he went purple in the face, hiccuped, and fell off the log on which he was sitting. "Oof!"
"The lad isn't going to be earning anything," Éponine said. He's not one of us so he won't be doing any stealing. He is my special friend and that's that. I should cut off your tongue for giving him ideas," she said looking down at the man who lay on the forested courtyard floor. He gulped nervously but choked on his own saliva and coughed.
"Have you ever tasted roasted rabbit aux fines herbes?" Éponine asked, elbowing her fair prisoner in the side.
"Jamais," Enjolras replied with a sigh.
"Tu as tort," replied the dark maiden, tearing a bunny from the third spit, before beginning to devour it with her hands and mouth, without any cutlery. "You better get some meat or there'll be none left! C'est très bon... Here, my lad!" One could barely hear her voice through all that chewing and lip-smacking.
In that evening there was, as we have said, a cauldron of soup or rather stew on the fire, and it smelled so good that the prisoner dared to look in the pot; he was relieved to see it was rabbit stew and, with the robber maiden putting the bowl to his lips, ate as much as he could hold. She sat down beside the fire and beckoned the blond to take a seat by her side: "Now, sit down and tell me a story."
And so Enjolras sat down, and presently he began to tell once more the story of his adventures thus far in the wide world, everything he had experienced. Still the dark maiden seemed particularly interested in hearing about the impending Revolution and the Musain, and so Enjolras elaborated on that part, talking until he was nearly hoarse; after a while, they were both sitting side by side, Éponine having downed two helpings of the rabbit stew; she picked up a small piece of wood, upon which she began to carve absently.
"Ah," she sighed with contentment, when he was done. "You are a fine storyteller, indeed. In fact, I shan't let the others kill you even if you do vex me—even if you do make me cross—I'll do it myself! If you make me cross, I will kill you. Instantly, but painfully." The fair leader didn't doubt that.
"How comforting," replied Enjolras, stifling a yawn.
"It's the least I can do," said Éponine, oblivious to the finer points of irony.
The two young people were then given each one a bowl of mushroom and carrot soup laced with berries the robber maiden had gathered herself (the first sup, for they drank straight from the bowls without spoons, was more delicious than the cauldron looked at first sight) and a whole roasted leg of the deer. She just sat down at the fire and tugged his rope to make him sit down as well, and put the food and cups to his lips to help. Éponine handed him a bowl of the soup and started to quaff from her own hungrily, slurping and exchanging talk with her men about the spoils. They were all pleased and ate calmly, calculating how much money they could get from selling their captive’s trousseau. Some of them were even devouring the provisions from the trunk of the carriage.Enjolras' already weakened stomach twisted into a tighter knot when he saw that the coach driver's hat and the greatcoats belonging to the footmen had were already being used as gambling material despite the fact that the robbers had just returned with them less than five minutes before.
In the meantime, the gorilla-looking thug, whom the fair leader overheard 'Parnasse address as Gueulemer (which was most surely a nom de guerre, rather than his real surname), was using a crowbar to pry the coats of arms from the panels of the carriage doors, violently tearing both of the crests off. Then, the dandy motioned into the calèche, to show the thug that he wanted the upholstery torn off and out as well. Within an instant, the inside of the carriage was completely empty, and both brigands sauntered off towards their corner, heavily laden with all the soft velvet upholstery, which they would most surely use for their bedding, as the thieves dismantled the coach piece by piece.
Though most of them illiterate, they weren't fools and had worked all of this out for themselves. That meant that anything they were going to get from Enjolras in the way of material goods, they had already gotten.
As the blond just sat there brooding, Éponine scooted closer to him and wrapped her coat along with her hand over his shoulders and whispered to him gently.
“Now, now. Don’t cry! They’ll let you alone now. Don’t worry, we’re not bad, we’re quite good actually. We just like to live dangerously. If you’ll do what I tell you, you’ll be fine. And perhaps you can be one of us. You can sleep with me tonight.” She nudged his chin with a fist gently and pointed at his bowl. “Now eat. An empty stomach makes things look so much worse. You’ll feel better when you’re sated. Maman is an awesome cook," she winked a wistful left eye at him as she chewed on the meatiest bits.
He didn’t think he was first to finish, but her eyes seemed to watch his every reaction, just waiting for him to give a sign to put down the bowl, just so she could take them away from the others. It was all there was, so, with the robber girl putting what he needed to his lips, he nibbled on the tough meat and quaffed the hearty warm stew. Then he sat and thought until Éponine showed him to their bed of upholstery and they lay down.
When she had finished her soup, and before tucking into her leg of deer, the robber maiden knocked back a cupful of crystal-clear eau-de-vie. "This is to make a hole in the gut, to make room for more, and to keep the cold out of one's self, of course," she explained before refilling the cup and putting it to the captive's lips."Eh..." he hesitated with a sigh, sober as he frequently was, and not that sure.
"Trou normand. Old northern custom, y'know. Have you ever had a trou normand before?" she asked once more, elbowing her fair prisoner in the side.
"Jamais," Enjolras replied with a sigh, as he felt a cold steel blade pressed in his back.
"You look like you could use a drink," she replied. "Brandy? Whisky? What's your poison?"
"Um," the fair leader said, frowning and looking at her. "I'll just take a spearmint tea if that's all right..."
"You don't want a drink-drink?" the maiden looked surprised. "Well, suit yourself. You better drink first, ask questions later," the maiden whispered harshly in his ear. "D'you know what happens to teetotallers around these parts?"
The fair leader put on a brave face, not wanting to know the answer. Instinctively and instantly, Éponine poured the liquor by force into the fair leader's half-open mouth, forcing him to drink deeply against his will. It was a drink so strong that it seared the stripling's throat as it went down, and made his head swim terribly. Wincing and teary-eyed, already light-headed from just downing that shot, he watched her take another bite of handheld roasted rabbit, without any cutlery, and, though not accustomed, he had no choice but to eat in the same way. After all, the robber woman had not knocked back two, but three shots of that trou normand liquor, and was now ferociously tearing her rabbit (or was it another leg of deer?) apart, like a beast of prey would. The prisoner's gaze darted from the hefty blonde, who was prying away the panels from the doors of the carriage with a crowbar, to the petite raven-haired girl once more. All the while, struggling not to gag, he wondered how he would persuade her to let him go free and resume his quest. How long had he been travelling in the carriage before the ambush by brigands? It could have happened very soon after the departure from the estate, but it had most surely been after several days (for the carriage was lined with delicious eatables, and a Shakespeare Folio as well).
He didn’t think he was first to finish, but her eyes seemed to watch his every reaction, just waiting for him to put down the contents of the shot glass, just so she could take them away from the others. The brigands were all devouring and quaffing, with grease or stock or gravy trickling down their chins.
"Welcome to the Thénardier family! And now we're going to bed, my prisoner! You shall sleep with me tonight, eh? Tu dormiras ici cette nuit avec moi dans mon lit... And you are warned of this; the first time you try to escape, to flee this place, I shall slit your throat and drink your blood while it's still warm; that will keep you so calm...!" Éponine told him after they had eaten, tugging at Enjolras' hand-ties; she was dragging him after her into the dark den, and the only thing he could do was to follow her lead. "Tu vas venir coucher avec moi," reiterated the little brigand maiden, as she pulled him along at too quick a pace for his taste; pulling him farther and faster into the keep, until he was running and stumbling, her hand hot around his own. The tumbledown stone keep was as black inside as her eyes, and it did smell strongly of dirty straw. The robbers settled in the few intact rooms it had. Even if it was just ruins, still a Renaissance château was much fancier than what Enjolras imagined robbers’ hideout to be. After supper, she led him into a joining room, which was decorated with rugs and straw, as well as upholstery torn off other carriages. The rooms were big and there even were some decorations: both castle’s remains and robbers’ “acquired” pillage. Steeling himself, the fair captive, whom she was dragging after her, was rushed through the doors and across the castle's great hall to a dark little corner at the rear, which was as black inside as her eyes; they went over and took themselves to a corner closer to the woods, and where a pile of blankets, deer furs, tapestries, carpet rugs, and upholstery torn off other carriage seats that were strewn upon the floor made a soft mattress bed, with a tapestry of Atalanta and Hippomenes for a bedcover, in a corner strewn with improvised bedding, beside a little enclosure of trellised wood. The light from the fire was sparse and he didn't see well, but 'Ponine conjured a lantern from somewhere handy. There were long cracks in the walls, and the tapestries were frayed and chewed by rodents. The outlaws in the Patron-Minette gang knew no other sort of beds, and they always slept like that in those improvised mattresses.
It was her sleeping place, where the two would sleep together, and besides a far cozier sleeping place than you might suppose from the first impression that the robber girl had uncomfortable quarters in the hideout. It looked unexpectedly neat, around the bedding of straw and rugs and upholstery, though. And even cozier for one who had just knocked back a shot of eau-de-vie and was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. Enjolras should have been afraid, but instead he was strangely exhilarated.
“We’re here,” she said, and stopped so suddenly that he almost fell over. "You're to sleep here tonight with me and all of my treasures!"
"Ils sont tous à moi! Come, we sleep by day here. I've a soft bed of furs and upholstery at the back of this courtyard. Tu vas venir coucher avec moi! Lie down with me and rest, and tonight you can tell me another story," she said with some shy pride. And in spite of the smell of gunsmoke and resin-smoke and liquor-laced vomit and Thénardier musk, which was quite appalling, though that nook did also smell strongly of dirty straw, the furs and the cloths were indeed soft and warm, and Enjolras found sleep did not come as slowly as he'd thought it would.
“They’re all mine.” Éponine said proudly, extending her arms. “Aren’t they beautiful?” She skipped across the room and made some kind of weird ‘ta-dah’ pose to show off.
“Now who is a princess?” he said. “Not only the gang dares not defy you, not even your own flesh and blood, but you also live in a real castle.”
“I’m a robber princess all right”, the swarthy girl answered playfully. “And royalty marries royalty, right? That’s why I hoped you were a great general or real nobility... And now you will tell me another story," said she, sitting cross-legged on the furs and grinning up at the fair leader cheerfully. "The rest of those villains tell the same ones over and over, and I am tired of hearing them. Not about your journey, for you have already told me that one. I want to hear about the wars you have been in, and the battles you have fought... freeing the oppressed from tyranny."
Once again, she seized his wrist and guided him to the pitiful excuse of a bed, pulling him down onto it. “Now, tell me about your adventure again. Did you really travel with a real baron? Where is he now? Were those Princes... socialites really nice? How long have you known these folks at the Musain for?”
"When the time came to go to university we went together; and it was a heady time —it was like the door of a cage opening. So happy to be free of the bowing and scraping. We met all sorts of people—idealists and dreamers and poets who wanted to make everybody free. And I was going to do exactly that, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac to help, by my right and left side. I suppose most people guessed who we were—but it didn’t matter; we were students first and foremost."
Then he had no choice but to repeat his story over again, though tonight it made his heart hurt to think of Grantaire and those long ago days in their little garden or at the Musain (the heady liquor having taken hold of him certainly helping Enjolras to confess). When he reached the part of the story where he realised Cosette's fiancé was not the one he sought, he had to stop for a minute and draw a few deep breaths; luckily, Éponine was snoring already, and so he wasn't vexed, until he shifted for a little and thus woke her up, explaining their calling in more detail to her:
"Nothing to say... really... The Revolution... Our group is not a little after-class club where we posh boys play at heroes, but something serious, Éponine. The colours of the world are changing day by day, and a blood red dawn will rise at the end of this long night of oppression. Not all of us are southerners, or students, or upper-class, and we might even take in a plucky girl like you. Three words: Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité. The Bastille lies in ruins, but the ancien régime still stands strong, though it is already wavering. All of us would die for the cause of freedom. Though we have not even felled, or even wounded, a single National Guard yet, I have got the feeling that soon shots shall ring and blood shall flow... You think you're free?"
Here he made a pause as she listened attentively.
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I have shelter from the cold, food in my belly, air to breathe. There's more to freedom than just being able to go wherever you want." Éponine sneered and looked away. "What is it with you and what's right or wrong?" she exploded, her voice bouncing off the walls of the niche.
"It's what I believe in. You believe in robbing from the rich to survive, don't you?"
"I also do it for the thrills."
"So that's all you believe in? You don't have dreams or hopes or ambitions? This is what you want your life to be?"
"There's nothing wrong with my life. I'm content where I am, which is more than I can say for you. You allowed yourself to get captured like a sitting duck and..."
Once more a look from those azure eyes in her direction. It made her recall something the student leader had said before: Not all of us are southerners, or students, or upper-class, and we might even take in a plucky girl like you. All that it took was this statement to shatter her façade.
"Do you really mean... that I can become one of you?" Éponine asked eagerly.
"Pourquoi pas? You will be the second female, after Louison the Café dishwasher, to receive permission to enter our secret lair!" What would the other Friends think of Éponine? For, spoiled and unethical though she was, there was something still endearing about her personality. And he couldn't hate her. Enjolras nodded in response and smiled at her, already imagining Courfeyrac flirting with her and singing some bawdy Spanish love song in her honour, Combeferre drawing her with charcoal as he annotated passages of Hugo's Shakespeare with the corresponding passages in de Vigny, Joly rubbing his nose with his the end of his walking-stick and taking her aside to caché the dark maiden, as he pressed a hand against her forehead, explaining to the others that: "Best to be sure she hasn't got the pox. Like mother like daughter; camp followers really get around, and, Enjolras, you said she looked nothing like the Sarge..." This thought led to the fact that the fair prisoner, pointing at the sutler woman, had become suddenly curious about his captor's parentage; were those two people in their forties, who seemed to be in charge, yet terrified of her...?
"Is your Maman the brawny blonde, with a sprig of holly in her messy fair hair? There's no other lady in the band, is there?" he asked Éponine.
Éponine nodded. "And Papa is the Sarge... or so I think, because he's Maman's husband and the two of them have raised me. Even though I don't look like either of them... But the chain of command is clear at our place, both here and at the inn up north. Papa's the Sarge, like he was in the ranks; Maman's the Lieutenant-Colonel (for a while, she was the plain Lieutenant -- things happened to rank her up), and I am the fricking General! Well, I once was the Colonel, as soon as Azelma was born, but, when she was shot down and we had to leave, I got my old rank back... And no one outranks a General, right?"
"Even if it is a General-In-Rags?" Enjolras asked, and the dark girl burst into hearty laughter in response.
"Crazy ironic; how much you remind me of him once more..." he told her, rumpling her short raven hair as the robber girl sighed and murmured. The liquor was already going up to his head and stripping the fair student of his inhibitions, unaccustomed as he was to strong drink. Éponine, however, seemed to be as level-headed as if she had drunk eau de roche (water from a rock spring) instead of eau-de-vie. Like Grantaire, she must have got used to drinking liquor since childhood...
"You live in the forest with a group of men, and you rob rich people of their things to survive. Surely you have some stories. Funny ones, sad ones, happy ones?"
"I don't have any stories," the Thénardier girl repeated, avoiding his azure eyes. "Stop asking or I shall slit your throat and you shall be dead before you even hit the ground!"
"You and I would not believe that..." the fair leader sighed to himself.
"It won't be very good," Éponine warned in a haughty voice, her shoulders tensing up, until she huffed and picked another piece of wood. She tilted her head as she started cutting into the edge with ease.
Sooner than the blond had expected, he would realise that the dark maiden had been ironic when it came to her bounty of stories to tell.
While rifling Enjolras' trunk, she seized the thick book and, upon reading some lines from a page she had chosen at random, she could not contain her elation. As soon as she had popped out of sight, Éponine appeared out of nowhere with lightning in her eyes, anger clear on her features and hands firm on her hips. She gritted her teeth all irritated called the fair leader to her side, swooshing her hand in the air. Enjolras threw a last pitiful glance towards the dark maiden and headed after her to her improvised bed.
"Oh... Mercutio, please don't...! Ah, he was witty till the bitter end, and the translation conveys that last pun perfectly into French!" Shuffling some more pages forwards, she sighed: "What memories... Those were the days..."
"Not only can you read, but you love it as well, eh, Éponine?" Enjolras asked her, surprised by the robber girl's literacy and passion for the classics.
She nodded with a smile and filled her chest with air as if she was an opera singer about to launch into a tricky aria. "Four or five years since I last read some classical literature; and, you know, time runs differently in the woods. Is this a new translation?"
The golden-haired young man nodded. "A good friend of some people who helped me, of those who gave me all these provisions; one Victor Hugo... oui, this is the most vivid Shakespeare I have ever read! I wonder what Combeferre would say about this version..."
"Isn't it, right?" Her dark eyes drank eagerly in every line; she was reading Othello and nudging her fair prisoner every now and then... as the fair leader pictured himself a lively conversation on literature between his bespectacled lieutenant and this girl; the former with his usual rational sang-froid, the latter far more passionate and stubbornly defending her own subjective opinion on the characters and events.
"Y'know? This is the best Othello ever! Especially how this Hugo guy renders Iago... Reminds me of Papa, a lot. Except that Papa would rather flirt with girls," Éponine chortled. "The non-commissioned officer and his army wife, trapped in a loveless marriage. As old as war, isn't it? Only that, in this tragedy, they are childless... and the reason may be that... Listen, Enj, and 'scuse me if I lambast your view of this character and this tragedy: Iago is not exactly straight."
Enjolras gasped, his heart leaping up to his throat. She filled her chest with air as if she was an opera singer about to launch into a tricky aria. Then she lay down the open book on her own lap and pointed at the lines she was reading.
"In my mind's eye, I see Iago leaning quite closely on Cassio, watching the young lieutenant eagerly, addressing him always in that easy and merry tone, though he doesn't regret discrediting Cassio at all. The title should have been The Irony of Iago, shouldn't it? The irony of a not-exactly-straight non-com falling for his straight immediate superior..."
"If Grantaire were more into high culture..." Enjolras muttered. He had never heard that approach before, seeing Iago as just the catalyst of the piece and nothing more. But Éponine's personal insight on those characters was beginning to unravel truths about himself.
"Don'tya believe? Well, the reason why (here, she laid the book on his lap and pointed to the lines in question with a flicking index finger) is given by Iago himself. Right when he's about to kill Cassio, no less!
'Si Cassio survit, — il a dans sa vie une beauté quotidienne — qui me rend laid…'
Iago wears, only for once in the whole tragedy, his heart upon his sleeve! But why looking so glum, Enj?"
Tightening the ribbon in his golden queue, he sighed as he looked away. Those lines... "A daily beauty in his life that makes me...?" Something began to lighten within his chest. Why had Grantaire always been looking so wistfully at him with those glazed eyes? Why had he smiled like that whenever Enjolras brought him a cool drink in bed after a night of revels? Why had the leader himself always been denying his feelings and turning his back against someone who...? Now there was no turning back. Grantaire must have been feeling towards Enjolras what Iago felt towards Cassio. The realisation struck the fair leader like a bullet right between the eyes. He had never been in such a state of shock.
The Grantaire in his mind's eye, the one that laughed merrily as he tore his hat off, that had mocked him in the lecture hall, taunted, all you’ve accomplished is mussing your hair; if anything, I owe you something for throwing such a tizzy over me.
The Grantaire in his mind's eye was soon joined by the Grantaire he had met last springtime, the one that had given him the shoelaces a month after on his birthday. That Grantaire had, upon revealing the laces, said, so they know which boots stomped them into the dirt, smiling shyly, careful not to show his gap-teeth or expose any of his missing teeth to Enjolras.
That same Grantaire had so inconveniently dashed off last winter, but not before giving Enjolras the same careful smile as he turned his back and slammed the door before trotting off into the sleet.
Not even teasing him, like the Grantaire in his mind was, did that vanished Grantaire ever show Enjolras all his teeth.
Then, the moment of reflection was interrupted by Éponine forcing him down into a prostrate position, and thus, the two youngsters lay in their improvised bed, side by side."Touché." Éponine reached out and absently patted him behind the ears. The two of them remained in silence, shrouded in darkness.
At first, Enjolras curled up in the corner, but the dark maiden said, quite rudely, as she sat up, while withdrawing from her bedclothes something that looked like a handheld firearm:
"Pourquoi t'éloignes-tu de moi? You're not afraid, I think. Rapproche-toi. Come closer."
"Eh... pardon me, Éponine. Just something that I suddenly..." he finally replied after a quarter of an hour, putting on his bravest of brave faces, upon seeing that she had grown so impatient that she had not let go of her gun (or of her Bowie either), and was pointing the muzzle of that pistol towards his solar plexus. "Is it so that you sleep with that most surely loaded gun by your side? Will you really keep it in hand while we are sleeping? Do you even have firearms with you when you're asleep? Don't you leave it aside as you sleep?"
"Toujours", replied the robber maiden, her prisoner watching as she prepped her "pillow" -that was, her fur coat - for maximum comfort. "Je l'ai toujours quand je dors... And of course it's loaded! And also always with my trusty Bowie knife; on ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver! One never knows what may happen, you never know what may happen, what's coming!" the cruel-sounding girl chuckled and, as she said these words, pulled out from a crack or cleft or hole in the wall, as if drawing steel from a scabbard, her other weapon, a long knife of the most wicked sharpness, similar to a bayonet but with a wider blade, to show it to the prisoner, who hastened to catch her wrist. She stopped and frowned on him in confusion. “Please don’t! I believe you, please don’t hurt..." he begged, staring with dread at the long flashing blade. 'Ponine's frown deepened, but then she relaxed as quickly as she had got tense. She passed her right arm around the nape of Enjolras' neck, sheathed the Bowie in a scabbard that hung on her waist, concealed under the bedclothes, and held the pistol in her left hand. "Each and every night, after all, may be our last, the one we go to sleep and never awaken... so isn't it a wise philosophy to live as if each and every day were the last one?" And she laughed like a madwoman; a great, hearty laugh not unlike that of her mother.
"And, by the way... Isn't it... strange?" the blond asked in a faint whisper, realising that she slept armed with both hot lead and cold steel because she herself was afraid of a possible aggression. Others might come at night, while she slept, and pay back their dues for all the thefts and threats and imprisonments she had made.
She finally lowered the gun and came closer. "Wot is that strange?"
"How often literature mirrors reality," he sighed. "Iago and Emilia are indeed similar to your parents, you said. Right?"
She nodded with a smile in response. "Or, also... think of the wicked stepfamily and Cinderella. There are still orphans whose guardians treat them like dirt, forcing them to know no childhood at all, while they pamper their own children, encouraging them to be children, and forbid them to make friends with the little servants. Then, a powerful person shows up to help those poor orphans..." Here, for once, surprisingly due to her intolerance to gentler emotions, Éponine looked slightly downcast and sighed, looking down. She felt her throat dry up, and her eyes fill with tears. Never had her voice sounded more as if her airway had been a rusted-down iron pipe.
"Why else would we not start a revolution?" Enjolras rose, patting her on the shoulder. He felt sorry for the plight of those Éponine was describing, even though, seeing how her parents were still alive, he had the intuition that the dark maiden had been a wicked stepsister to one of those nineteenth-century Cinderellas. Now the stepfamily, the Thénardiers, had fallen on hard times; while their indentured servant was certainly far better off... or so it appeared, at last. Éponine was clasping him as hard as a steel clamp and was reluctant to let him go, but he had never had felt anything queer inside him (such as rising heart rate and breathing rate, or rising body temperature, or butterflies in his stomach) in the company of women. And still... "une beauté quotidienne..." "literature mirrors reality..." Good art can make you rethink something you thought you knew, and see it from a new perspective. There was no mistake. Not about Grantaire's feelings, and not about Éponine either.
"You see, I would like to join your little secret society if I could. And not only for the excitement; there are dreams I want to fulfil as well... There are so many things in this world that women cannot do nowadays. Like attending universities, right?" she said as she finally let go.
The question pierced the fair leader's ears, but the heat settling deep inside his muscles molded him into something much stronger and sturdy. Larger than the tears and anxiety. His voice met her steadfast. “Never lie, but don’t let others try to step over you. Always treat others as your equal.” Just as General Lamarque had taught him.
As he told her the story again, and she listened with intensely close attention, her eyes lighting up at the tale. Éponine confessed she had always wanted to travel around the world, and most surely fight for women's rights, but her parents would never allow it, and whenever she tried to, Papa would send Maman and/or Gueulemer out to get her, and then Maman would beat her in front of the other robbers as a warning.
"There were feminists during the Reign of Terror, indeed, and they all lost their heads... et voilà; now, decades later, I see there is still hope, isn't there? (Here, he mussed the crown of her dark head with a friendly smile on his lips.) But will you listen to me for a little? I will tell you a little about myself."
Éponine's eyes gleamed and she sat back on the furs, reclining against the wall, eager for another insight on such an interesting person:
"Mais... then, tell me some more about what you have to say, and why you went out into... why you have gone forth across the wide world, and something more about the adventures you have had since you left on your quest... "
Definitely not the pampered, entitled lordling that she had seen a first impression of, right? And, as he told his tale anew without forgetting anything, he thought less and less of the den of iniquity where chance had make him fall; and, as he told her the sorrows of the past, he forgot, at least a little, the sorrows of the present:
"And what about me? I have my creativity, I have my charms, which are sought after by galleries all over France, I have realised my dream, my village thinks of me as a beloved son, my parents never ask me for funds or anything like that, I have good health, reasonable looks, everything a man could want... Do you know what loneliness is?"
Éponine just sat there still, in silence, listlessly nodding like a bobblehead doll. The rhetorical question had struck a cord within her.
"But you don't know what loneliness is like when you have the chance to be with other people all the time, when you get invitations every night to parties, soirées, opening nights at the theatre... When women are always ringing you up, women who love your work, who say how much they would like to have supper with you - they're beautiful, intelligent, educated women. But something pushes you away and says: 'Don't go. You won't enjoy yourself. You'll spend the whole night trying to impress them and squander your energies proving to yourself how you can charm the whole world. So I stay at home, go into my studies and try to find the light, and I can only see that light when I'm working.
Of course I have had a family once, but it was so long ago... and, as an only child of rank, I was very lonely, even though I was surrounded by people. I was always different from other boys. I never cared much for games. I took little interest in those things for which young boys of rank usually care so much. I was not very happy in my boyhood, I think. My one ambition was to find the ideal for which I longed. It has always been thus: I have always had an indefinite longing for something, a vague something that never quite took shape, that I could never quite understand. My great desire has always been to find something that would satisfy me. I was attracted at once by sin: my whole early life is stained and polluted with the taint of sin. Sometimes even now I think that there are sins more beautiful than anything else in the world. There are vices that are bound to attract almost irresistibly anyone who loves beauty above everything. I have always sought for love: again and again I have been the victim of fits of passionate affection: time after time I have seemed to have found my ideal at last: the whole object of my life has been, times without number, to gain the love of some particular person. Several times my efforts were successful; each time I woke to find that the success I had obtained was worthless after all. As I grasped the prize, it lost all its attraction - I no longer cared for what I had once desired with my whole heart. In vain I endeavoured to drown the yearnings of my heart with the ordinary pleasures that usually attract the young. I have been striving to cheat myself into the belief that peace had come at last - at last my yearning was satisfied: but all in vain. Unceasingly I have struggled with the old cravings for excitement, and, above all, the weary, incessant thirst for a perfect love."
He felt eyes upon himself and found her watching him with interest. Her lips curved in an appreciative manner and she nodded lightly.
"And then you decided to become a revolutionary leader, right?" Éponine cut into the conversation, packing him by the waist, with sparkles in her teary eyes. She watched him quietly, her breathing never swaying and her fingers played with the earrings on her ear. It was that kind of activity, which one usually would indulge in while listening to stories near a hearth during long winter hours. Somehow it did feel like a secret he could share with her, locked in the time capsule of that warm nook. The only other person in the room was the sharp-tongued brunette directly across from his own bedstead.
Her eyes caught a reflection of the warm kerosene lamp and she looked soft. And his heart swelled and grew with a strange feeling. The kind which filled you when you trusted someone close and you wanted to tell them so much more. But somehow they knew as if they didn’t need any words. A glance was enough, a caress and all was clear. It was exactly like that here between them and it was enough in the moment.
Enjolras nodded, then cleared his throat.
"You do not understand me. I have never been attracted by a woman in my life. Can you not see that people are different, totally different, from one another? To think that we are all the same is impossible; our natures, our temperaments, are utterly unlike. But this is what people will never see; they found all their opinions on a wrong basis. How can their deductions be just if their premisses are wrong? One law laid down by the majority, who happen to be of one disposition, is only binding on the minority legally, not morally. What right has the Law, or anyone, to tell me that such and such a thing is sinful for me?" Here, Enjolras sighed for a while and began to think a little of Shakespeare's characters to distract himself.
"Y'know what?" he heard that a familiar throaty female voice demanded back. "That's something that I can surely relate to. In the company of men, I usually get tongue-tied and flustered, and the words choke in my throat. But there are three men —well, once there were two— who have never flustered me: Papa, 'Parnasse, and most recently you. Eh, Enj?"
All he could do in response was blink with those clever eyes of steel blue. The fact that she was that straightforward... and he had never seen any females, except this girl and her mother, who showed everything that they felt...
"Eh, Enj?" He stood there, transfixed. The scenario that both of them had imagined had been turned upside-down. "Now that Maman is too busy with the men out there... Kiss me good night!" She shouted the last command, for her displays of affections were wild and of the unusual kind. Lunging herself towards his figure, thrusting her whole self into the blond's face, Éponine clasped him harder than before, as Enjolras turned his head to the right, his fair face flustered with embarrassment and surprise. In such a state of shock, a false step backwards suddenly led him to fall on the ground, with the robber maiden on top of him on all fours. "All right!!" she exclaimed, trying to steal a kiss from the fair student; her lips struck him on the cheek, for he had turned his head away right before she could kiss his lips. "Tsk!" she then sneered, slapping Enjolras in the face, above the ear on the side she had kissed, then chortled at the young man's glowing flush and awkward expression.
"If the robber woman had not seen her daughter at my side right away, she would have shot at me with her pistol or stabbed at me with her cutlass knife, I think. But, thankfully, Éponine's dark eyes and excellent scowl worked wonders on her, so that she forgot that I was the one who'd had to shake her arm -however gingerly I'd managed it- and got up with a few muttered swears and a couple of light grunts," the blond thought to himself.
When Enjolras finally scrambled back up on his feet, pulled up by this dark maiden's strong arms tugging at the tether that tied his wrists (he swallowed the pain of the tether against the skin), her laughing fit had come to an end, and she looked at him with a piercing stare, smirking at her fair captive:
"I have never had a friend. Maybe I shall keep you here forever with me. I hope you don't wriggle or sleep-talk, or else..." here, she made a cut-throat sound while drawing a pistol barrel across her own throat, still clutching the knife tightly to her chest. "Now it's time to rest’, the robber girl scolded. ‘If you do not sleep right now, you'll sleep forever!"
After laughing heartily for quite a while, she finally resolved to to go to sleep. Then she finally, definitely, laughed and pulled or rather shoved the fair leader down into bed with her, and then tucked herself into bed with Enjolras by her side.
When she made herself comfortable, pushing herself backwards to make room for him, and held the cover up for her prisoner, he stood there hesitantly watching on her in light undergarment, nested between the furs and tapestries. Without a word of warning she took her dress off. It appeared she didn’t have any other clothes underneath, so after she stepped out of her shoes, the swarthy girl became completely naked, only still holding a dagger in her left hand, turning her back to the fair leader and nesting between her covers for modesty. Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at the young girl’s body. Dark skin and athletic figure, a bit glossy because of sweat… she was totally different from what he imagined a beautiful girl should look like, for instance Cosette, so why, oh why was she so appealing?
“What? You never shared a bed with someone else?” Éponine questioned flatly. The image of Grantaire shot immediately inside his mind's eye, the many nights they shared the tiny bed, whenever the savateur was drunk as a newt and the leader, though sober, was too fast asleep to even dream of that possibility... they all weighted on his shoulders again. He bit his lips nervously.
Once more, true to her military upbringing, she commanded him relentlessly. “Strip down and come to bed. I won’t repeat myself. You undress too!” the robber princess ordered. "And much as I don't care what Maman or the boys see of you, I at least have some dignity."
When she was undressing, she didn’t pay attention to the blond and was mostly standing sideways to him, modest in spite of her fierceness. Now that she was giving orders, she got into appropriate pose; her feet half a meter apart, right hand on her waist, her left one pointing at the golden-haired lad with a dagger, her eyes burning with usual fire. In an instant, her casual homely nudity turned into a dignifying and dominant one. Never would the fair leader have thought that a total nakedness could endue one with such authoritativeness that no fancy dresses or crowns could ever provide. Yet this was exactly the case with the swarthy girl, as if the dress she wore before was only good for hiding her true grandeur. All the kings and queens of the Earth trying their best could never hope to strike their subjects with such awe that this adolescent girl, alternatingly compassionate and sadistic, alternatingly cruel and kind, achieved naturally without any effort. Was she indeed just a robber princess or a goddess? A goddess of nature, a Huntress of Artemis both ruthless and magnificent as wilderness, stood in front of Enjolras in all her stark naked glory. The temperature in the room didn’t rise, but suddenly it became much hotter. “After all, those fancy clothes are mine now, and I don’t want them to be drenched in sweat!”
Her intimacies are aggressively sensual, and her aggressive moves are charged with erotic overtones. Yet, for all that, she would rather die a painful death than lose her maidenhead. The bandit girl may be the youthful progeny of outlaws, but, in her connection with chastity, she resembles Artemis, the Potnia Theron or "Lady of the Wild Things," a virgin who is also the huntress of the Olympian gods. She roved the hills with her band of maidens, nymphs likewise sworn to chastity, and any man who approached her risked being torn into bits. Or turned into a deer and fed to his own pack of starving hunting dogs. No man could approach them without not escaping unscathed. She can get along without a man. But not without eros. Not for nothing does she live in a setting of silent passions, presided lechery, and perverse appetites. Right now, I do not know whether I am Apollo or Actaeon. But 'tis certain that I am not Hippomenes, who cheated to outrace, to win Atalanta.
Her frown deepened, reaching down to the rope that connected his wrists, but then she relaxed and cut the rope on the young student's hands. She grabbed the rope from the ground and lengthened it from the wrist binds, then reached for her knife and in a flick with speed that even Enjolras himself had not been prepared for; she slashed the binds between the fair leader's wrists. She sat down on her improvised bed nearby and picked up a thick branch, snapping some pieces off and settling down with her knife again. "I'll be watching you," she said as she began whittling.
“Ah… right…” Indeed wearing winter clothes in such a hot room already made Enjolras sweat, rubbing his sore wrists, just released from their rope; wincing at the rope burns on his forearms, and it was only getting worse with every passing moment. Not to mention, the nude dominance of the robber princess made his clothedness feel diminishing, humiliating even. If he was going to stay in this room, he had to undress after he dropped to his knees, free from the hand-ties. Well, as far as that Bowie was in her hands, Enjolras, wrists released from their rope, was in no position to disobey, since the robber maiden was brandishing both cold steel and hot lead. A bit shyly, but he stripped totally naked, trying to cover his privates with his right hand. Under the girl’s stare, he took off his clothes one by one, as he was forced out of his own warm velvet coat and comfortable waistcoat and trousers and boots, neatly putting them on the clothesline near the wall where the robber girl put her own dress. And so Enjolras put away his peacoat, hussar-soutached waistcoat, and boots. He quickly crawled under the furs and upholstery, and laid there a good arm’s length away from Éponine in the effort to keep his distance. It didn’t last long because the robber maiden simply scooted closer and wrapped her arm around him, pushing his chest on hers, similar much to the embrace that Grantaire had shared with him in the past, in their lodgings in Montmartre, whenever he was too drunk.
“Shut up, just let me hug you, eh? I won’t do anything. Or do you want me to send you to Maman to make a point?" She sighed exasperated and he could hear her ragged voice, her body tired and in need of rest after the hard day. She worked hard, was tight bundle of muscles and rough edges. Yet now, she looked worn and very, very tired. She patted him on his cheek and observed him with great attention. “You remind me of a girl who was like a sister to me. She left our home very young, along with a stranger. They left for southward lands, when their carriage set off one Christmas. I think she would have looked like you, you’re more or less her age now.”
“I’m sorry." He didn’t know what else to say, but let Éponine rest his head on her bosom and pet his hair. Once again he found that if he met her under different circumstances, she could indeed be his sister. Maybe they could be good friends even. Enjolras couldn’t imagine they were bandits just for fun. There must have been something good inside every one of them.
As he was lost in these musings, the girl slowly walked around him in circles, eyeing every inch of his lilywhite body, as she got closer and closer.
“You’re so beautiful”, the swarthy girl whispered, as she got so close from behind that Enjolras could feel her heavy breath on the nape of his neck. Once more, he could feel his arms tucked behind his lower back, the rope tightly wrapped around his wrists, the triple knot that meant wrists now tied behind him once more. The little robber girl couldn’t resist anymore and hugged the hand-tied blond from behind, her childish chest pressed against his back to keep his hands from struggling, her left hand wandering over his chest and abdomen to trace that bar of white chocolate, her right hand holding her Bowie close to his throat. The swarthy girl’s body was very hot, but pleasantly so. Before long Enjolras wasn’t trembling in shame and fear, but enjoyed the dark girl’s touch and the sweet dizziness that it brought; as she laughed and pulled him down into bed with her; pushing him backwards in her embrace to comfortably make room for him by her side.
And, like that, Éponine, tightly clasping Enjolras' waist with her right arm and clutching her surprisingly sharp Bowie knife in her left hand, drifted off into a deep sleep, and began to snore so dreadfully loudly that she could be heard echoing from all over the courtyard, but, as she fell noisily asleep, her prisoner stayed awake, without even being able to shut his eyes, seeing into the hall where the bandits had come to sit around the fire, and now drank and sang and danced in the firelight. The men had been extra rowdy tonight on account of the wine that they had claimed in the ambush on the carriage for them. Of course, the more they kept drinking, the more energetic their advances on one another had become.
"Ceux qui me veulent faire une pipe,
qu'ils avancent deux pas en avant,
pour embrasser la croix que ma piche
formera avec celle du lieutenant...!"
Thus sang Sergeant Thénardier way off key, way too loudly, and in a way too slurred tone as he held out his bottle in between his thighs. He burst out laughing and many cackles joined in; the wild hearty laughs of the other men of the band forming the backup chorus, as his wife cajoled and flirted with the young dandy in Prussian blue, whose surname the prisoner now understood to be Montparnasse (surely, after his native district on the Left Bank!), untying his cravat and picking his datura flower as he reached into her cleavage, and they sipped some eau-de-vie as they drank to one another, lounging all lackadaisy on the upholstery torn off the Fauchelevents' carriage. All the adult brigands sat on the floor in a circle around their fire, singing and drinking, some of them dancing the sarabande. One thing one learned staying with the robbers was that they liked to stay up till late eating, drinking, singing, dancing, playing cards, and just making a lot of noise in general. They were greeted by merry cheers, which told, if the bottles in their hands hadn't, that the men were now getting seriously drunk. The talk turned into caresses and unconscious touches, the ones gathered around the bonfire clung closer to each other on an instinct.
The sinister, slurred songs of that evening were far more risqué and vulgar than any of those he ever had heard Grantaire sing at the Musain, and the tankards were clanked together more frequently and louder; the quaffing was deep and the gambling over the spoils was serious, far more than at the Musain where it was always done for fun and a few francs; and the outlaws even cheated and drew steel, or fired shots, over who had cheated, every now and then, in the midst of ear-deafening shouts; some of the robbers were already drunk. To stave off the bitter cold, another round of spirits would be needed; and, before long, the men were drinking themselves into a stupor. Pistols went off, but they were poorly aimed and not meant to actually hit anything.
In the lap of his goddess, 'Parnasse gave a large and dramatic yawn, which was immediately followed by several others, due to the contagiousness that is yawning. Soon after, conversations started to lull and the men and the virago started slurring their speeches. Shortly after that, bodily crashes sounded as the group fell to sleep one by one, where loud snoring ensued.
The snores of the drunken robbers and the hi-bou of the owls that roamed freely around the courtyard carried on deep into the night. The Sarge was already almost dead drunk, he continued to laugh until he went purple in the face, hiccupped, and fell off the log where he was sitting; and his wife, while revelling around the campfire, danced the sarabande while screaming shrilly, or turned cartwheels and somersaults — a frightening spectacle, which made our hero wonder that a woman her age and physique, in that state of intoxication, was so agile and could perform so deftly (after all, she was significantly older and larger than Grantaire) — and the other outlaws, except the sleeping maiden, roared their approval, with loud whistling of the rest of the band. For a robust woman, and an intoxicated one at that, it constituted quite a remarkable and unnatural act of levitation! The robbers sat in a circle round the fire, sang, and drank, and the robber woman turned somersaults. It was terrible for a boy of rank to see. The robbers all sat on the floor around the fire and sang their horribly dreadful, lewd lyrics while they drank. The little girl's mother was so drunk that she turned a somersault. It would all have been a pretty sight for a young man of rank to witness, to watch, and even to see; terrible sounds for a lad of such rank to hear. What a grisly spectacle for a young gentleman! Oh, any young person of rank would have found it dreadful to look at. The robbers had come to sit around the fire, they were singing and drinking, and the robber woman turned somersaults. Oh, it was just awful for a young gent to see! As everyone became preoccupied with drinking, talking, and sleeping, though unfazed by this scene, Enjolras could not close his eyes at all, he could not catch a wink of sleep, not having the slightest idea of whether he was to live in pain or whether he was to die quickly, asking himself whether he was to leave this place unscathed or subjected to torture; he saw himself all the time in between life and death, in between freedom and imprisonment, and, if Éponine was killed, what was to stop the rest of the men and the woman in the camp from using him for their own evil intentions? Still, the leader's daughter, that dark garçon manqué, had taken a shine to him, and his story of revolution and Grantaire's capture had appealed to her imagination... who would ever have expected that? He should have been afraid, but instead he was strangely exhilarated. "Her insistence on friendship is more terrifying than comforting; her efforts to befriend always turn into life-threatening gestures. She is alternatingly cruel and kind, and openly derives great pleasure from teasing in a frightening and sometimes painful manner. Though capable of rough tenderness she is emotionally inconsistent, undependable; she won't let the other gang members or even her mother kill Yours Truly; on the other hand, if I ever annoy her, she might herself do that... She will do that. Instantly, but painfully. There is no doubt about that."
Those brigands had pounced upon him in the nocturnal terrors of that forest; he had panted and writhed under the blade of a Phaedra, he had been taken as a prisoner into their ramshackle den; mais... saved by miracle by the daughter of the brigand leaders, a dreadful little wildling taken by storm by the charms of his golden hair, his large blue eyes, and his lilywhite skin.
No one had dared to molest the young woman after that; the robber girl had been schooled in violence since she could crawl and had no compunction about enforcing her demands with whatever weapon came to hand. In particular, she was masterful with knives, and every man in her parents' band knew she could beat him to a pulp, then slice him up into ribbons if she chose. They already looked to her as the Thénardiers' heir, and while it was barely possible that one of them might challenge her, it was more likely than such a man would be beaten and become her right hand and partner.
It amused the fair leader to think of this wild girl righting all the wrongs of her parents' band and more as a Champion, or even a Marianne —yes, and turning the entire band from brigands into freedom fighters. Maybe even allies for the Amis de l'ABC. There was a tyrant ruling over the kingdom of France —one of those things that Enjolras had not been able to prevent; it was not yet time for him to be deposed, but that time was coming soon, and Éponine Thénardier the Robber Girl would be just the woman to do the job.
So now she was acting as she always had: deep down, fundamentally kind, but selfish, helping herself to what she wanted. At the moment, she was wearing the outermost layer of Enjolras' fine clothing; the fair leader had been carelessly given the robber girl's older overcoat. He needed to win Éponine's sympathy and to harden a little more under privation.
There were, after all, only two women here, and the robber queen's daughter was not to be touched, or even looked at impertinently. Not because the queen in rags would gut the offender, but because Éponine would castrate him, and then let her mother gut him.
He knew she was right, and the two settled down, Éponine putting an arm around him after the evening feast, when the thieves all took to swigging amber liquid from a very large keg and very large bottles. Eventually, they all staggered off to bed; the maiden herself slept snoring loudly, one hand pressed against his chest and the other clasping her trusty knife.
Enjolras closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep then, but he could feel the gentle bite of the Bowie blade pressing against his thigh, and he wondered whether he would get out of this place alive after all. Outside, a twig snapped, and he lay awake listening, his body cold with dread, with growing despair. What was he doing in this place? Grantaire must surely be long dead now. What good would it do to get himself killed, as well? Would that bring Grantaire back? He'd be much better off trying to kill the Thénardiers and escape, and forget about Grantaire, and return to the Right Bank and to the friends he had left there, to rally them against the ancien régime, until all of them fell like lilies before the scythe, facing the bayonets. Enjolras raised his eyes back to the dark girl’s eyes. Everything was written in those fiery black eyes, no need for words existed. Éponine loved him too much, she just couldn’t let him go. If Enjolras attempted to escape, the swarthy girl would kill him in cold blood without hesitation for that is how much she loved him. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a way to run away though. All the robbers were sleeping drunk now and only the robber princess herself was here to guard him. Kill her and the way is free. Enjolras had never killed people before. He couldn’t even imagine herself killing someone, on the barricades; just giving orders like a general. But the same went for the revolution, for a higher cause, yet the robber girl had taught him to enjoy it. So as long as the swarthy girl was with him in it, Enjolras felt he could do it. Even if the one he was going to kill was the robber princess herself. No, especially if it was her. He was fooling himself, anyway. Anyway, Grantaire had stopped loving him months before he'd disappeared. Why couldn't he seem to accept that? The heat slid into his exhausted body and enveloped him in coming sleep, as Éponine's embrace and hair-petting strengthened its effect... Her intimacies were impetuously sensual and physical, and she constantly held that embrace, taking advantage of her own stronger physique. Even if this swarthy girl held a dagger behind his back, somehow he felt so safe in her hands, he felt like he could finally relax and let herself forget all the worries, even if just for a short time. It almost felt like… at home. Before Enjolras knew, he was peacefully drifting off to sleep on the robber girl’s lap, his lovely golden hair gently patted by the girl’s warm hand, spread in a halo of golden light upon her grasp. Both youngsters were peacefully smiling like they haven’t for quite a while; yet there was still something inside Enjolras that urged him to keep his eyes wide open, and keep his guard up. The way she watched the autumn leaves being crunched under her feet, how she listened to her subordinates without looking them in the eye and cutting in with short commands - all of that meant she was thinking about every word he said.
Watching the flames dance in the firelight, and listening to the songs and shouts in the courtyard, Enjolras lay awake, watching the shadows grow thicker about him as the coals of the fire died, and tried to think of what he should do. The Fauchelevents would certainly pay his ransom, he thought, but they had already been so very generous that he was loathe to cost them any further expense (especially now that Marius and Cosette had at last found one another, and that her guardian had settled down). There'd be no way any of them would know what had happened to the entourage now. Not for a while, anyway, when they started to wonder why their coachman and guards and postillions hadn't come back.
Ought he to lie, and pretend to join the robber band, and then slip away at the earliest opportunity? Perhaps that might have worked, had he thought of it earlier, but he had already given the leader of the band his refusal.
Anyway, he was feeling more comfortable about Éponine, realising that the maiden was not cruel, just bad-mannered and sometimes thoughtless. While she may be ill-tempered and quick with her knife, she wasn't at all unkind. And as Enjolras was her only friend, he felt safe in that if he were to die there in that forest, it would not be at the hands of Éponine Thénardier.
The robber girl was certainly tough as nails; she wrestled with outlaw boys much bigger and older, especially that 'Parnasse guy, the dandy, the pair cheered on by the other men... and she always won. It was quite obvious that the fop, though he had a rapier-cane just like Courfeyrac's, was no match for that hoyden, who would always give him a black eye or a few broken bones (much like Enjolras himself would not stand the least chance against her either). Despite the dandy being twice her weight and the best swordsman in the Patron-Minette gang, Éponine was light and powerful, and she was adept at making things go her way. Within seconds of the others watching, she had 'Parnasse pinned down by his throat, the pair breathing heavily with mutual looks of disgust on each other's faces. The boys, especially Montparnasse, always complained that she bit and scratched them, but she laughed and sneered in response, saying that she had sharp teeth, and nails, and a keen eye for marksmanship, so she might as well use those skills. She would also terrify the dandy, the only other young person of the crowd until that fateful evening, with tales of goblins and ghouls, of korrigans and mermaids, and she loved to see how the posh Parisian chickened out in response.
Other than that, she frequently amused herself with that deadly Bowie knife she seemed to be constantly holding. Every evening, after pulling it from its hole in the wall, she liked to let the sharp point of its blade glide around his neck gently and laugh when he squealed, much to the joy of the robber maiden. "Cela lui fait une peur! Look how frightened he is, haha. Every single evening I love to tickle him with my dagger blade under the throat each night. He freezes up so nicely. Isn't it hilarious?" She chuckled and took out her weapon. Thus the robber girl when producing her knife every night and letting it slide along her partner's throat was, in one sense, being more honest; then, after he had kicked up his heels, she would chase him through the ruins and the forests with it until his legs could no longer support him and he collapsed, while she did nothing but laugh at his terrified reactions. Then the Thénardier girl would carry him back to the camp on her back. "Her treatment of this one is only too characteristic of her uncontrolled nature; every night she tickles him with this knife of which he is understandably terrified, and delights in the teasing. The knife itself and a pair of loaded pistols she sleeps with, because, after all, you never know what may happen!" Éponine was not always kind; but Éponine was strong, and clever, and unafraid, and left-handed, and those were gifts enough to help her get by.
What's more, though she was an outlaw, though her parents were a camp follower and a non-commissioned officer, she could not only read and write, but was unusually cultured and learned and well-read for a girl of her backdrop, and obviously accustomed to have all her wishes gratified, however impossible they might be. All that lively conversation about literature and classical drama that they had had during the carriage trip and after supper? Enjolras did not expect at all that she should have that much knowledge on the subject... Neither that she were so passionate about women's rights. Like mother like daughter, he thought; Madame Thénardier was a regimental sutler, a fearless iron lady in a man's world, keeping the regiment upright; during wartime, Éponine would doubtless have helped her out at the drink-cart and tending to the wounded, and worn a man's uniform. It was also true that she had lost interest in things after a while. The pet kitten she had once had, that had escaped; the pet fawn she had raised that became venison roast which she had ruthlessly devoured, in spite of her having known it, tended to its wounds, caressed it, and fed it well, when she wearied of trying to keep it in a pen; the various "ladylike" pursuits she had attempted and dropped when she was no good at them. The truth was, Éponine was more at home in breeches than skirts, happier with her hair cropped short or kept in a loose queue than braided or chignonned and fussed over, more apt with a knife and pistol than with a needle and thread.
While Cosette was being groomed as a quite unconventional society wife, and had a well-understanding relationship with her future husband as one another's equals, Madame Enjolras had been a conventionally reared local beauty of the landed gentry in the Camargue; a trophy wife to a two decades older gentleman, a statue of Hera or Helen placed on a pedestal as an ornament. The fair leader pictured himself his own mother side by side with Madame Thénardier... the former petite and lilywhite, so svelte and collected and beautifully dressed that she scarcely seemed human; the latter tall and voluptuous in her worn frock, exuberant with both joie de vivre and the desire to exert her will upon others. With her strong features and her height, she looked in Enjolras' eyes like a queen. A queen in rags, with messy hair, who had tangled eyebrows hanging over her eyes, yet regal and dignified and stately, who towered head and shoulders over everyone else. At least she was doubtless the robber maiden's real mother.
Upon making those remarks to Éponine, he had made her laugh. Especially when both of them discussed the traditional society wife, as exemplified by Madame Enjolras; the Thénardier girl had laughed until it hurt her ribs and made her burst into a coughing fit.
"Now she has put on at least a little weight, and looks more or less like Rubens' Graces, but when I was a child she was very thin and very pale and petite, with the same light hair as Yours Truly, but her chignon ended in a discouraged-looking wisp. If one had not known that she was Madame Enjolras one would have taken her for an orphan in an institution – the kind of girl that is seen standing listlessly at the orphanage gates, not even playing with a ball. Though she loved me and I loved her, I have never seen her smile. She drifted through the halls like a sleepwalker, her movements and conversations automatic and distant, like those of a wind-up doll on a music box... When I first left for Paris, she was more delicate than ever, but her sadness hung around her heavily. It took up a lot of room; the whole Manoir Enjolras was not enough for all of it..."
"Lucky my own Maman was never one!" Éponine quipped, elbowing him in the solar plexus. "Such high society wives are useless ornaments, hollow porcelain dolls only meant for show; I myself would rather die than become one of them... To think that I once was so girly and so shallow, dreaming of a porcelain doll that looked ostensibly very like a queen, and actually very like your mother, Enj!" Her lips curled, and he nodded himself in agreement, with a look of contempt in his absent icy blue eyes.
In spite of this boyishness of hers, she actually preferred female company, and only three males had not been able to fluster her: "Papa, 'Parnasse, and you," she had reiterated.
Long story short, everything proved that she was not evil, just slightly wistful and rather pampered. The robber girl spoke of love much easier than he did, almost playfully. Yet she wasn’t playing. Maybe the first time, when she was clenching his waist and licking his ear in the carriage, it wasn’t really serious. But then, after they talked about literature, when she stared in Enjolras' eyes just for a moment before attacking him with a sudden kiss, her black eyes were on fire and the fair leader could still see it every time the swarthy girl looked at him eye to eye. It was so hot, Enjolras felt he could melt under the captor’s stare. This kind of love… she would never let him go.
And now she was sleeping by his side, clasping him as hard as an iron clamp, armed with a loaded pistol and a Bowie knife for self-defense, lest someone came to literally stab her in the back... and also to defend her prisoner, though he still was wide awake, most surely. He finished talking, she listening and then she turned out the light and they went to sleep. When she fell asleep with her Bowie gripped in her left hand and her right arm clasping Enjolras' waist, her breathing rattled in spite of her youth, and she snored so loudly that she could be heard from the courtyard, now even clearer and louder than ever before (you could hear that), for the shouts and song of the victory revels had died down and given way to the whistling of the breeze and the hoot of the eagle-owl who roosted in the derelict tower. "Hi-bou, hi-bou!" Definitely a female Bubo bubo, Combeferre would have added. The orgy went on for hours until all of the men fell asleep of exhaustion and drunkenness. Still, Enjolras found himself unable to sleep, couldn't close his eyes for a moment -- but had no idea of, and could not find out, the reason why he could not shut his eyes. Once more, his wrists were sore with the ties that bound them. He saw himself still in between a life of torture and a quick death, trapped between Scylla and Charybdis -- not knowing whether they would spare his life and inflict pains worse than death upon him, or they would quickly and painlessly kill him; whether he was to live in pain or die quickly. The men knew that, sooner or later, she would tire of the game of that fancy to play lady, and thus, they hoped, of Enjolras himself. And even if she didn't, her word was law even to her own parents; yet, there was Éponine... protecting him from her parents and the others, doubtless. And her intentions were certainly not as dark as those of the adults in the band, he had realised.
Her body felt warm against his own, and her grip felt as reassuring as it was hard, and it made him think of the one he had not given up on seeking...
"Grand... R," whispered Enjolras to himself, closing his eyes and wishing that he could feel the savateur's heart beating against his own.
"Lie still," she grumbled in her sleep, "or I shall bury my blade in your neck." She had drunk not a little herself and toyed nervously with her very sharp knife.
That night, as the flames died down till only red embers remained, while Éponine was asleep, Enjolras crept from the bed of furs and upholstery, then stroked her dark head while she slept.
“Put your weapon down, friend. You know my quest. Will you help me on my way again? I have little to give— Have you not seen, by chance, Grantaire around these parts?" he asked to himself, as a rhetorical question, in a plaintive tone and feeling so tense that he did nor realise that the robber girl was literally shoulder to shoulder with him and, though fast asleep, she had overheard him and paid attention to the question.
"Oh yes... of course..." she whispered into the darkness, still clasping Enjolras' waist, half asleep and half awake. "Oui, I have seen that fellow... Grand... R... I thought I saw a boy of his age and description once..." Her grave voice went possibly even deeper.
The blond's ears perked up. Wouldn't she tell him, he implored, what he was doing, and where he was going? Heart beating so quickly he thought it might burst, Enjolras frantically whispered that question.
"He was... sitting down in... the Green Faery's carriage... which passed tout près... so close that it grazed the ramparts of the keep... and then against the full moon... With a coach of greenery and horses of silver gliding through the air? Most certainly."
"And whither was she going?" Enjolras demanded.
"She has probably gone to... her own fortress... son vrai fort... and that's all the way up north... in the far north... where the skies are always... clouded and dire..." Éponine slurred, nodding off.
"Oh, poor Grantaire... how cold he must be feeling!" Enjolras sighed and thought to himself. For the first time, he felt that he was a step closer to learning his friend's true fate. "Did he really exchange his walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage? Tell me you are not just toying with me," he pleaded. "Tell me you speak the truth."
Once more she whispered into the darkness. So faintly, so slurred, that he could not hear her reply.
Then, suddenly noticing that the prisoner was stirring by her side, the robber maiden awoke with a start, looking rather tense. The robber girl looked quite solemn, then nodded her head and said, "I am sure it is he, I am sure."
"Thank you for telling me these things."
"Si tu ne tiens pas tranquille, je te plante le couteau dans le ventre. Tiens-toi tranquille, ou je te donne un coup de couteau dans le ventre!" she told him, half asleep and half awakened. "Shut up, and, besides, don't stir like that... Lie still in bed, NOW!!! Or else, to keep you tranquil, my blade will slip into your side, and plunge all the way into your heart... Reste tranquille, et ne parle pas et ne remue pas ainsi, ou bien, pour te faire tenir tranquille, je t’enfonce mon couteau dans le cœur." She drew steel and flicked the wrist that held her Bowie wistfully. "Lie still," commanded the robber girl, "or I will slit open your gut, all the way up from your willy to your jaws!"
The fair leader thought it would be wiser to confirm to the commands of this self-proclaimed general, lest she put her spoken threat into reality. He kept silence, without even moving a muscle, and spent all night long staring up at the night sky and thinking about the Green Faery, if she ever existed in real life.
After some time had passed, Éponine opened her eyes and sat up, withdrawing from her bedclothes that Bowie knife of the most wicked sharpness, which she proceeded to use to cut her prisoner's bonds. She pursed her lips and wore an expression that said she was not pleased at being proven wrong. Her frown deepened, but then she relaxed and cut the rope on the young student's hands. She reached for her knife and in a flick with speed that even Enjolras himself had not been prepared for; she slashed the binds between the fair leader's wrists. She sat down on her improvised bed nearby and picked up a thick branch, snapping some pieces off and settling down with her knife again. "I'll be watching you," she said as she began whittling.
“Hey,” the robber girl said after a while, sinking her hand into the leader's golden hair. Éponine turned around as it seemed the conversation was over. “You’re awake? That must have been one hell of an orgasm you had, thrashing wildly for minutes and then falling without senses. Don’t try to escape, we know the woods better than you and will catch you before you get too far. I have some things to take care of, but once I’m back, we’ll go to sleep.” She turned on her heel and strode back to the camp, where the men celebrated.
Enjolras watched her back sadly, rubbing his sore wrists, just released from their rope; wincing at the rope burns on his forearms. Her mother was not very pleasant in the mornings, 'Ponine had said, and she didn't like to try and get her to wake up on her own. Usually she brought one of the lower-ranking robbers with her for moral support; but as her new best friend, that job had officially been passed on to Enjolras himself. Once more, Éponine appeared out of nowhere with lightning in her eyes, anger clear on her features and hands firm on her hips. She gritted her teeth all irritated called the fair leader to her side, swooshing her hand in the air. Enjolras threw a last pitiful glance towards the dark maiden and headed after her to her improvised bed.
“Do you always sleep armed...? Do you always have that knife with you while you are asleep? Est-ce que tu te couches avec ce long couteau près de toi ?” he asked, casting a look at the long blade of the weapon with mixed dread, awe, and some astonishment.
“I always sleep with the knife by me,” said the robber maiden. “And with a loaded pistol as well, as you see. No one knows what may happen. Toujours; on ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver. But now tell me again what you told me, all about your friend, and why you set out... why you've gone out... why you ventured out into the wide world. Wot is there so special about this lad for you to go forth alone into the wide world to search for him?”
Then, Enjolras repeated his story over again, from the beginning, while all around them the rest of the robber band slept, having finally yielded to intoxication: the garret with its window-garden, the smile of the savateur... And she listened, while she seized his neck with her right arm and, with her left, rested the muzzle of her pistol against the blond's back.
Éponine looked grave (aside from a tad teary-eyed when Cosette was mentioned, and a tad dreamy and flustered upon hearing of Marius), looked at him with big serious black eyes, and nodded solemnly, and said, “When you told me of your quest, I looked for her in the mirror of my mind's eye, and found her many miles to the north, in the frozen wastes where no living thing walks. Perhaps your friend is there with her, and perhaps he is not. I do not know. That may be, but it is all talk. Nevermind! Never mind! Do you even know where that place is?”
"No," he admitted, "but I am sure that if I keep walking north, I shall certainly find it eventually."
"I think you love him more than you say. I probably wouldn't spend so much conviction on finding him. So you believe in all your being that he's out there somewhere waiting for you, but you can't admit that you have feelings for him... You are a great fool," the robber-maiden said. But first I must have something in exchange, so that I may not show myself to have made a bad bargain when the others wake tomorrow and find both of us gone."
"Lucky my own Maman was never one!" Éponine quipped, elbowing him in the solar plexus. "Such high society wives are useless ornaments, hollow porcelain dolls only meant for show; I myself would rather die than become one of them... To think that I once was so girly and so shallow, dreaming of a porcelain doll that looked ostensibly very like a queen, and actually very like your mother, Enj!" Her lips curled, and he nodded himself in agreement, with a look of contempt in his absent icy blue eyes.
In spite of this boyishness of hers, she actually preferred female company, and only three males had not been able to fluster her: "Papa, 'Parnasse, and you," she had reiterated.
Long story short, everything proved that she was not evil, just slightly wistful and rather pampered. The robber girl spoke of love much easier than he did, almost playfully. Yet she wasn’t playing. Maybe the first time, when she was clenching his waist and licking his ear in the carriage, it wasn’t really serious. But then, after they talked about literature, when she stared in Enjolras' eyes just for a moment before attacking him with a sudden kiss, her black eyes were on fire and the fair leader could still see it every time the swarthy girl looked at him eye to eye. It was so hot, Enjolras felt he could melt under the captor’s stare. This kind of love… she would never let him go.
And now she was sleeping by his side, clasping him as hard as an iron clamp, armed with a loaded pistol and a Bowie knife for self-defense, lest someone came to literally stab her in the back... and also to defend her prisoner, though he still was wide awake, most surely. He finished talking, she listening and then she turned out the light and they went to sleep. When she fell asleep with her Bowie gripped in her left hand and her right arm clasping Enjolras' waist, her breathing rattled in spite of her youth, and she snored so loudly that she could be heard from the courtyard, now even clearer and louder than ever before (you could hear that), for the shouts and song of the victory revels had died down and given way to the whistling of the breeze and the hoot of the eagle-owl who roosted in the derelict tower. "Hi-bou, hi-bou!" Definitely a female Bubo bubo, Combeferre would have added. The orgy went on for hours until all of the men fell asleep of exhaustion and drunkenness. Still, Enjolras found himself unable to sleep, couldn't close his eyes for a moment -- but had no idea of, and could not find out, the reason why he could not shut his eyes. Once more, his wrists were sore with the ties that bound them. He saw himself still in between a life of torture and a quick death, trapped between Scylla and Charybdis -- not knowing whether they would spare his life and inflict pains worse than death upon him, or they would quickly and painlessly kill him; whether he was to live in pain or die quickly. The men knew that, sooner or later, she would tire of the game of that fancy to play lady, and thus, they hoped, of Enjolras himself. And even if she didn't, her word was law even to her own parents; yet, there was Éponine... protecting him from her parents and the others, doubtless. And her intentions were certainly not as dark as those of the adults in the band, he had realised.
Her body felt warm against his own, and her grip felt as reassuring as it was hard, and it made him think of the one he had not given up on seeking...
"Grand... R," whispered Enjolras to himself, closing his eyes and wishing that he could feel the savateur's heart beating against his own.
"Lie still," she grumbled in her sleep, "or I shall bury my blade in your neck." She had drunk not a little herself and toyed nervously with her very sharp knife.
That night, as the flames died down till only red embers remained, while Éponine was asleep, Enjolras crept from the bed of furs and upholstery, then stroked her dark head while she slept.
“Put your weapon down, friend. You know my quest. Will you help me on my way again? I have little to give— Have you not seen, by chance, Grantaire around these parts?" he asked to himself, as a rhetorical question, in a plaintive tone and feeling so tense that he did nor realise that the robber girl was literally shoulder to shoulder with him and, though fast asleep, she had overheard him and paid attention to the question.
"Oh yes... of course..." she whispered into the darkness, still clasping Enjolras' waist, half asleep and half awake. "Oui, I have seen that fellow... Grand... R... I thought I saw a boy of his age and description once..." Her grave voice went possibly even deeper.
The blond's ears perked up. Wouldn't she tell him, he implored, what he was doing, and where he was going? Heart beating so quickly he thought it might burst, Enjolras frantically whispered that question.
"He was... sitting down in... the Green Faery's carriage... which passed tout près... so close that it grazed the ramparts of the keep... and then against the full moon... With a coach of greenery and horses of silver gliding through the air? Most certainly."
"And whither was she going?" Enjolras demanded.
"She has probably gone to... her own fortress... son vrai fort... and that's all the way up north... in the far north... where the skies are always... clouded and dire..." Éponine slurred, nodding off.
"Oh, poor Grantaire... how cold he must be feeling!" Enjolras sighed and thought to himself. For the first time, he felt that he was a step closer to learning his friend's true fate. "Did he really exchange his walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage? Tell me you are not just toying with me," he pleaded. "Tell me you speak the truth."
Once more she whispered into the darkness. So faintly, so slurred, that he could not hear her reply.
“Are you asleep?”
“Yes.”
“How come you’re speaking to me then?”
“I’m talking in my sleep.”
“No, you’re not! Stop teasing me!”
She swatted his shoulder to make a point and they giggled for a long while. Then, suddenly noticing that the prisoner was stirring by her side, the robber maiden awoke with a start, looking rather tense. The robber girl looked quite solemn, then nodded her head and said, "I am sure it is he, I am sure."
"Thank you for telling me these things."
"Si tu ne tiens pas tranquille, je te plante le couteau dans le ventre. Tiens-toi tranquille, ou je te donne un coup de couteau dans le ventre!" she told him, half asleep and half awakened. "Shut up, and, besides, don't stir like that... Lie still in bed, NOW!!! Or else, to keep you tranquil, my blade will slip into your side, and plunge all the way into your heart... Reste tranquille, et ne parle pas et ne remue pas ainsi, ou bien, pour te faire tenir tranquille, je t’enfonce mon couteau dans le cœur." She drew steel and flicked the wrist that held her Bowie wistfully. "Lie still," commanded the robber girl, "or I will slit open your gut, all the way up from your willy to your jaws!"
The fair leader thought it would be wiser to confirm to the commands of this self-proclaimed general, lest she put her spoken threat into reality. He kept silence, without even moving a muscle, and spent all night long staring up at the night sky and thinking about the Green Faery, if she ever existed in real life.
After some time had passed, Éponine opened her eyes and sat up, withdrawing from her bedclothes that Bowie knife of the most wicked sharpness, which she proceeded to use to cut her prisoner's bonds. She pursed her lips and wore an expression that said she was not pleased at being proven wrong. Her frown deepened, but then she relaxed and cut the rope on the young student's hands. She reached for her knife and in a flick with speed that even Enjolras himself had not been prepared for; she slashed the binds between the fair leader's wrists. She sat down on her improvised bed nearby and picked up a thick branch, snapping some pieces off and settling down with her knife again. "I'll be watching you," she said as she began whittling.
“Hey,” the robber girl said after a while, sinking her hand into the leader's golden hair. Éponine turned around as it seemed the conversation was over. “You’re awake? That must have been one hell of an orgasm you had, thrashing wildly for minutes and then falling without senses. Don’t try to escape, we know the woods better than you and will catch you before you get too far. I have some things to take care of, but once I’m back, we’ll go to sleep.” She turned on her heel and strode back to the camp, where the men celebrated.
Enjolras watched her back sadly, rubbing his sore wrists, just released from their rope; wincing at the rope burns on his forearms. Her mother was not very pleasant in the mornings, 'Ponine had said, and she didn't like to try and get her to wake up on her own. Usually she brought one of the lower-ranking robbers with her for moral support; but as her new best friend, that job had officially been passed on to Enjolras himself. Once more, Éponine appeared out of nowhere with lightning in her eyes, anger clear on her features and hands firm on her hips. She gritted her teeth all irritated called the fair leader to her side, swooshing her hand in the air. Enjolras threw a last pitiful glance towards the dark maiden and headed after her to her improvised bed.
“Do you always sleep armed...? Do you always have that knife with you while you are asleep? Est-ce que tu te couches avec ce long couteau près de toi ?” he asked, casting a look at the long blade of the weapon with mixed dread, awe, and some astonishment.
“I always sleep with the knife by me,” said the robber maiden. “And with a loaded pistol as well, as you see. No one knows what may happen. Toujours; on ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver. But now tell me again what you told me, all about your friend, and why you set out... why you've gone out... why you ventured out into the wide world. Wot is there so special about this lad for you to go forth alone into the wide world to search for him?”
Then, Enjolras repeated his story over again, from the beginning, while all around them the rest of the robber band slept, having finally yielded to intoxication: the garret with its window-garden, the smile of the savateur... And she listened, while she seized his neck with her right arm and, with her left, rested the muzzle of her pistol against the blond's back.
Éponine looked grave (aside from a tad teary-eyed when Cosette was mentioned, and a tad dreamy and flustered upon hearing of Marius), looked at him with big serious black eyes, and nodded solemnly, and said, “When you told me of your quest, I looked for her in the mirror of my mind's eye, and found her many miles to the north, in the frozen wastes where no living thing walks. Perhaps your friend is there with her, and perhaps he is not. I do not know. That may be, but it is all talk. Nevermind! Never mind! Do you even know where that place is?”
"No," he admitted, "but I am sure that if I keep walking north, I shall certainly find it eventually."
"I think you love him more than you say. I probably wouldn't spend so much conviction on finding him. So you believe in all your being that he's out there somewhere waiting for you, but you can't admit that you have feelings for him... You are a great fool," the robber-maiden said. But first I must have something in exchange, so that I may not show myself to have made a bad bargain when the others wake tomorrow and find both of us gone."
"Anything!" Now that Enjolras had listened to descriptions of the Green Faery's fortress, he found himself sorely tormented by visions of how much the savateur must be suffering in that icy, terrible place.
"Don't worry. I will do my best to help you find him! If you want to see your 'friend' so badly, I'll help!" the robber maiden said gruffly. He silently took her hands, too grateful to speak. Perhaps he was on the verge of finding Grantaire after all! He only needed to keep alive until he had a chance to escape.
"Don't worry. I will do my best to help you find him! If you want to see your 'friend' so badly, I'll help!" the robber maiden said gruffly. He silently took her hands, too grateful to speak. Perhaps he was on the verge of finding Grantaire after all! He only needed to keep alive until he had a chance to escape.
"You have already given me your white chamois leather gloves," the robber-maiden said. "If I let you go, you must also give me your Shakespearean tragedies and your black leather boots, for I think they would look better on me than they do on you."
The fair leader would have hesitated, for surrendering the Folio would leave him bereft of distractions, and the northward journey would be difficult enough in his fine, new leather boots, and would be hard indeed if he had again to wear the old, cracked ones that he had left at the Fauchelevents', but he thought of Grantaire and found himself agreeing in half a moment.
So he took his fine, new black leather boots with spats, and handed it over to the robber-maiden, along with the Folio of Shakespearean tragedies he had loved for so many years. Giving them up was like handing away a piece of himself, as if he were leaving behind the leader had been, leaving his very identity here in this ruin, with the robbers and the smoke and the shadows and the bones of the dead king. But nevertheless, he did it, and afterwards, the robber-maiden pulled him closer and whispered in his ear:
"Now listen, for I am about to do something for you. I have cut your bonds, and if you like, I shall set you free, so that you may run away and find your friend. Listen. Now you can see that, during the daytime, all our men-folks have gone, they're out on an expedition. Even Papa... the Sarge... There's no one but Maman and us left here, and she's meaning to stay here to cook breakfast for all of us in the Patron-Minette band, and to keep the watch over our little den. So the old lady's still here, and she'll be staying, for she stays put; She'll stay, but still, sometime later during the morning around mid-day, she drains or empties this big fat liquor keg that holds as much as six bottles and after that, a few gulps later, she'll have forty winks, and then have a bit of a snooze and take a little nap; she usually dozes off for a nap and sleeps for a little; then, as soon as she has fallen fast asleep, I'm going to do something for your sake!" She bit her lower lip, squinted her eyes, and looked both ways very quickly. "Listen. All the men are gone. Only Mama is here and she won't leave; but in a little while she will take a drink from the big keg and then she will take a supplementary nap. Wait until the men-folk go out to raid and Maman is sleeping -- she likes to have forty winks in the early evening, after quaffing, to sleep off her drinks -- and then... I will help you! I will be able to, and I will see about doing something for you. Prepare to dash out of here."
"You're going to let me free? You want to help me?" the fair leader asked in surprise.
"I promise."
"You're going to let me free? You want to help me?" the fair leader asked in surprise.
"I promise."
Did she really mean it?
"Then it's settled," Éponine said quite seriously. "All the men are going out and shall not be back until evening. Once they are gone I shall help you escape. We'll have to be quick, because if Maman wakes up we'll never be able to make our way out!"
But Enjolras knew better than to trust a she-wolf, and he said nothing to her, creeping back to the furs at the back of the cave before she could wake and notice him gone.
Then, he recalled that he needed a pathfinder like the robber maiden, for a sheltered scion on his own would not be able to fend for himself in the middle of the woods...
"Then it's settled," Éponine said quite seriously. "All the men are going out and shall not be back until evening. Once they are gone I shall help you escape. We'll have to be quick, because if Maman wakes up we'll never be able to make our way out!"
But Enjolras knew better than to trust a she-wolf, and he said nothing to her, creeping back to the furs at the back of the cave before she could wake and notice him gone.
Then, he recalled that he needed a pathfinder like the robber maiden, for a sheltered scion on his own would not be able to fend for himself in the middle of the woods...
All night and all morn long, while Éponine slept beside him, Enjolras lay awake and thought about how he might get free and find his way to the Green Faery's hold. For the first time since he had set out on his journey so long ago, he felt as though Grantaire were close, perhaps only a few weeks' journey from here.
They waited impatiently until the middle of the day. And, to pass the time while awaiting the mid-day with impatience, Éponine decided to tell her new friend some tales of her own in exchange:
"Thus, to keep ourselves entertained, let us sit upon this carpet and tell sad stories... and maybe some that are not that sad, shall we?" And thus, she cleared her throat and began to tell Enjolras, in her own personal style, her own favourite Arthurian legends, and Norse myths, and other tales of knights and monsters and damsels —her favourite sort of stories—, and, finally, a much more recent real-life story about someone else who was taken by the Green Faery:
"Once upon a time, and the best of times it was, not long ago and not far away, there were this sergeant and this camp follower of the same regiment, who, ever since they had come of age, were husband and wife; they had fought in strange lands and suffered many hardships, heading every now and then to another distant country during the war. She helped with the wounded and robbed corpses, of friend and foe alike. You know the ravens at the edge of the field at twilight, and 'tis much the same sort of life. Also, battle was exciting, though stupid. As for her spouse, he loved to kill and deceive, it was his nature, and she did not want to deny him. He made a fine-looking soldier too, with a short plume, dangling cartridges, and boots to the hip, his moustache waxed to point and his hair in muttonchop whiskers. For over seven years they followed the drum, and then..." she began. "With song and hurrah, though not wearing the green leaves of victory, the regiment marched home, when the war was over and peace had come. The regimental child musicians ran in wide circles, as though trying to make the journey three times longer. Days passed and weeks passed, and at last they entered their native seat; their eyes bright, their faces as radiant as they were weather-beaten. And thus, having been left idle by their new circumstances, both of them returned to their birthplace, a lovely village up north, where they were received with much rejoicing, for they had decided to live there as soon as they had just returned after many years of war. The Sarge had fought all over Europe, in a great many battles and campaigns, and after losing his closest comrades to enemy fire, had finally retired and hung up his uniform, using the money he and his wife had made during their years in the army to purchase themselves a small shop on the village's northern outskirts, where they went into business as innkeepers and set up a tavern, which they called the Sergeant of Waterloo. Neither one had a silver decoration on their chests, but then they were unscathed and unharmed, which the locals had not dreamed. And there was great joy; they laughed and they sobbed upon realising that the couple had made it through fire and ice and bitter experience. They were both still young, in the prime of their lives, having just turned thirty, each one still kept both eyes and both ears and all four limbs and --most relevantly-- their rapier wits, and the place they had chosen for their peacetime business was a little cottage whose quaint roofs were mantled with white in the wintry season, and overgrown with evergreen ivy vines and moonflower vines and climbing thornroses in the short, pleasant northern summer, which is just like the southern springtime. The sergeant's wife sought up a painting by David himself to use as the inn sign: her husband on a bloody battlefield, standing upright in the midst of the gunsmoke, carrying on piggyback a lifeless fallen general who wore epaulettes with silver stars."
Here, Éponine sighed, looking pensive, as she took a glance at her parents. "When the peace came and they became innkeepers, the wife was expecting, for the first time in a decade of marriage, since seven or eight months before. Names were being discussed, most of them of knights, and druids, and princesses, and goddesses from Celtic lore, for she could read, and perused Arthurian lore and the Mabinogion whenever she had spare time. One month later, the village bells pealed for the baptism of a healthy little dark baby girl, for whom the priest at first wavered upon hearing the parents' decision of giving her a pagan name, that of a false goddess instead of a saint, but the proud Maman would never stoop in front of the Church, and thus, after some well-deserved intimidation and mentions of gifts, the very best a strong woman can give a gentleman in a robe, the child at the font was finally christened Éponine, as both of her parents had wished."
Enjolras, making himself comfortable at last, listened attentively, even with his lips curling as the maiden telling the story rolled up her sleeves and put her fists up, like an English-style boxer, to illustrate how her mother had intimidated the village priest. Éponine Thénardier... ever since she was born, already at the baptismal font, her life had been marked by subversion and irreverence.
"One year later, another girl-child was born to the innkeepers, a nutbrown little darling successfully christened Azelma after Monsieur le Curé received the same coaxing from the former sutler woman. The innkeepers adored both of their daughters, not regretting at all that they had been given girls instead of boys, for of course the parents had been to war and seen that men were far more inclined to do wrong than women. Already in the cradle, both baby sisters were lulled to sleep by Maman by making them swallow a few drops of eau-de-vie, to make them stronger and more accustomed to the stuff. Each of them had her very first trou normand as soon as she had cut all her milk teeth. And it was then, two years later, when Yours Truly could already talk and walk on her own two feet, while 'Zelma was still tottering and learning to walk, and lollygagging... one fine, sunny day in May, when the roses were in bloom, and Azelma was baring her chubby little tummy... A firm board hung from strong chains down from an old oversized wooden cannon carriage, afterwards used to transport logs to the lumber mill till one of its wheels broke, near the inn: it was our swing, and 'Zelma and I sat down there together, swinging to and fro. Oh, for that warm sun, the cool breeze, the scent of roses and the hum of bees, in that golden afternoon, right before it turned to evening... Maman was sitting on the porch, watching us and singing old Arthurian ballads of warriors to pass the time, and to pace the rhythm for our swing: 'Il le faut, disait un guerrier...' Then, suddenly, those strangers like faeries or royals or living porcelain dolls entered the village. They were a young lady and a little girl, the latter aged three like me, sleeping in her arms, surely mother and daughter; both of them golden-haired and fair and blue-eyed, with lovely features, dressed in sky blue silks to fit the colour of their eyes, with fine lace and azure satin ribbons. Ribbons at their empire waists, white Valenciennes lace trimming their bonnets. Theirs were beautiful yet austere high-collar fashionable gowns, the kind that ladies wore on the Left Bank; not even the female guests who had come from Calais and Montreuil to spend the night at the Sergeant's had worn such finery, too fancy even for provincial towns. Hitherto, I had only known such people from fairy tales, and never seen them in real life in the flesh and blood. It was such a grand sight, such fair and finely-dressed figures that they seemed ethereal, that Maman's song, and the flight of our swing, froze and were still, in such awe. Though pale and weary, and faintly smiling, the stranger lady, in a worn cobalt blue shawl to match her cold blue eyes, went up to Maman and kindly asked: 'Are those pretty little girls your daughters?' The landlady nodded, introduced herself as Madame Thénardier... but what I remember the most is that the little blonde woke with our childlike cheers, her Maman sat down to lower her, and soon she stormed forth like a reckless little sunny bundle of energy, and we hopped down from the swing and introduced ourselves, and so there were three little girls, who seemed to be sisters all three, playing together in the shade of the rosebush at t'y es."
"T'y es?" Enjolras cocked his head, not recognising the game Éponine had been playing with her sister and their new little friend of rank.
"We call it like that up north; the game of catch-me-if-you-can, when you have to chase all the other children, or avoid being chased; and if you catch someone, you say 'T'y es!'. Neither 'Zelma nor the little blonde could run, so you guess who had the upper hand?"
"Ah, you mean trappe-trappe..." the fair student leader sighed. "We southerners call that game trappe-trappe. Though I grew up so lonely and so sheltered, without any friends or siblings to enjoy that, or any other parlour games for that matter..." he sighed. "And... what happened next?"
"The lady and her child had supper and spent the night at our inn. The next day at dawn, after breakfast, the pale lady with cold blue eyes, who was indeed this little girl's mother, kissed her goodbye and adjusted her little bonnet. The lady never smiled that morning; she was more delicate than ever, but her sadness, a sorrow which she could not name, hung around her heavily. It took up a lot of room in our small tavern. She drifted through the taproom like a sleepwalker, her movements and conversations automatic and distant, reminding me of a wind-up doll. She even had eyes of glass, and not only moved like a doll. 'Now be good, Cosette, and do not miss me; Maman has to leave, but the Thénardiers will care for you as well as Maman has done...' Then, the fair mother and daughter parted ways, both of them with tears in their bright blue eyes, and I could do nothing more than stare and wonder as the slender lady in blue, so ethereal and so different from my own parents, walked the streets northwards, sobbing and drying up her tears for some time, until she disappeared into the horizon beyond the heath around the village; it was as if she had vanished into thin air. But her child, her daughter, the little doll of flesh and blood, la petite Cosette, remained at the Sergeant's. And not only the little girl, whom I hoped to see as another sister, but also her regal trousseau, into which I peeked to see a dozen lacy gowns, silks and velvets and satin ribbons, with a pair of shoes and a bonnet for each dress; an ensemble for each and every month of the year, like a fairytale princess would have got. We all felt really lucky! As if we had a little faery in our midst... which left me with a lot of questions surrounding our new little tenant:
'Will Cosette be living with us, Maman?'
'Of course she will... Her own Maman is too busy at the jewellery factory in Montreuil. They came back up north, to that town, where she was born, when her husband died back in Paris.'
'And her trousseau? She has too many dresses, Maman, for a girl like us...'
'Indeed. And, since you are the same size as she is, and the eldest and heir to the family inn, you may wear as many of Cosette's ensembles as you please,' Maman replied, as Papa looked on and nodded in approval. I was too young, too cheerful, too impressed... hoping that Cosette could be another sister to me, and not knowing how suspicious was the fact that a mourning widow was not wearing black. In fact, through the years there came to our place many thirsty guests, with that kind of thirst that water cannot quench, but Cosette's Maman would never return, not even to visit her for one single Christmas Eve."
A shudder ran down Enjolras' spine. The heiress who had been so kind towards him had been rescued from an abusive family of northern innkeepers, just like the Thénardiers. She was golden-haired and blue-eyed, and her name was Cosette... Éponine's parents had been her first guardians... or so it seemed, at least... Those who had been so harsh that neither the heiress as a young adult nor M. Fauchelevent would breathe a word about them. Furthermore, Cosette had been a bastard child of an outcast wanton to begin with, given Éponine's reflection on her mother's attire, which explained the reason why she had been entrusted to the Thénardiers for a lifetime in the first place.
Had it not been by chance that he had first met Cosette and then her former guardians? What would Combeferre had said, something about chance or serendipity? Enjolras nestled in the robber maiden's grasp, sunken in deep thought, reeled in by the story he was being told. Where would the Green Faery fall into place in this Thénardier tale, where already others he had met played the lead roles?
"And the Green Faery?" the fair leader finally asked, his thoughts wandering back to the quest.
"We'll come to that, but first you need to know the full story. Otherwise, you maybe will not understand for how long I know the Green Faery, by which other names I got to know her, and for which reasons someone very dear to the Thénardier clan was spirited away."
These words of the dark maiden's seemed to settle the matter, then.
"Her real name was Anne-Euphrasie Louet, but everyone called her Cosette, or Alouette, for she was always up in the morning, even before the sun and the chickens; always the first one in the village to be out and about, by the light of the morning stars. Yet that little skylark would never sing," Éponine sighed. "For as long as she lived with us."
Enjolras felt intrigued and, after a deep gasp, asked: "And why would be the reason?"
"She was a wing-clipped skylark," the robber maiden sighed and avoided his gaze with a downcast look. "Everyone in the village, nay, in the shire whispered how kind-hearted we Thénardiers were, what an act of charity it had been, in spite of not being that wealthy, to have taken in and raised the child of that wanton, nay, of that whore, who had abandoned her little one on their doorstep... back then, I didn't know what a wanton or a whore was, but I thought, since they were referring to Cosette's Maman, that the words referred to a lady of pretty high rank..." Enjolras raised an eyebrow, understanding the error she had made.
"We were encouraged to wear Cosette's gowns and accessories, since our parents said that we had the right to be that finely dressed, and gave her our more worn and torn frocks in exchange; moreover she was always barefoot, in winter or springtime, autumn or summer, rain or shine. When I grew too big for those lace-trimmed silks and velvets, they were handed down to 'Zelma, and, when she grew too big for them in turn, Maman took those ensembles to Paris and sold them to a charity, so that her little girls could have fine dolls and dolls' clothes and storybooks for Christmas, for a toy shop had opened in the village, just opposite our inn. That was the last I ever got to hear of Cosette's trousseau."
At first, Enjolras really wondered whether the Thénardiers really had sold Cosette's trousseau to charity - it just didn't suit them. "And what was life like for you as an innkeeper child, with those Christmas gifts and your parents' love?"
"The first years we, Azelma and I, spent as children in and around the inn were happy ones. Of course we two went to class in the village school, we had storybooks and toys to play with, and no misfortune or hard work were allowed to befall us. With Cosette, it was a completely different story. Ever since she was five and able to walk, she had to do all the chores around the inn and at the Thénardier household: the laundry, the dishes, the windows, the floors, the path, the stables, and even run errands and carry heavy parcels and fetch water and clear the snow before the front entrance, shivering barefoot in the same worn and patched frock, which did not even have a single patch of wool, and without a scarf or gloves or proper bonnet, in the bleak midwinter... It was too much hard work for such a scrawny little girl, who was given quite a meagre porridge for supper, aside from our scraps thrust under the table, feeding there among our pet cats in a wooden bowl just like theirs, and slept on our hard garret floor; and then had to be up with the last dark of the night, way before the sun."
Enjolras just stood there, frozen.
"It was a miserable life, indeed, it was a life of hunger and pain, a lonely life, with a brutal stepmother far more dreadful than loving and a lackadaisy stepfather who treated her like dung on the heel of his boot. And, furthermore... Even before she could speak, they sent her out to beg. On the days she brought nothing home, the landlady would beat Cosette until she turned into fog, and lifted herself out of her body." Éponine's tone was detached and matter-of-fact, but there was a faint quivering in her voice, and a mournful look in her eyes, that made Enjolras suspect that she was feeling sorry. "And then, Maman would shove her little form upstairs onto the attic floor, senseless, on an empty belly."
The fair leader listened on, feeling his whole self turn cold and clammy; his mouth drying up, a shiver running down his spinal cord, as Éponine made a little pause, then began to tell more about the Thénardiers' cruelty and lack of empathy towards Cosette:
"There were days when no one felt charitable towards her and she would come home hungry and empty-handed and then Maman, yes, I remember, Maman would beat her black and blue, either with her bare hand or with a cat-of-nine-tails. Papa just sat back and drank his wine or brandy and told the guests in a slurred tone of his feats of derring-do, taking it easy, while Maman hit the poor little girl and hit her and did not stop. And, in the bleak winter, she would have bruises that looked like the mottling of her skin from the cold, so that you could not tell where her guardians' cruelty left off and the cruelty of nature took over." The robber maiden's voice quivered even more, her eyes glittering with restrained tears, as her fair captive thought of how comfortably, how lovingly Cosette and her doting guardian lived now as the Fauchelevents. Of how lucky she had been to have been rescued from such a life of drudgery and want. But the stepparents' own children...? Éponine...? The urge to ask her that question pressed down upon his mind.
"And how did you... how did you feel, how did you act, towards her?" Enjolras just had to ask her that question. The Thénardier girl was caught by surprise, at first gasping in response, ere she finally, after a most awkward silence, explained:
"Of course we were forbidden to play with Cosette, and to teach her to read and write, even though Maman would never ever beat us or get cross, but always showered us with kisses and terms of endearment, and I felt like a real princess with a whipping-girl of her own to bear all the rage of her elders! To be honest, I also loathed the little blonde myself for some unknown reason; maybe to catch the eyes of my parents, maybe to let out all that rage that consumed me, maybe because I had often seen Maman treat Cosette that way, and children tend to copy what they see their parents do... and surely I was too young, and too insensitive, to realise that I was hurting Cosette, both her feelings and with bodily pain, simply for my own amusement. What matters is that 'Zelma and I, but especially Yours Truly, being the taller and stronger older sister, played all sorts of cruel tricks upon her: pulled her matted fair hair, slapped and even scratched her in the face, bit her, frightened away our cats from her side, tore the worn cover from over her straw-bed in winter, and even tore apart and stained her worn frocks, which were hand-me-downs that both 'Zelma and I had grown too big for. One of my own favourite delights was, whenever it was white winter or I had caught a frog in the pond in the warmer seasons, to pop a handful of snow or that frog into her frock, at the nape of her neck. Oh, how shrilly she screamed! Another was tearing from her hands the tin sword that once had been mine, when I set up a different battle of tin soldiers on the carpet every weekend; this tin sword had become another hand-me-down that she swaddled and hatted with rags and called her 'poupée' while we had decent, though a tad worn, ragdolls with eyes and limbs and all, and striking her with that sword right across the face, or in the nape of the neck."
"And how did she react?"
"The good little blonde was never in a rage with any tricks of ours; she never got cross, and very rarely cried, but always assumed that it did not grieve us when we let our feelings out upon her, and that it was for fun that we pulled her hair, and so forth. By and by she had found service at our inn. The people were very middling, and she did the work of three, but they treated her kindly, by that I mean kindly by Thénardier standards, and Cosette worked cheerfully. Early in the morning she drew water from the wellspring, and many a ewer she had carried to the kitchen before the sun rose. She served the table for the guests and took her own meal in the pantry while she tidied up after they had gone to bed or to their travels. All day long she baked and brewed, or scoured pots and pans until they shone like silver. In spite of her changed fortunes, the little one remained as sweet-tempered as in the days when she lived with her mother and had naught to vex her from morning until night. If the butter would not churn, she would sing instead of scolding as the other maids did, and presently the butter would come, and such butter as it was too! When the loaves burned, she did not cry out against the lutins, who were said to play tricks with the oven, but received the scolding from her mistress with humility. At night, no matter how weary she might be from her long day, Cosette went willingly to fetch more water, for the walk through the fields and forests cheered her. Or at least relieved her from the pain and fear and drudgery of the place she called home."
At this point, Enjolras kept silence for a while. Children tend to do as they see others, especially their parents, do; the Thénardier girls had been no exception. And, judging by the orphan servant's reactions of meek tolerance, Cosette had even grown accustomed to mistreatment. He thought of the Cosette he knew, the charming and clever heiress of the Fauchelevent estate, and tried to steel himself and change the subject of the conversation. Hadn't Éponine mentioned frogs? Memories surged back; a peek into a transient, thirsty, shallow pool or freshwater reservoir in the Camargue in springtime, a fortnight after Easter, and Combeferre remarking that the tadpoles he frequently watched, Rana ridibunda, had just grown their hind legs. Clearing his throat, Enjolras addressed the dark maiden: "Did you really catch frogs in the pond?"
"Of course, my horse! Whenever the weather was fair, and I had spare time and no schoolwork to do, and no pleasure to play with my ragdoll, which would soon become 'Zelma's, or to pet the kittens, or to pass a review or do the campaigns of my favourite generals with my new tin sword and regiment of soldiers. Then I went down to the pond or little lake, a spring where we sent Cosette for water for the guests' horses, and which lay under the shade of a tall ash-tree girt with a zinc band that we fancied Yggdrasil, in a woodland clearing on the village's outskirts. In early spring, it was dark with waterweed and frogspawn. There were thick reeds growing right round the edges, and the ground surrounding the water was a muddy swamp; the wind rustled in the reeds, and dark shapes darted through the water. It was a mournful, lonely scene, yet in spite of the wind it felt less dank and cold than in the unheated rooms, and there were living things. Of course there were snakes that could swim and preyed upon the frogs just like the village cats did, and of course an adder can kill a human child in self-defense, but I could and can swim as well as either frogs or snakes, and neither Maman nor Papa nor 'Zelma nor Cosette knew that, whenever I left the inn marching like a little soldier, shouldering a butterfly-net for a rifle, I went out to catch frogs, in spite of the snakes and of the rocks I could dash my head on and drown... they only assumed I was going to catch butterflies. Of course I returned home with a live frog tucked under my bonnet on my head, the stockings and petticoats which once had been Cosette's, and later on those which should have been Cosette's, all soiled with mud and sap, with waterweed and sometimes with frogspawn. It was and is too muddy – still today, you have to wade for ages to get into clear water."
Enjolras thought curiously that, as a southerner, he would have never seen so much frogspawn or so many tadpoles. "You must get an awful lot of frogs."
"Around Easter, the frogs were hatching. The cats mostly killed them, but there always seemed to be more of them. Enough to find some of them a new home at the Sergeant's, either at drawers, in baskets, or under Cosette's frock, in between her shoulder-blades! From April to May, in Floréal, it started to rain again. The frogs trod on each other’s backs and however many the snakes ate, or the cats killed, there were always more.
And one year I learned at class a little poem in prose, which reminded me of myself and 'Zelma and our swing and our kittens and soap bubbles, a song about the beauty of childhood innocence and which I still know by heart:
"There's a long wooden board hanging by two ropes between two trees, and that's a swing; there are two sweet pretty little girls -- twins with dresses as white as snow, long green silk ribbons in their hats -- sitting and swinging, the ribbons fluttering in their wake. There's their adolescent brother, who is older and bigger than they are, standing up in the swing behind them, he stands behind them on the swing, with his arms around the ropes to hold himself; with one arm round the ropes to hold himself steady, because in one hand he's got a little bowl or cup, and in the other a clay pipe, and he's blowing soap bubbles. The swing glides back and forth, to and fro, and the bubbles with their ever changing colors fly through the air, float into the distance. The swing swings and the bubbles fly with all their colours changing, the last one still hanging from the end of the pipe, swinging in the breeze. He is blowing soap bubbles, and as the swing flies the bubbles float off in all their changing colours. The last bubble is still clinging to the bowl of his pipe, and fluttering in the air as the swing sweeps to and fro. The last bubble is still clinging to the bowl of the pipe, and fluttering in the air as the swing moves back and forth, to and fro; then the breeze takes it. A little black kitten, light as a bubble himself, which belongs to the children, stands on its hind legs looking at the bubble, and trying to get up into the swing. But it does not stop; it flies over him and he falls over and mews, all cross. High and low the swing flies, until the pet loses his balance, mews, and loses his temper. They tease him, and the bubble bursts. And the soap bubble breaks. They laugh at the scene and the bubbles burst. A swinging board, reflected in a drifting, then bursting soap bubble -- that is my song! A swinging board pictured in a bubble before it broke-that is my story."
"What tale you're telling may be beautiful but you tell it so sadly," sighed Enjolras. "It may be a very pretty story, but you told it very sadly. Well it's all very nice, and very pretty, but you make it sound sad --" The two girls, dressed like daisies or snowflowers with their white dresses and green silk ribbons, swing back and forth, enjoying the sheer delight of freedom and flight. The boy with his pipe produces bubbles that reflect the beauty of the scene but that periodically burst as a reminder of the evanescence of youth, innocence, and all earthly things. The image of the beautiful, colourful bubble reflecting the girls swinging highlights the importance of aesthetics - Combeferre would have said something like that. "I think I will tell you, doing my best, the description of one of the pictures Grantaire painted for me. I shall do my best, which is a lot more than most people do:
Then once lived three beautiful sisters; they were so fine and delicate that they were almost transparent. One had on a red dress; the second, a blue; and the third, a white one. They danced, hand in hand, down by the lake; but they were not elves, they were real human children. The air smelled so sweet that the girls wandered into the forest. The sweet fragrance grew stronger. Three coffins appeared; and in them lay the three beautiful sisters. They sailed across the lake, and fireflies flew through the air like little candles. Were the dancing girls asleep or were they dead? The smell of the flowers said they were corpses, the bells at vespers ring for the dead."
"There were three sisters, very fair and so delicate in appearance, that they seemed almost transparent. One wore a red dress, the second wore a blue one, and the third went all in white. Hand in hand they danced in the clear moonlight, beside a calm lake. Where they elves or human children? They were not elfin folk. They were human beings. The air was sweet, and the sisters disappeared into the forest. The fragrance of the air grew sweeter; now lay the lake once more alone. Three coffins, in which lie the three sisters, glide out of the depths of the forest and across the lake. The fireflies hover glowing around about them like little flickering lights. Are the dancing sisters sleeping or are they dead? The fragrance is so sweet; the scent of the flowers says they are dead, and the evening bell, from a far-off distance, tolls for their funeral."
"Oh, you make me feel so sad," said Enjolras at the windowsill, while Grantaire was transplanting a potted blue hyacinth. "And the fragrance from your poisonous flowers is so strong that it makes me think of the poor dead girls; that I cannot help thinking of those dead sisters."
"Ding! dong!" rang the savateur along with the little hyacinth bells. "We are not tolling, we do not toll for the Republic. We are simply singing our own little chanson, the only one song we know."
"Why this one, and none other?"
"The hyacinth, said to have sprung up from the blood of the beautiful ephebe of the same name, is linked with death. The three beautiful sisters enter the woods as dancers and return from the woods in the moonlight in coffins, suggesting the perils of journeys undertaken. The colours of the dresses ---red, blue, and white--- when mixed, produce the purple of the hyacinth."
"They are the colours of free France. Liberty, equality, fraternity; you make it sound like the triplet sisters personify the ideals we fight for..."
"Anyway, you are the leader; you decide and your opinion is law." Grantaire sighed. "Colour is used to supply ignition power that will kindle the imagination, inspiring readers and listeners to visualise the scene. But all you can picture yourself are battles and barricades, anyway. Leave the aesthetics to Yours Truly, please."
The nursery tale spoke of siblings playing together, but not one was familiar to Enjolras. The hyacinths spoke of three dead maidens, but not the death of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.
"But let us return to the point, shall we?" another nudge from Éponine brought him back to the present and to the story of her life. "In winter, those outdoor pleasures, in which Mother Nature intervened at last for three quarters of the year, came to a bitter end. The windowpanes were then covered in fog, if not in frost ferns as well, and, to see what was going on outside, my sister and I used to warm our cupped hands by breathing into them, and then putting our nice warm hands against the frosted glass-panes. Later on, as we got older, it became a custom for us to warm a sou on the embers of the fireplace and put it, all hot, against the windowpane. Nevertheless, no matter the method, what matters is that we obtained a little round peephole, through which the part of the glass which had been uncovered by the warmth allowed us to see through. Then, behind each little round peephole, one would see, at each window, a sweet and friendly eye. Those were Azelma and me saying bonsoir. Cosette was obviously too deeply asleep, or too busy with her chores, to join us; and lackaday if Maman even found us speaking to her!
In winter, since it was impossible, due to the cold, to open the windows, and since each night got longer than the previous, our curfews after playing in the snow came naturally earlier for each evening, and our séances indoors, by the cozy fireside, naturally became longer... especially whenever it was snowing or stormy, or both snowing and stormy, outside.
And very often, while Papa was speaking to the guests at the supper table about his feats of derring-do, we would often come closer and huddle up, warmed by his uniform pelisse, and dream of foreign lands and stormy battlefields... Ah, those were the days... Often in the evening he took me into his room, showed me his books and maps, and told me stories of the wars between puffs on his long-stemmed pipe. And, whenever Papa addressed his guests at the inn, he knew his little girls were listening and spoke of his campaigns, of the renown he had won and the comrades he had lost, and what it was like to watch the sun come up over a Flemish battlefield, glinting off casques and pikeblades and bayonets and tinting the orange poppies that grew everywhere the colour of blood. "There is beauty everywhere," he often told us all. "Even in war."
And so he often told us all, as we sat at our tables, about the battle of Breitenfeld, and the sacking of Moscow, and the siege of Zaragoza, and what it was like to watch the sun rise over Flanders, and what it was like when the Beresina ice cracked under weary feet and hooves and cannon-carriages; how at Waterloo he had been fighting off a regiment of hussars all by himself... And as he spoke, the rest of the patrons, who had finished their own dinners, began to come by ones and twos to sit in the shadow of the antlers that decked the wall and listen to him, as he sang in a slurred tone, for example, the following chanson:
Here, Enjolras' felt his eyes light up; he remembered Feuilly passionately singing this chanson, which he had learned by heart, at the Musain, and how his own leader's heart swelled and throbbed as he listened, entranced, to the epic account of the Polish field marshal's untimely demise.
Of this he told Éponine, who, dark eyes starry with checked tears, resumed the tale of her own life:
"When the Sarge had exhausted every story of warfare and battle that he knew, the others began offering tales of their own. The man with the red moustaches (he had a great red moustache, like a walrus, and a fancy hat that I supposed had been borrowed... pardon me, "borrowed" is Thénardierish for "stolen..." that is, stolen from a previous unfortunate traveller) told of men armed with pikes and halbards and a religion even harder than their iron breastplates, who had swept across his home country, burning and killing whatever they could find, and how he had left his land and gone south with the geese to fight another kingdom's battles in Spain. Another robber, a sun-burnt, black haired fellow who claimed to be descended from a long line of condottieri, told of laying siege to the French in Turin, and being besieged by them in turn, and of fighting for and then against the Pope's armies in Parma. A third man, a morisco from Spain by way of Marseille, who's dark face was nearly indistinguishable from the others, so grimy and weather-beaten were they all, had fought with France's armies against his own nation in the Low Countries and the Piedmont for many years —he claimed to have personally given the condottiero a musket wound in the thigh at the Siege of Turin— but had never laid eyes on Valencia and Castile, the lands his parents' parents' parents' parents' parents had been born in and then driven out from. Everyone was lying around the fireside, telling stories of the 'old days...' Thus entertained one another these dinner-guests, a handful of other soldiers on half-pay. Ordinarily obliged to keep silent on their exploits and their politics by the social climate of the Restoration, they were taking full advantage of this opportunity to meet in private and among fellow Jacobins, Thermidorians, Bonapartists. The anecdotes were flowing as freely as the wine—battlefield stories at first, then raunchier tales as the night went on. Then an old grenadier, very much in his cups, interrupted some gossip about Mme de Staël's very intimate friendship with Mme Récamier to give his own rambling account of the 18th of Brumaire. 'You may have heard all about it, gentlemen, you may know more about the constitution of the year X than I ever will, but I was there, right there in Paris when it happened. I escorted the Emperor to the Council of the Ancients, I escorted him to the Council of Five Hundred. If you could've seen the look on those doddering fools' faces! To think anyone ever thought them capable of running the country, when what we really needed was—'"
The fox-eyed leader of the gang, the merry Sarge himself, did not tell his own story once more, but after the fire had burned low, and several of the other men had fallen asleep, he asked me if I would like not a real story, but a folktale which had been told by some fireside at one point or another.
And thus I learned, during those bleak winter evenings, of Excalibur and Caractacus, of the Holy Grail and Sir Gawain's adventures and the banishment of Rhiannon, of how the drunken Seithenyn unwittingly flooded the province of Gwaelod, of the Cattle Raid of Cooley and how Queen Maeve lost that great war, long before the first firearms were fired, long before France itself would come into existence.
And it was one such tale of druids and damsels, the one that became my favourite among all that sort of stories, that would haunt me and cross my path for the rest of my short life.
"A few years ago, I forget how long so don't ask me" -- she glared to make her point -- "Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November, glowing bright red as an ember... Outside the snow, or sleet, lashed against the frosted windowpanes, as if threatening to shatter both glass and ice ferns, and throwing the whole village of Montfermeil, if not only our inn, into chaos.
''Tis a fine night for the Green Faery to show up,' Papa said, after knocking back a trou normand of Calvados and putting his old sergeant's hat on my dark head.
'Is she the Morrigan?' I raised a hand. 'The one who shows up as the biggest black raven at the edge of the battlefield at dawn and picks the ones who will have to die in that battle, like Poniatowski who fell off the bridge and drowned at Leipzig?'
In response, he nodded and tilted my borrowed hat a little. 'Oui, he did see her on that fateful day. In this land, they also call her la Belle Dame Sans Merci, and not without a good reason. Those who have seen her find out that their days are numbered and drift away. Ere the rise of organised religions turned them into faeries, these spirits, nymphs, elementals... were once true goddesses, adored and dreaded alike by mortalkind; there isn't a drop of human blood in their vessels, and she is one of the most powerful among them, one of the most terrible and fearsome beings in all worlds, they say; so much beyond good and evil that she has made love to her own brothers, to her own flesh and blood. The Killer Queen has ruined emperors and kaisers and czars and lords and kings, brought mighty warriors to their knees, stolen the power of gods and spirits. She turns the world to her will, and her will alone. She is of divine race and knows neither old age nor death. Her bloodline earned her the power to do as she wished, but she was never counted amongst the line of man and woman. They said that her beauty is so grand that it takes one's breath away, and that her kisses take one's wits away as well. And she has many names: Lady Lilith, Sekhmet, Salmacis, the Lamia, Freya, Gullveig, Holla die Waldfee, Morgan the Fey, Morgause, the Killer Queen, the Last Queen, the Lady of the Green Kirtle... Already by naming her by her most ancient names, I fear that we have summoned her. That misfortune is about to fall upon the Thénardier family...' here, he sipped his brandy and stroked the crown of my sleepy sister's head.
While Azelma dozed off on Papa's knee, I turned all my attention towards what he had to say. I just yearned to know more about this sinister presence, who went by so many names and held sway over the fates of mortal men and women. Little did I know that the lives of everyone in the Thénardier household would nevermore be the same, ever since Papa mussed a sleepy 'Zelma's auburn head and resumed that fateful account... About a lady, who brought chills to everyone’s back when she gazed upon them. How she cared only about cold beauty and made sure every winter to decorate every townscape and landscape in her own vision.
'The Morrigan, though a warrior goddess, needs no weapons - her powers alone are enough to take on the enemy. They say that her battle-cry is a shrill scream as loud as that of ten thousand men! She is the most powerful of them all who consort with mortalkind, and she is never idle. No sooner has she trod on the ground that she rises up against towards the dark nimbus clouds. She's the largest of them all, and can fly as high as the clouds. Often at midnight, around the witching hour, she flies through the streets, over the eaves, and looks in at the windows. Now during peacetime, at midnight, when it's cold and stormy, she walks the streets of the towns, looking through the windows, and looks for broken young people whom she may bring to drink her blood... Know that she has but few subjects in that realm, for, though permitted to travel to the mortal world and beyond, to protect the innocent of the universe, whenever she leaves the fortress, bitter storms will accompany her to signal her arrival to her victims.'
All the while I remained entranced.
'As this Leipzig-based poet I once knew, who froze to death in the Beresina, once told me:
Nimm dich in acht vor ihren schönen Haaren,
Vor diesem Schmuck, mit dem sie einzig prangt.
Wenn sie damit den jungen Mann erlangt,
So läßt sie ihn so bald nicht wieder fahren.
She steals your life from you. Your heart. Your years. Your soul. Yet when she traps you in her domain you beg her to bargain with you.'
'Why?' I whisper.
'Because you want your freedom, no matter the cost. She has many names in many stories: the Faery Queen, the Goodmother, the Witch of the Woods. Only in the oldest of tales is she called by her goddess names. She is powerful and ancient. She manipulates the words of the poor fools who bargain with her, so that they can never pay her what they owe. She takes, and does not give back.'
I was so startled that the sergeant's hat fell off my head, breathless until the riposte dropped by itself, after he had given me a sip of brandy, from my pouty lips:
'She made intricate snowflakes and blowed them on the roofs of the houses, looked into every window. Her breath was supposedly painting curling flowers on the glass so thickly it was impossible to look through them. She rode through the country in her magnificent troika with the whitest mares on its front and rarely, when she stopped to inspect the nature, she walked over water, turning it into ice. He steps were so delicate it seemed as if she skated and apparently no one could beat her in the speed and grace. And doesn't she frost the windows when her breath freezes on the panes, with wonderful shapes of lace and bizarre ice flowers or ferns when she peeks through? Oui, of course I have seen that...'
'That's the Snow Queen, 'Ponine.'
In those days, we children thought that all the tales told by our parents and the guests at the inn were true, for their storytelling abilities made everything they said sound possible; so much do little children, and even grown-up children, find it easy to believe that whatever they see, is true, no matter if what they see, or rather what they believe they see, might not always be the truth. Including such stories of the mysteries of winter; how a particularly strong swirl of snow meant the Snow Queen was in flight, and how she would ride at the heart of the storm, exulting in the fierce cold.
'But the Morrigan is far worse; for Arianrhod, the Snow Queen, merely freezes hearts as cold and hard as steel with her stolen kisses. La Belle Dame Sans Merci, on the other hand, will search out young people whom life has stabbed in the back, or dealt out the wrong cards. She breathes a vein on her wrist and pours her sickly green translucent blood into a crystal cup for those lads and lassies to drink, and then, lack-a-day! 'Tis one of the worst poisons ever known; whoever has drunk this green liquor has their heart frozen as soon as the lethal draught has sunken in. That person will nevermore recognise anything or anyone, and no longer love anything or anyone; whether mother or father, siblings or sweethearts, their friends nor their country. One only dreams of oneself; one feels nothing but an urge to drink, and one would gladly drink, all the blood upon this Earth, without being able to slake a thirst that nothing at all can quench. Thus has she cast down many wounded; shackled and disarmed the boldest warriors, both kings and revolutionaries, turning them towards pale death-in-life, lulling them into a fever-dream from which they never shall awaken... And, as much as she loves warriors and broken people, she loathes children and maidens and their pristine innocence, for there can't be anything more contrary to her own nature, and she will do anything in her vast power to poison that innocence or crush it underfoot... She exults in the loss of innocence, she thrives in the icy grasp of seduction, she loves freezing everyone she passes over. It's like she's claiming her territory.'
'But why does she travel? Why doesn't she stay in her palace, or fortress?' I raised a hand. 'It feels like I could beat her myself!' My irreverent outburst broke them all from a lulled state and all companions frowned, yet they didn't take much weight from this reaction.
''Ponine, you shouldn't be so cocky. She doesn’t like conceited people. With her…there is no compromise. She accepts only perfection and to challenge her is very dangerous. She's looking for something, but no one knows exactly what. When I was a little soldier, my first commanding officer used to tell me she was looking not for the coldest part of the land, somewhere like where she already has her keep to begin with, but rather for someone, perhaps someone to share her heart with.' The audience was raptured by now. 'Or maybe to steal one from.'
'Aaah, it’s just a silly story. What could she do anyway? Freeze me and keep me in her castle?'
'Possibly. But there are worse punishments from her than that. The people who have charmed her greatly receive a sip of her blood, which turns them to the exact opposite of who they want to be. Good, well-meaning people become bad and caring only about themselves.'
A heavy silence followed, the only sound coming from the crackling of the fire. Sometime during the story, the sun had set and darkness had followed swiftly on its heels. It seemed as if the whole wide world was listening, the cosmos hushed in the wake of that tale.
Throughout this short life of mine, that legend I was told on that fateful evening has haunted me; especially since I became myself entangled in its elusive fabric; ever since that very evening when I first heard it by the fireside.
On that stormy autumn night, I came to visit Cosette in secret. Papa was too drunk and Maman was too busy, and there was the perfect chance to climb upstairs into the garret and pay her a visit. She lay there exhausted on her heap of straw, curled up and surely dreaming of a better life, when I awoke her with a startling pat on the back, and, when the shock had passed, told her the latest tale.
'And is it true that the Morrigan, who looks through every windowpane, can enter into people's rooms?' Cosette asked, quivering like a leaf on the branch.
'Ah! bon! Let her come in here at the Sergeant's,' I replied in that tone of forfanterie so particular to children, while putting my fists up in the air, 'and I will shove her into the fireplace, moi, and she will burn into a crisp, or puff away into a cloud! She won't be so scary then. Doesn't she know what we're made of?' Of course as a child I wasn’t conceited, but too eager for my own good sometimes. I was convinced that if Yours Truly was happy, everyone else around would be. Therefore no challenge or obstacle was something I couldn’t overcome. The enthusiasm and daring was my motto for everything.
I found it hard to believe Cosette's expression at that bold stance of mine; her eyes were teary, and the many times I had pulled her golden hair and dropped frogs down her cleavage came back to me at once. There she was, the wing-clipped songbird, all teary-eyed, asking herself and me at the same time:
'Are you being nice, 'Ponine?'
It was so hard to find the right words.
'I would rather that she came here to visit us, and, when I was all thirsty after a long day's work, I could have some of that poison to drink, and forget the life I lead here, where I have never been a child... your good luck, your parents, and all the chores, and all the fessées I get in exchange for not being strong enough to do it all... It wouldn't be nice to shove her into the fire, right?'
I understood Cosette's plight. Her urge to escape from reality. But there was a twinge inside my chest, something that said that, if she ever disappeared, I would indeed miss her company. For a reason which I could not yet explain, since at least I was a child, Cosette having never been a child since her mother left her. Though she knew so much more than we did, in spite of never having been at school... She fell asleep wishing the truth to be something else; but every time she woke up, the truth was still there.
For the rest of the day I felt uneasy, though I couldn't have said the reason why.
Later on that very same night, as I lay in my bed wearing the lacy négligée that once had been Cosette's, half-undressed because the stove had warmed the room until it felt like high summer in Provence, I felt my throat dry up and, leaving my bed, went out to tap some cider, when a strange green light, so bright I had never seen it, drew me to peek out the foggy window; so I put my chair next to the pane and climbed up on the chair. My little warm palm rubbing on the cold pane soon yielded a lovely round peephole through which I, standing on my chair, saw the rain or the sleet pouring outside like bullets upon a battlefield, and, in the middle of all that downpour, an enormous snowflake, or raindrop, or shooting star of green light, which was darting straight towards my windowsill. No sooner had this green ray struck the sill than it grew, rounded itself, took on a gradually more and more distinct human shape, and finally became a beautiful lady, or a young girl taller and older than Cosette, all dressed in a glittering green cloth that seemed to be embroidered with silver, and composed of millions of little leaves, some of which were frosted and some of which were star-shaped. As for her face and her hands, they seemed to be made of the purest and brightest marble, her green veins seen through the translucent skin, or of the most pristine, dazzling icing sugar or inland ice. Yet she was alive; in the middle of that heart-shaped, comely crystal visage, her eyes shone like leaves of wormwood seen through diamonds, and sparkled like stars in the darkest of winter skies, yet betraying not even the slightest feeling. Furthermore, her graceful frame didn't seem to be walking, but rather soaring slightly above ground..."
Enjolras felt an unexplicable shiver run down his spine, all the way down to his thighs. "And... and how did you react?"
"She must have seen me watching through my peephole, for she waved at me with a lily-like left hand, and with a nod of her head. And... I was so frightened that I just leapt down off the chair, and pushed as much as I could both my hands towards the window, for the Morrigan not to enter. Those poison-green eyes pierced with an incessant flashing glare and burned into mine own, as if searching the depths of my very soul... All night long, in bed, I stayed awake, hearing the gale strike at the window, like a great pair of wings lashing against the pane." Éponine looked around again.
"And then?" asked the fair prisoner.
"The next day, the windows were frosted over with the laciest ice flowers I have ever seen in my short life. When the morning arrived, the flowers in the window covered the glass completely, and I couldn't open it. It was sealed shut with a thick crust of ice. It was a beautiful white day, even though it seemed too early in November for the frost to lead its harsh regime. Then, after Christmas, after Twelfth Night... The winter passed by like the refrain of a song, and very soon came the springtime; the sky cleared, the sun shone bright and warm, the young green shoots burst forth, the birds of passage returned to build their nests (wagtails, and storks, and red-throated swallows on the eaves), the windows re-opened, and 'Zelma and I sat down once more, next to one another, at our desks at class, or in our cannon-carriage swing after class. The thornroses and the hollyhocks bloomed that year in a splendid fashion, and the ivy climbed all the way up to our eaves; I even heard the villagers say that the roses at the Sergeant's would last, that year, all the way until Christmas. We had learned a song at class, and Azelma and I would often make a ring with the other schoolchildren and sing it on the village green:
Passe, passe, passera, la dernière, la dernière
Passe, passe, passera, la dernière y restera!
Sometimes Azelma and I would want to feed the half-open rosebuds with sugar, wondering why, if the mother birdies could feed their chicks, why couldn't we ourselves feed our roses as well?"
Enjolras chortled. "That sounds like something Jehan Prouvaire would have done," he remembered the medievalist's eccentric explanation about his pompom roses. But he also saw that Éponine was no longer the whimsical little girl she was reminiscing about, but a jaded maiden.
"We had superb days all springtime and summer long, and even when autumn came, as the seasons changed all around us... but everything has to change, sooner or later, and I was about to have my eyes opened to that reality; that year for Christmas, on a white, crisp, frosty December night supposed to be the season of hope, our paths, that of the Thénardier family and that of Cosette, would diverge for evermore... Everything was dazzlingly white, serene, still, enchanting. The pines were hung with shimmering icicles, the eaves wore hats of white snow, the smallest picket in every fence was likewise hatted, the ponds were matte silver mirrors. And of course there were ice ferns on each and every windowpane. The cold was such that the warmth of life pulled us all indoors, as if it wished to only keep the warmth in human hearts. By then, I had forgotten my strange encounter with la Belle Dame Sans Merci, and my memories of that felt like a hazy nightmare."
Enjolras thought that, if he had been in her stead, he would have forgotten about her as well. Now, finally, came the turning point, the part where M. Fauchelevent stepped into the scene and adopted Cosette. This real-life account, given by an eyewitness, was as exciting and interesting as any Shakespearean drama, or maybe even more... and naturally the fair captive was intrigued at how the paths of the orphan and her second guardian had crossed, and how the Thénardiers had parleyed with the benefactor about Cosette. But still it felt too early for him to ask her about that, so he shifted the topic of conversation.
"And Maman? What was she doing, when not attending to the guests?"
"Cajoling." (Here, Enjolras gasped.) "With younger men, especially if those young men wore uniforms with épaulettes and bâtons or swords, and were at least one-third drunk. And she often told the young officer du jour about how painful it was to be married to such a lout, and that, if Prince Charming never crossed her path, a fully commissioned officer, Lieutenant So-and-So, would have to do as well; and once she even made advances on a cadet, aged but sixteen, in the military cape, the peaked cap with the brass insignia of the college, the little swagger stick that cadets were supposed to carry so as to get used to handling them when they were commissioned —" Éponine tried mighty hard to restrain her laughter as she watched her mother and 'Parnasse at their little games.
Enjolras, in turn, remembered the look in Madame Thénardier's eyes when she had taken him prisoner, and a shudder ran down his spine. She must have been growing as weary of the dandy highwayman as she was of her husband, and the blond himself was surely the next item on her list. Not in a cadet's uniform with the cap and the swagger stick and the shiny boots... though, underneath Enjolras' dark cherry-red or crimson peacoat, his scarlet waistcoat looked just like a hussar's. And he was an amazingly handsome boy, with fair curly hair tied back with a ribbon, dark-blue eyes, and a clear pale translucent skin. It could not feel more unsettling that a lady old enough to be his mother, nanny, or aunt had locked her sights upon him...
Steeling himself and clearing his throat, the fair leader turned to Éponine. "And... what else?"
"The whole countryside was crisp and blanketed in white, and the woodland night was as dark as dark could be in the bleak December, but our fire crackled and warmed, and mulled wine and eau-de-vie flowed freely at our counter... the Christmas rush brought in lots of guests and, though their thirst was the kind that water could not quench, still their horses need water like people need strong drink; whoever asked for a glass of water at the Sergeant's was regarded as either insane or a barbarian. Though we could have melted snow and brought it to the draft-horses, now that I think of it... the fact is that some peddler or stagecoach driver complained about thirsty horses, then another, and a third, a fourth... and thus, Maman strode out to the porch where, on the threshold, Cosette stood with a black eye, from the right hook that Maman had most recently scored against her, listlessly shovelling snow while she looked with wistful dreamy eyes at the porcelain dolls through the frosty windowpane of the brightly candle-lit toy shop opposite our inn, when suddenly Maman packed her by the hair:
'There she is, the li'l ma'amzelle, looking so ugly with that dark bag on her eye! Now fuck off, Mademoiselle Faute-de-Nom, and go bring the guests' horses something to drink!'
'But... Madame... there's no water left...'
'Allez!' With all her strength, she tossed an oversized wooden bucket, about the size of Cosette herself, at the little orphan. She could have sat herself inside it. 'Go look for MORE!' Armed with a wooden spoon for a bâton of command, after tasting the soup she had in a casserole on the boil, Maman raised it in a rage. 'I have better things to do, like watching the soup! There's still water in the spring in the woods, north of the village. One can't be brighter than that...' she tossed some shallots into the pot and handed Cosette about fifteen sous, while the waif held the bucket in her other hand. 'And when the li'l ma'amzelle returns, she'll have to bring the largest warm bread the bakery has to offer!' Cosette, without breathing a word, put the coins in the little pocket of her worn pinafore, that once had belonged to me. For a while she stood there, wistfully staring at the toy shop window, until Maman with eyes of flaming rage harshly returned her to reality: 'VA DONC!! Don't dawdle, don't stand there gawking! Like mother, like daughter... Attends! I'm coming for you, you li'l monster... VA!!' she roared as she shut the door so violently that the waif had to run away, bucket in hand, in a northward direction out of sheer fear, taking the longest strides her little stiff-frozen legs and bleeding bare feet could, leaving a trail of red on the December snow in her little wake..."
Enjolras could not find the right words. All he could do was listen and shiver.
"Those dolls must have looked like fairies, if not angels, to her spellbound eyes. Not even our family could afford such rarities, with real-life human hair and eyes of glass; the closest that 'Zelma and I could afford was dressing our kittens up in dolls' gowns and bonnets, as we were doing that very winter night... A girl wearing flounced petticoats came and sat down beside me. She was cradling a small grey kitten, which she put in my hand.
‘Rosina,’ she said, but it was not clear if she was naming the kitten or herself.
She put the kitten firmly into my lap. It was a present.
My hand closed round the soft warm fur and I realised how badly I wanted something living of her own for Cosette. Seriously, I kept my fingers crossed and hoped that, in spite of the winter cold and the beasts, she would come back alive from the spring. That was my wish for that Christmas, even more than for porcelain dolls, which were far beyond our parents' reach, or storybooks or a regiment of tin soldiers to line up in battle formation.
Rosina was the name of the girl who had tried to give me a kitten, and I named it, after sexing the kitten and seeing that it was a girl, after her.
Like the other guests' children, both Rosine, cat and child, must have seen in me the most charming little northern bourgeoise, with her long raven hair tightly braided in twin pigtails falling down her back, head coiffed with the loveliest little warm blue velvet bonnet and a matchingly coquette and thick velvet gown rife with satin ribbons, face rosy as an apple with body warmth... 'Zelma, with her shining auburn tresses braided more loosely, her winter ensemble equally soft and cozy, was only second spot and did not catch as many eyes.
Returning to Cosette, worlds away from our cozy warmth and what we offered our guests: the warmth, the firelight, the freedom – yet feeling the night-dark forest more reassuring and where there was less fear than at home itself... that frozen spring-pool in the northern woods, that pond with all the frogs in the shade of Yggdrasil, where she had been sent for water, was frozen rock solid in mid-December; not even Maman herself was able to break the ice. Furthermore, the revellers had said in their cups that the nights this winter were as dark as a locked oven, and one needed a cat's eyes to be out and about sans lantern at this hour! If the cold, or a pack of wolves, took Cosette away, which was bound to occur sooner or later, the Sergeant's inn could as well adopt another orphan to exploit as workforce."
Enjolras' eyes widened even more. This was a suicide errand, or a murder meant to appear as an accident. To the Thénardiers, the waif had been expendable. He noted the quivering in Éponine's voice, like the flames in the firelight; how unstable her expression was and how close the moment for Cosette's good guardian to appear on the stage...
"The hours dragged by... and there was even a twinge of icy fear in my heart that Cosette would soon be dead. The guests sang obscene drinking songs and guffawed to their hearts' content, with the landlord's and landlady's encouragement, while I petted my new kitten and eavesdropped on the lyrics. Maman cajoled with lieutenants, and even cadets, and Papa drank eau-de-vie and picked pockets. It all was far more exciting, far more interesting, than staying in my room and reading or playing at battle or dress-up. Winter nights in the North are cold and dreary, but, as Iago says, pleasure and action make the hours seem short. The sun was still hours away from rising when Cosette returned home, alive and well, though still with her black eye and mottled by the winter cold... only that, this time, she was not alone." And her eyes gleamed, recollecting what she had lost.
This was it, the fair leader thought as the robber girl made her pause. Cosette and her saviour.
"It came as a surprise to hear her little numb knuckles rapping faintly upon the door, and Maman opened the door with a friendly smile, cordially inviting both Cosette and the tall, muscular stranger in a worn mustard-yellow overcoat and dented top hat who, standing by her side, held the heavy bucket, full of splashing liquid water, in both hands. He seemed strong enough to both have broken the ice and hefted the bucket all the way to our threshold... Impressive, wasn't it?"
Enjolras nodded silently, remembering the powerful physique of M. Fauchelevent. Even though that stranger was most likely to be him, there were still a few details to know in order to be completely sure: "What was he like?"
"He was a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair, and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed. It only took his stern and harsh expression, in response to Maman's warm smile and invitation to 'please enter, Sir.'
Producing forty sous from his pocket, he asked for red wine, bread and butter, and a room of his own; nothing more. He said he'd sleep anywhere, even though all the bedrooms at our inn were taken up, even lying down on the floor in a stable or a barn or a pantry; he had paid as if it had been a proper room in the room-and-board for that night. Cosette came for the wine and poured it like the daintiest cupbearer, even though her fingers were frozen stiff, and though she shivered like a leaf with both cold and fear, while the stranger never took his eyes off her.
Presently Maman broke the silence: 'And that bread you should have brought?!' she raised her voice like a fury, frightening the waif out of the table which she had hidden underneath.
'The... the bakery was closed, Ma'ame...'
'Did you knock on the door?'
'I knocked, oui, but the door didn't open...'
'Open my arse; I'll see it tomorrow if that is true! And if it's a lie, I'll make you dance! En attendant, gimme those fifteen sous.'
Cosette plunged her hands into her apron pocket, and took them out empty.
'Ah... Wot izzit? Can you listen to me?!'
The little waif just stood there as if frozen into ice. She had lost the coins on the way to or from the spring.
'Have you lost the money or d'you wanna steal from us!?' Furious, Maman seized a cat-of-nine-tails that hung on the weapon wall, right above the fireplace.
'Mercy... Ma'ame... Madame... I will nevermore...' Cosette squealed in despair.
While the landlady reached for the whip, the man in the mustard-yellow coat reached into his waistcoat pocket. Cosette trembled in a corner, curled up into a ball, while everyone else was playing écarté or quaffing or singing risqué songs and paid no attention to the scene...
'Pardon me, Madame, but I saw something fall out of the little one's pockets. Maybe it's this?' he reached out a twenty-sou coin, which Maman hastened to pocket for herself as she put the cat-of-nine-tails back into place and chided the waif with a piercing stare, as she tossed the knitting needles in her worn lap: 'May you never get one!'
Cosette returned to her niche under the table, large blue eyes fixed on that stranger with an air of wonder. It was then that we drew closer to have a look at the man in yellow. As plump and proud as any mother hen, Maman stroked us with powerful bear hugs as we sat down, with Rosina the kitten and Toinette the ragdoll in tow, to warm ourselves by the fireside. 'Ah! Vous voilà donc, my lovely little ones!' she tied all ribbons that had come undone on our dresses and gently shook us like treetrunks. 'Ponine, how fine you look in your little blue hat! Oh, shucks, aren't they pampered?' My sister and I sat down to coif our latest ragdoll and sing lullabies to her, while Rosina clawed at our gowns, demanding attention, and Cosette returned from her niche with her knitting-needle and a ball of wool to make new winter accesories for the two of us.
'Ah, there you are! Red-handed! Is that how you do your chores!? A few whiplashes will sure teach you how to work!' Maman reached once more for the cat-of-nine-tails.
'Tsk, tsk, Madame!' the stranger said in a deep, velvety heroic tenor voice, not quite unlike yours, Enj. 'Let her have a little fun.'
'She has to work for room and board. I don't raise her into a good-for-nothing.'
'What does she do?' the stranger gently asked.
'She's knitting winter stockings, and scarves, and gloves for my li'l ones. Romping 'Ponine wears out socks by the dozen, and right now she'd be freezing her toes off if not...'
'And...' his gaze was fixed on Cosette's feet, mottled blue and bleeding, 'when shall these socks be ready?'
'Lazybones here still has three-four days to go.'
'At least... thirty sous,' replied Maman with a piercing stare.
'Why not five francs?'
'Parbleu!' She burst into laughter. 'Dream on! Five francs my arse! Still, we cannot say no to the whims of our guests... All right, but pay tout de suite.'
So he bought the socks Cosette had just knit for me, instead of stitching the old ones, for five francs. In the meantime, she took up her tin sword-doll and began to swaddle it in scraps of cloth. But I paid no attention at all to those scenes... my main concern was dressing my li'l kitten up, warming my palms in Rosina's soft grey fur as I laid her on my lap and produced the doll-gowns, and unfurled a series of pink and red and blue satin ribbons... By now, our ragdolls lay forgotten, pell-mell, on the ground."
It was Cosette's guardian, M. Fauchelevent, all right, Enjolras realised. With a deep sigh, he looked at Éponine in her ragged coat and messy ponytail, into which even twigs and shards of autumn leaves had stuck, and tried to imagine her neatly coiffed with twin braids and a blue lace-trimmed bonnet, and dressed in a velvet gown with ribbons all over. He tried to imagine the wealthy Éponine of yore at this pet dress-up, and a look of doubt came over his features.
"She was my kitten, and I was the eldest, and all 'Zelma could do was look on and listen, impressed at my skill, as I swaddled my lovely little pet, in spite of her meowing and writhing and clawing at my hands, in swaths of lace and brightly-coloured ribbons: 'Lookie here, my sis, she's more amusing than a ragdoll! She's fluffy, and warm, and she moves and meows, it's like a real baby! Come, sis, let's play with her! I'm the Baroness de Thénard, and you're a guest she has over for tea. This is Rosina, my own li'l girl... and you come over for afternoon tea and... surprise! Li'l by little, you'd see her whiskers, her pointy ears, her tail, her fluff... and you'd be surprised and say 'Good Heavens!' and I'd reply: 'Oui, Madame, that's my little baroness, I've got her like that, that's what li'l aristocats look like in our days!'
And, all the while, 'Zelma listened in awe, while the revellers, who were already three-quarters drunk, sang the umpteenth risqué song out of key, and Maman burst into laughter, and I eavesdropped as I stroked that soft gray fur, not even noticing that Cosette had snuck out of under the table and stealthily picked up our ragdolls to dry up her tears, while sobbing that her own Maman was dead... and then playing with them in her hiding place for a quarter of an hour, for solace... She wouldn't believe her mother was gone. It was then that suddenly 'Zelma pulled my skirt: 'Cosette! Our dolls!' In fact, letting the kitten go, I was no longer the Baroness de Thénard, and looked around to spot the waif playing with our ragdolls under the table. We were stunned!"
All Enjolras could do was shudder. Remember that there had once been a time when he had been Euryalus storming through the enemy campsite; at the Manoir park, or whenever he had tried to snatch sweets or croquignoles from the kitchen. Society parents, too busy with their own events and too distant at first sight, yet alive and loving. And then friends that he could trust and were not too far below his own station. The transition from Euryalus back to Enjolras had never been that abrupt. A heavy sigh freed his chest from the pressure.
"So... in the end, I couldn't just bear to see her taking the chance to play with my dolls, she was not worthy of that, and I had to do something... and thus, maybe it was then that my whole destiny and hers were forever sealed ever since I pulled at Maman by the ends of the skirt and the apron-strings.
'Leave me be!' she shouted, turning away from a little cadet who half-slept lolling on another table. 'Wot izzit?'
'There, Maman! Lookie, under the table!' I pointed an index finger at Cosette, who froze in place and let go of the ragdolls.
Picture yourself a czarina who sees a serf is trying on her children's medals for size. Now picture me as the czarevna, Maman as the czarina, the waif as the bold commoner.
'COSETTE!!' a loud, furious, slightly hoarse roar in a contralto voice was heard. 'COSETTE!!'
Trembling, the waif listlessly set the ragdolls down on the floor, while sobbing, and as the man in yellow stood there while Maman pointed down at her and the dolls... 'Her filthy hands... she has touched my dear little demoiselles' lovely playthings with those filthy hands of hers! And you, li'l monster, SHUDDUP!'
The stranger left, then, after a while, returned carrying in his strong arms the two-foot porcelain doll in the pink crêpe dress rife with satin ribbons. The one with real human hair as golden and glass eyes as bright blue as Cosette's own, the treasure every little girl in the shire was pining for, the rarity which no mother in the land, not even my own Maman, could afford to purchase. The nearly life-sized doll 'Zelma and I had spent hours watching, even forgetting our usual boyish romps, every autumn and winter afternoon after class. The Queen, as we were wont to call that rarity... oh, how shallow I was back then! And now she had just been purchased by this gentleman. He set the Queen down before Cosette with a warm smile, saying that doll was for her, as a Christmas present. The waif stopped crying, sobbing, trembling... she did not even dare to breathe, or so it seemed.
And all four of us Thénardiers stood as still as statues. Petrified. Even the guests. Coachmen, peddlers, revellers, military personnel... It was as if an angel had flown into the taproom. After what seemed like an eternity, and reassured by Monsieur's words that the Porcelain Queen was really all hers, an elated Cosette reached for the doll and clasped her, saying that she named her Catherine. I thought of the czarina, Catherine the Great. All 'Zelma and I could do, for porcelain was even far beyond the reach of Thénardiers, was stare with eyes like saucers and turn green with envy. Now it was our turn to know what it was like. That night, I went upstairs to bed, while all the shouting and song of revelry died down, with a heavy head and a heavier heart, and a kitten nipping at my heels, but receiving no attention. Nevertheless, Rosina kept me warm in bed, and my storm of thoughts soon drifted away. The very next day, at the breakfast table, nothing more would ever be the same."
Enjolras knew already, as the pieces fell into place, how the story would unfurl as the robber girl resumed:
"I woke up and, rubbing my eyes from the staircase as I went down, saw them leaving the inn together. Cosette and the stranger in mustard yellow. She was wearing a whole mourning ensemble fit for the northern winter and for a little orphan heiress of seven years: a black woollen frock and pinafore, a black bonnet, black winter shoes and black winter stockings, black petticoats; and cradling, in stark contrast, her porcelain doll, rose-pink satin against her crêpe, Cosette never letting go of her precious hollow Catherine held in black-sleeved arms. It appeared that the black ensemble she had put on was, just like the doll, a gift from her new guardian, who was as tall and broad as he was gentle and kind. There was a whisper that she had found a real louis coin of pure gold in her Christmas clog, while 'Zelma and I had only found croquignoles in our stockings. From out the window, I watched them trudge across the snow, trace their steps southwards, out of the village and towards Livry. The croquignoles had ostensibly no flavour, and the kitten was not warm enough. For that was the last time that I ever saw him or her."
Exactly as Enjolras had foretold, M. Fauchelevent had saved Cosette. The fair leader recalled Cosette and her intelligent eyes, glinting in the firelight as she gave this advice. And Éponine had forever been torn away from the little indentured servant... Hearts ached slightly at the thought of a mutual friend, but they pushed that feeling down, knowing they would see Cosette once more, when they returned from their quest. Piece after piece was falling into place. She kept silence for a while, her features mournfully pensive, then knocked back a swig of eau-de-vie both to wet her whistle and for liquid courage, and resumed her tale:
"You know the rest. Shortly after Cosette left with that stranger, we fell on hard times. It was as if the Skylark had been our lucky charm. Our finances gradually failed until, on the year of my first month-bleeding, we became bankrupt, without a single sou to our names, and gendarmes were scheduled to come from the nearest guardhouse to seize the Sergeant's inn, and we had most surely to leave Montfermeil for Orleans or Paris, and change our surname. "Keep our destination secret," Papa reiterated in a faint whisper, "as well as our real surname." That late afternoon when we were uprooted from our village was quite a scene; Maman tried to cajole the young commanding officer, but sadly he was loathe to her advances. The patrons at the inn joined the fray in defence of their most generous hosts, blades were drawn and gunshots went off, both my parents were handcuffed and taken to prison in Montreuil, and Azelma fell to the crossfire, her sides riddled with blood-roses."
Enjolras' eyes widened in shock. "And what happened to you?" He could not believe what he was hearing. Éponine, who was so comfortable wielding a knife and threatening to slit people's throats, who broke up full fights between grown men with boiling water (when everything else didn't work to stop a fight, she grabbed the still-hot pot of boiling water and threw it on her comrades; they each howled in pain and ripped from each other to roll in the dirt, clutching at their faces), and had one of the most authoritarian figures in the group, was afraid... desperate... Now it must be the moment of reason when the Lady of the Green Kirtle was most likely to appear, eager to seize the chance at a new young brokenhearted prey.
"I ran." She sobbed and dried up her tears on her sleeve before resuming. She sounded like a little girl, and Enjolras realised that it was because she was.
Not physically or psychologically, of course, but emotionally.
Éponine had never had a true friend or a traumatic experience before. But this would cure her.
"I ran away, shedding flows of tears. There was no other way out. I could do nothing but take advantage of the chaos, sliding on all fours in between the legs of gendarmes and underneath the skirts of wenches, then dashing forth on my own out of the inn, out of the village, and into the wide world. My throat felt like tied with a garrote wire, my eyesight was blurry with a hazy film of tears; yet it didn't matter whither I was going, and whether I would fall into a lake or down a cliff or in the midst of a pack of wolves and put them all out of my misery, I didn't care either. Why had not Cosette come to help us out in that darkest hour, even if it were behind her guardian's back, in secret? If she had literally stabbed me from behind, that cold steel blade would have hurt far less than the rage and despair that coursed through my whole self. Everything that I took for granted had shattered, falling apart like a house of cards and drifting away worlds beyond my reach... So, in exchange, I ran as far as my adolescent legs could carry me, far beyond the reach of my pursuers, even though my heart pounded and my knees buckled and my shoes were torn off at the soles and my ankles were bleeding from the thorns in the underbrush. Sobbing and cursing Cosette, calling her a traitor and far worse things, and rushing blindly into the great unknown, for no one knows how long... Time flies when you are on the run and there is no looking back..."
That was it, Enjolras thought. The Thénardier girl didn't know that M. Fauchelevent had sent Cosette off to boarding school, and she had most surely never had the chance to contact Éponine in her hour of need. They had not been able to reach and understand one another. Just like Enjolras himself and Grantaire.
Another piece was falling into place.
"Was it then... that she crossed your path?"
The dark maiden nodded listlessly, and stood there in sullen silence for a while, taking a deep draught for liquid courage (her throat even went pop as she swallowed, reminding Enjolras even more of the one he sought!) ere she finally resumed her tale:
"No sooner had all the tears fallen from my eyes, and my eyesight cleared, that I found myself at the rightmost corner of the circle of stones, in the ditch beside the high road that crossed the open heath, and the evening twilight was giving way to darkness; whether my steps carried me towards Calais or Paris, I did not know, but then, I saw arrive a grand, magnificent calèche driven by two snow-white, ruby-eyed horses harnessed all in green; their harnesses seemed to be made of climbing plants. Within the carriage, there was a regal, graceful, beautiful lady with a pelisse and a winter bonnet, or shapka, that seemed to be made of maidenhair ferns. The calèche itself was painted dark green, and its inner upholstery was of bright green satin the colour of wormwood leaves.
'Halt!' she seemed to say wordlessly; the carriage stopped for an instant, as the lady turned towards me and gave me a friendly sign. One would have said that she knew me already.
Then, she beckoned me in, as the sleet whipped around so thickly, so heavily, that I could barely see her features as I entered the calèche to sit down by her side. 'Coachman!', a whiplash, and, after having toured twice around the village, the carriage took off, cantering away as rapid as lightning. Once we were out in the country, the carriage kept on advancing always faster and faster. I tried to scream for help, but no one heard me scream, in the middle of the storm in the open countryside.
The sleet whipped around, and the calèche seemed to have grown wings. Time after time, I would feel my heart rise up to my throat, as if we were darting up and down sharp slopes and over yawning chasms. By now, I was scared stiff... I didn't even care for Cosette's betrayal or for my parents' concerns... I would have gladly cried for help, but the word froze in my throat, I had even forgotten how to say it... and, ever since that day Cosette had broken my heart, I had forgotten everything I could have done... I could not recall anything more than... this axiom: that two plus two makes four, and two times two makes four as well."
Her eyes were pretty teary by now, and Enjolras could only reply with a fixed expression; he seemed to be in a state of trance.
"Tout à coup, suddenly, the lady in the carriage stopped and stood up. Her pelisse and her shapka were made of living, writhing greenery, which remained fresh and alive in spite of the seasonal cold. Only then did I recognise her..."
"She was... la Belle Dame Sans Merci!" Enjolras gasped, now pale and cold as a statue of ice, as Éponine nodded in response, and kept silence for a while, before knocking back another shot of liquor for courage and resuming her life story:
"And I sat there all frightened, because I had not at hand, as I would have had at home, any fire into which I could toss her... 'Viens donc avec moi', said she in a voice as lovely and alluring as it was sinister. 'I will stow you into my pelisse and keep you snug and warm...'
And, as if it had been impossible for me to make any resistance to that order, I let myself be led as she made me sit down closer by her side, and wrapped me in her pelisse. It seemed to me as if I were putting on a straitjacket, or a corset, or if a constrictor was squeezing all the air out of my lungs..."
Here, the Thénardier girl clasped her own waist as tightly as she could.
"And... then...?" Enjolras eagerly chimed in, quivering like a leaf on the branch.
"I cannot recall exactly... everything is so hazy from this moment on, but let me see which pieces of the puzzle I can piece together. Oh yes. She asked me if I was cold... 'Eh bien', she asked ere she kissed me on the forehead, right between the eyes, 'as-tu toujours froid?' And, under the impression of that kiss, it seemed that the blood froze in my veins. For an instant, I thought I was about to die, yet that malaise only lasted for an instant, and equally suddenly I felt as right as rain once more, without a worry or a care; the impression of cold having completely disappeared."
The fair prisoner leaned backwards as Éponine scratched her head and toyed with her raven hair, as if she were rummaging in there and searching for important memories, until she finally uttered an "Aha!" of elation:
"Aha! She takes out from her pelisse a crystal cup full of a glittering green liquor, with a sweet herbal perfume that is really intoxicating. That is something I will never forget. Some elixir, she explained, that could heal broken hearts and soothe every pain... And she offered the cup to me and offered me to drink. Of course the long run and crying bout had made me thirsty, and my head was aching, so I gladly took her elixir and drained it in one quick throw."
Enjolras now realised that this was the draught Grantaire had been knocking back since his change of heart and until his sudden disappearance. "And what did it taste like?"
"The first cupful was so strong and so bitter that it made me wince, hollowed out my chest as it went down, and made my eyes swim with tears. But no sooner had I drained it that I felt my throat on fire with thirst, and I asked her for a refill. The second drink, however, filled me with elation, and swept away not only all of my troubles... I forgot all about Cosette, and my surname, and our village, and whether it was ivy that clung up the walls of our inn, and the rank Papa had held in the army, and Maman's wise upbraidings, and the identity of the lady who had given me to drink... everything about the home I had lost, and it had all vanished into the haze. I could only remember my first name, Éponine, and a few things more... and, instead, something stirred within me at the sight of the regal presence of the lady beside me.
'Et maintenant, ma petite,' said she, 'And, in the meantime, my little one... you shall not have more of my blood until later on, or that would poison you to death, am I right?'
I looked at her once more and found her presence irresistible; never had such an intelligent or such a lovely face appeared before me. No sir, I felt no fear or awe towards her at all, and, in my own humble opinion, she was the most perfect thing I had ever seen up to that point.
So I told her that my name was Éponine, and that I could read and write, and that I already knew my nine times table by heart... that I was quite skillful at telling stories and making up verses, that I knew the lyrics to some pretty indecent songs no child should ever know by heart, that I would love to perform on a stage in Paris... that I could forge the signature of anyone whose handwriting I had come across at least once, and that I could fend for myself, whether with a loaded gun or with my own fisticuffs.
And she asked me if I would forgive anyone who betrayed me.
And I replied, resolutely, that no one who had stabbed me in the back would escape unscathed.
Then she burst into a ringing, lilting noblewoman's laugh:
'Hoo hoo hoo! Allons, allons, you are definitely the warrior that I need, ma jeune fille... Would you like to be uniformed in green maidenhair and spider silks, armed with a silver bâton and gloves to match, with a breastplate and a backplate brighter than the sun itself?'
Of course it all seemed so attractive that I could only wearily raise a hand and whisper 'oui' in response.
Then, everything turns hazy... I have no more recollections of that fateful night, when winter was changing to springtime, than the last fact that I felt my head swim and my limbs sapped dry of strength, refusing to perform their functions; and then, yielding to fatigue, I fell asleep at the feet of the regal lady. Then, for ages unknown, my head is full of darkness, fog, and chaos. Rien de rien. Nothing more. Nada de nada." She felt her throat dry up, and her eyes fill with tears.
Enjolras wondered if Grantaire had also felt the same way; now understanding fully that it was from the Green Faery that he had received the draught that bound his senses and turned him against everyone else, and that she had spirited him away with the promise of more of her intoxicating elixir.
But, if Éponine was now back with her parents again, they surely had found a way to rescue her, right? When they finally broke out of prison in the dark and found their inn repossessed by the Gendarmerie, the Thénardiers would have surely missed the only daughter they had left, especially since she had vanished into thin air in the chaos, and gone forth to find her... Thus did Enjolras figure out that the account would conclude.
As he told Éponine about his guesses, she nodded, even winking an eye when he mentioned the prison break, and assured him with a rough right hand upon her heart that so it had been all along (but refusing to give any details on the prison break itself, saying it was a secret trick of the trade that not even a maiden her age ought to be told!).
"There were no druids proper in those days, but still there were wise old crones, of the kind that pick herbs and mushrooms at midnight, in the light of certain phases of the moon; and in that shire there were three wise old maids who lived at the edge of the northern woods, not far from the inn. They knew how to interpret the signs of the seasons, which the people of the shire, ever since the children had begun to go to school, had forgotten, but they still could give advice that 'when the frogs in spring awake, melon seeds to soil you take.' 'Cherries grown to fruit too soon, please beware the next full moon.' 'June without rain, thirsty sick grain.' 'Summer solstice thistle, bloom to clean one's whistle.' 'When the linden blooms in June, 'tis the time to mow hay soon,' and the linden blossoms themselves they brewed into the sweetest soothing tea, that warmed the hearts and lulled the worries away. For these three weird sisters also knew how to make several household cures (so-called 'old wives' remedies' by those graduated doctors who know nothing about that), even for the harshest illnesses; when their daughters, one after the other, fell ill with the croup and were a hair's breadth from choking on their own phlegm, one of those old maids had given them red handkerchiefs to wear for cravats till the next full moon; and do you think 'Zelma and I lived through the ordeal? Well, we were healed when the moon was full! No wonder that we Thénardiers, in spite of our then-impeccable reputation being the stark opposite of their local infamy, had quite a history with the weird sisters, who, in spite of being bent with old age, still went about gleaning herbs or berries, or ministering to the sick. The healing art, or science, or whatever, will always be vain compared to this ancient lore. And thus, while her husband set their sutler's carriage and their personal effects in order for the flight from the gendarmerie, the landlady broke prison in advance and came to these wise women, offering them her best egg-laying hen, which she had tricked out of the gendarmes' grasp, in exchange for advice.
'That's a pretty sad tale,' the youngest of the three said when Maman had finished her account. 'And Madame, we've heard a lot of sad stories, being out where we are. You ever see a baby die of pneumonia? We have.'
'I wouldn't compare our plight to the death of a baby,' quoth she with a frown. 'But now you see how far I've come, and in what dire straits we are to find her.'
'You don't know if she's alive,' the eldest of the weird sisters pointed out. 'But you think she is and that's enough for you, isn't it?'
'She is alive.'
'And you've prepared yourselves for any uncertainties?'
'There are no alternatives,' the querent disagreed. ''Ponine is alive. Trust me.'
Then the middle sister sighed loudly.
'So you want our help, that's what you're here for,' she said with no uncertainty.
After scrying into a rosette of robin eggs that floated, like a blue lotus, in the middle of a stone cauldron, the old maids finally turned to their querent with the tale of who, and why, had spirited her daughter away: 'We have an agreement. We can’t help anyone reach her. Every living being who wants to see her, must cross her court alone.' Thus they replied with friendly toothless smiles. But nevertheless she remained determined and unfazed. The eldest had no direct power against la Belle Dame sans Merci, but she was not completely helpless, for she had the ability to speak to the spirits of those who had died—and she knew that the korrigan guards who kept the stronghold were spirit creatures, the imprisoned souls of all those who had lost their lives as soon as they had disappointed her.
As for the sutler? Hastily she sought and found the ones she knew would aid her, and they bade her hurry to the Dark Queen's gate. Upon returning to the edge of the village, she found the Sarge, who had already broken prison in her wake, unusually sober, and unusually concerned. Clasping him in her arms and nearly squeezing him to death, she tied around the sergeant's neck, under the cravat, a lucky charm in the shape of a little sachet that protected against evil spirits, reassuring him that he would surely need it.
'We shall find our 'Ponine. Both of us, together. There is a lead, and I got it from the wise women, from the weird sisters themselves; the Green Faery, the Morrigan, has spirited her away. Thankfully, we know where her stronghold is; 'tis a castle up not far away: upon a heath along the North Coast where it's always foggy and cold, even in mid-summer, and no trees grow. They say her lands are empty of all living things, and that her castle is surrounded by a circle of menhirs, and built of cold dark stone, so cold that its walls and gates will freeze the skin off any man who touched them. But a woman, on the other hand...'
'But...' the husband interrupted his wife, his voice quivering, 'we should have to pass through a thick woodland full of all sorts of enchantments and voices, which would try to frighten us and make us lose our way. And thus, most of those who have gone before us have wandered they know not where, and perished from cold, hunger, or fatigue.’
'Haven't we walked through fire and ice?' the landlady grabbed her husband by the collar. 'Haven't we lived all through the Revolution and through the wars, at Austerlitz, at Leipzig, at Waterloo... in many a distant country during the wars, far from here, in a strange land, living in strange lands and suffering many hardships; as lieutenants, colonels, generals, not only officers, but even high-and-mighty great lords, have fallen off their high horses; while we paltry lowlives thrived in the shades; and thus, have we not kept our eyes, our ears, our limbs, and most relevantly our wits throughout those years? Is she not your daughter as well as mine? Pull yourself together! If so it has been, we shall find our 'Ponine, alive, come hell or highwater! Love will always find a way... or won't it?'
The sergeant, though still a bit fazed, regained a slight resolve, knocking back a sip of eau-de-vie for liquid courage and fingering the little lucky purse under his cravat. 'But if she is with the Lady, in her palace, or fortress, or whatever, will be bound to have enchantments that even a magic mirror cannot penetrate. Well, suppose we get through safely? And... what did the wise women say?'
'If we do make it through, we shall then meet a host, or at least a whole regiment, of some sort of faeries, each one armed with a needle-like sword, like a rapier, of fire which burns to ashes all it touches.' The Sarge, trembling like an aspen leaf, downed another sip from his flask to warm himself from within. One swig comforts one; two are better still. No matter how many lucky charms one is armed with.
'But what...? Rise and shine! 'This is suicide,' I know you're thinking... We've made it through redcoats and Cossacks, through Austrians and Prussians, through enemy fire and snowstorms and surging rapids, and now through gendarmes... so what chance do we have of defeating those korrigans? It's actually the same, for Christ's sake, just another enemy in our path, but with flaming swords!' she fired at point-blank range into his face. 'Furthermore, we've got the upper hand; not only are we two taller and stronger, but also armed with cold steel, which the Fair Folk of all kinds shun like the plague. And the little purse I tied under your cravat will also shield you against them. So... Listen up; we make it together as far as that, to the last living tree that marks the edge of her realm, a large holly bush that yields red berries like droplets of blood; and then our ways part; you face the korrigans, at least diverting their attention, while I rush into the fortress and save our dear 'Ponine. Right. Allons-y!' And thus, the wife shaking the reins and the husband polishing his bayonet inside the cart, they set off in her old sutler's wagon for the dangerous forest up north."
Enjolras had listened attentively, as attentively as he could, to the story... He could not even believe that her parents, as neglectful and self-indulgent as they were, could have at least a little shred of feelings for Éponine, let alone that they would take so much into their hands to rescue her. Clearing his throat to make a little pause, he interrupted:
"And let me have a guess at what comes next... the parents freed their daughter from the Green Faery, or did they not? This tale is so far keeping me on tenterhooks, in spite of the end being a foregone conclusion..."
"And why else should I not be here by your side? Listen now; you already know from the first impressions of us Thénardiers that Maman rules the roost, as she has always done. Generals and kings and czars come up with battle plans as effective as hers!
They gathered berries, and nuts, and mushrooms, the few they could find, and washed them down with spring water and morning dew, rationing their eau-de-vie to a sip a day for each person, for the moment of truth; they guided themselves by the North Star. It seemed to the sergeant and the sutler woman turned landlord and landlady that the ordeal had made them at least a decade and a half younger, or at least as brisk and pure as they had been in their youth, during early wartime.
Only once, during the rationing, he drew out their keg of eau-de-vie twice, thrice, filled and emptied the cup several times, and laid it down with a hoarse ‘Ha, ha, ha! now this old scoundrel is a man again!’
'Mon cher!' his wife chided him sternly, slapping him twice in the face, first on the left ear and then on the right.
‘But oh!’ he went on (still sipping, I am sorry to say), 'ere war gave way to peace, I needed not this intoxicating draught; once I detested the hot brandy wine, and quaffed no other fount but nature’s rill. It dashes not more quickly o’er the rocks than I did, as, with blunderbuss in hand, I brushed away the early morning dew!' the non-commissioned officer remarked to his lady, as he knocked back one last sip of eau-de-vie by their campfire. 'Thus easily do we deceive ourselves! Thus do we fancy what we wish is right!'
'I had never seen that side of you... that Shakespearean, sentimental side, beyond the patina of wit and intrigue...' Madame Thénardier chortled, more used to his Voltairian remarks than to this sincere, heartfelt outburst of iambic pentameter. 'It seems you paid heed to my reads as well!' she swaddled herself in a blanket by his side and began to unbutton his uniform jacket, as he shoved his hands deep under her skirt... Now listen, Enj: I had sometimes seen my parents together in bed, as well as several of our guests, looking rather excited... but, ever since Cosette left with her new guardian and I got my first bleeding, they just slept side by side without playing any of their serious games. They have never done it since those nights during the quest. And you, Sir Galahad the Pure, given your circumstances, will never, ever, ever understand!"
Enjolras tried as hard as he could to stifle the hearty laugh, so uncharacteristic of him, that was surging up from his lungs as he listened to Éponine's experience with her parents, and their guests, making love to one another. Needless to say his own sheltered upbringing and childhood may have contributed at least slightly to his lack of experience in matters of the heart and in matters of the flesh.
But still he would listen to her story until the bitter end, in spite of knowing that the ending was a foregone conclusion.
"Sometimes lightning struck, the trees burst into flames and husband and wife found themselves in the midst of a fire; often in the act of crossing a stream the water rose and threatened to sweep them away, all the way into the Channel; and again, great rocks would roll towards the sutler cart, as if they would crush away lock, stock, and barrel —husband, wife, cart, and horses— beneath their weight. To this day, I have never known whether these things were real or only a hyperbole of what really occurred, but the sergeant pulled down his military cap so as to cover his eyes, and trusted his wife, who drove the cart, and the draft-horses, as well as the crone's lucky charm, to carry him down the right road.
At last the forest was left behind, and they came out on a wide heathland plain where the air blew fresh and strong. The Sarge ventured to peep out, and found to his relief that the enchantments seemed to have ended, though a thrill of horror shot through him as he noticed the adult human skeletons scattered over the plain, beside the skeletons of the casualties' horses. Husband and wife had been riding, without taking the slightest risk to stop or to look back, all the way until they had arrived before a large holly-bush that yielded berried like drops of blood. Beyond it, all was bare rock and frosty heather in bloom, stretching away before them like a great sheet of amethyst crystals. And what were those grey forms trotting away in the distance? Were they—could they be—wolves? Werewolves? Korrigans?
But vast through the plain seemed, it did not take long to cross on foot, having dismounted and tethered their cart and horses to the trunk of the holly, and very soon the Thénardiers stood in the shade of a sort of shady circle of stones. In front there were at least a regiment of korrigans, both male and female, each and every elven warrior holding in his or her hand the fiery rapier which reduced to ashes everything it touched. At the sight of the intruders, each korrigan uttered a piercing scream, and raised their swords, but without appearing surprised the camp follower rolled up her sleeves and shoved her husband towards the enemy lines, as she briskly strode towards the fortress itself: 'Allez! Take up your sword, or bayonet, or wotever; the charm will protect you as well! In the meantime, I make the three runs 'round the gate and open the door with one shove of mine! Trust me, honey, you'll surely make it through and join me to free 'Ponine! After all, a mother is always closer to her child, especially if that child is a girl...'
And, with those words, they parted ways, the camp follower giving her husband a vigorous pat on the back for encouragement, ere she sauntered, without looking back, towards the heavy cold stone doors, and began to storm around the circle in a flustered huff, shouting, though short of breath, the incantation at the end of each lap."
It was a foregone conclusion to the fair leader, how the tale would unfurl from now on, yet still he listened eagerly to her account of how it all had been.
"Meanwhile upon the field of battle, the fight had already begun, and the enemy was getting the best of it, when the Sarge rose up, and in a moment the fortunes of the day had changed. Right and left this strange warrior laid about him, and, though he then was a scrawny fellow, the sword or spearhead at the end of his thunder-wand, for as that the elves saw the bayonet, pierced the stoutest breastplate. He was indeed 'a host in himself,' and his foes fled before him thinking he was only the first of a troop of such warriors, whom no one could withstand. When the battle was over, the few retreating survivors saw the other mortal, the bear-like woman, had bellowed "LET ME IN AT LAST!!" at the top of the lungs, then strode into the circle of stones as briskly as she could. They were powerless, and could only watch as she reached the great doors of the castle. They were so cold that it burned to the touch like metal heated until it glowed. Indeed, so cold were the doors that the skin of her bare hands stuck to them, though, after she had opened them, which was surprisingly easy, she ripped her hands free unscathed, without the slightest scratch or drop of blood on her palms or fingertips. She was right about the quibble: it would freeze the skin off any bare-handed man..."
"But a woman, on the other hand..." Enjolras gasped, while wondering if he qualified as a man or a boy, and thus, how it would be like to open the doors for him at the moment of truth.
"The camp follower strode in through the great doors, leaving them open behind her, for she could not bring himself to touch them again. The floor of the hallway beyond them was cold as well, and damp, her feet sticking a little, or slipping on the slippery grounds, with every step; and the blood on her feet froze to it, sticking a little with every step. Or so she told me, when I awoke in her lap, held in her strong loving arms so tightly that my sides ached and I could not breathe; without the slightest recollection, in the middle of this strange throne-room, its floor covered in engraved straight lines and curves, and scrawled all over with strange, angular characters which I could not read, following the trace of the lines... there were many crystal mirrors on the ceiling, I realised while looking left and right in awe and gaping like a fish, locking eyes with Maman's warm gaze as recognition sparked... I recalled my surname, and the place of my birth, and everything else; something stirred within me at the sight of that tall strong blonde, and of the sergeant in uniform who huddled in the corner, his face caked in dried blood from his nostrils, wincing and bandaging his sprained foot as we rushed to help him up. The words choked in my throat, and I tried to hold back the tears, as the three of us went forth from the great fortress, Maman and I holding Papa for crutches for a while, until he was well enough to lean on his rifle."
She was sobbing, breaking down from sheer catharsis. The rose had thorns, after all, and it took a while for her to have another swig and dry up her tears on her own coattails, as he felt compelled to wrap a crimson-clad sleeve around her waist for reassurance. It was just like having Grantaire slumped next to him, but in female form and with a northern patois instead of that Marseillais accent. Everything repeats itself.
"There was nothing left for us in Montfermeil, but there have always been people who live on the lam, knockabout artistes thriving in the darkness and waiting in the wings for their chance. A six-foot Herr Cules with an iron ribcage, a ventriloquist whose presence was as sinister and concealed in the night as a ghost's, a strapping young Left Bank dandy in late adolescence who had fallen on hard times due to an extravagant lifestyle, and many other knockabout freaks whom no carnival dared to employ out of sheer dread... The Magnificent Thénardiers became the latest family act in the venue of the criminal underworld; a life not unlike the one they had had in the military but during peacetime and far more dangerously; specialising in strangers who had something worth taking. Something that was rightfully ours. Where they were was the risk and danger." With bloodshot drunken eyes and that deep hoarse voice, she gestured like a showgirl upon a stage, now feeling in an ostensibly far sunnier mood, though it was crystal clear that it all was irony at heart. It was as plain as ironic her quip was that the Herr Cules guy was Gueulemer, and the young dandy was 'Parnasse, and the truants, miscreants, and vagabonds saw themselves as much as closely-knit family as any other carnival of freaks --as much outsiders as the mermaids, pinheaded midgets, werewolves, bearded ladies, and sword-swallowers he had once seen in a fête as a child--. It reminded him of his own society of Amis de l'ABC, also lonely outsiders who had come together, though generally of higher descent and with a university education. Not all freaks were equal; and this had left him with a haunting appreciation of the feelings of total outsiders to society. "One day we were highway brigands, the next we were confidence tricksters, the day after that I was cross-dressing as a cadet or a student... we had and have an extensive repertoire; and thus our heists turned into quite unpredictable, yet meticulously planned affairs. Soon, we contrived to knit all those scoundrels together - conniving, connecting, conspiring. As the ones we are, we're on the out, we're antiestablishment, and whatever we 'cook up' must be done surreptitiously, silently. All the world's a stage, and we were and are the ringmasters over all the lesser knockabout freaks, who are not even second to our family act. Wot else?"
"If it is your story... your parents' love freed you..." Enjolras blinked and gasped, not knowing what to say next to the dark robber maiden who had saved his life. "In that case... is Grantaire... all right?"
She hesitated and her eyes lowered in clear sign of holding back.
“N'importe," said she, turning serious and shaking her head. "He’s… alive. For sure. He might not be the same person you remember. He might not remember you. Indeed, your Grantaire is most surely at the Green Faery's; he finds it a delightful place and it appears to him that there is nothing better than that, everything there after his taste, and he believes that he inhabits the most charming place in all possible worlds, because he has everything he could wish for... but it is only because his heart has been poisoned by her evil blood. The reason why is that he has received her blood in his throat, and it has entered all the way into his heart. So, his heart has been frozen. She has caught and entangled him in her snares, and dripped poison into his sickly mind. The air of that realm is as necessary to his life as oxygen once was to his mortal body, and is to ours. Just like it happened to Yours Truly," Éponine explained, as her fair prisoner listened attentively, steeling himself to restrain the shudder that ran down his spine. "What's needed to do, first and foremost, is to get that fey blood out of inside him... or else, she will for evermore retain all her power over him."
"And where does she dwell? Whither is that carriage heading?"
"I know where the Killer Queen's stronghold is," quoth she, grinning fiercely. Her black eyes gleamed out of the darkness of the nook. "Towards her keep, not far from the Channel, upon a heath along the North Coast where it's always foggy and cold, even in mid-summer, and no trees grow. They say her lands are empty of all living things, and that her castle is built of cold dark stone, so cold that its walls and gates will freeze the skin off any man who touched them. The Morrigan lives there now, and the will o'wisp fires in her palace, if it can be called a palace in the first place, burn every evening. Your poor lover must be freezing, right? Now keep calm. Now lie still in bed and shut up, and do not stir like that, Enj, or else, to keep you tranquil, my blade will slip into your side, and plunge all the way into your heart..." she drew steel and flicked the wrist that held her Bowie.
Enjolras sighed listlessly in response, staying frozen in place, without even moving a muscle. But, if Éponine had been taken by the Green Faery, and subsequently set free from her grasp, there was a very important question to ask: "Do you really know the way to get there?"
The dark maiden's expression turned serious, and she nodded in response, her eyes beaming with self-confidence. "Ça m’est égal ! çà m’est égal ! Mais... Qui pourrait mieux le savoir que moi? 'Tis up north I was born, 'tis up north that I was raised, 'tis up north that I leapt for joy over heath and hill; and never forget that the Morrigan has had me in thrall! As sure as I can breathe in the air, I know how to find my way! Who should know better than I do?" asked she, while her eyes shone with some renewed life; sparkling like starry night skies in remembrance. "I was born and raised there, and that's where I used to run free about across the heather-covered plains." Then Enjolras looked sidelong at her, cajoling. "If you were to free me, you could take us there fast as you please."
"I wish I could," was her reply, "but even if we could get away from this lair, we would have to get past the robbers as well." The young wildling regained her serious air and, shaking her head, she said: "Eh bien, cela m'est égal, cela m'est égal." The girl had become serious, but, shaking her head:
N'importe, quoth she.
"Well, perhaps you will find a way," the fair leader looked away and said no more.
At that, the daughter of brigands turned serious and said, shaking her head:
"Qu'est-ce que cela fait? Qu'est-ce que cela fait?"
She returned from putting off her clothes in a sour mood, all dressed up in her boyish ensemble, hair tied back and all, throwing daggers with her eyes at everyone in her way. She disappeared into her twilit niche briefly, then rolled out a small barrel and proclaimed that in the evening there was a content in who would get drunk as last one.At that, the daughter of brigands turned serious and said, shaking her head:
"Qu'est-ce que cela fait? Qu'est-ce que cela fait?"
The robber maiden offered him a cup full of scarlet wine. He declined and just shook his head, observing Éponine downing the alcohol like water. The way she went about it, it looked like she was trying to lose the contest. At that rate, given that she had already surpassed her threshold for strong drink, she would be the first to get drunk. Uneasiness settled within him as he watched her from afar. The more he saw her abandon herself, the more his fingers fidgeted. It was odd. She didn’t seem to have fun, even though she laughed heartily and sung as loud as she could. It felt forced how she threw herself onto Montparnasse’s shoulders and swayed with him in the rhythm. She looked… desperate.
At some point, Éponine must have had enough, because she detached herself from the group and walked away from the fire. She walked as a newborn deer as she approached the outskirts of the camp. Her cup fell down on the ground and rolled on the floor tiles, drawing a colourless rainbow. “Are you angry at meee? Are youu? Am I a ba-a-d grrrl? D'you wanna huuurt meee?” She patted the startled prisoner on each of his shoulder blades adoringly. She leaned on his with her whole weight and continued with her monologue, not really waiting for answers. “I know you are! You should be. And you’re sho pretty. And I’m ba-a-ad," Éponine rubbed her face into the nape of the fair leader's neck.
At first, Enjolras hesitated, thinking if he should enter the scene and casually convince her to go sleep it off. She behaved very much not like a bandit captain would. “No! You’re not bad! You’re fine,” she looked up and glared at him with glazed eyes. Doubtless, in those circumstances, Grantaire would quaff her under the table, he muttered to himself, but loud enough, being slightly under the influence, for her to overhear. She chuckled a few times, tugging at his sleeve again and cooed. "“Tell meee." He nudged her gently away and mumbled. “You’re a very nice girl, who is lonely. I know you will let me go, and show me the way..."
She eyed him quietly, pondering about what he had said. It took longer, since she was drunk, so he almost thought she didn’t hear him properly.
“I will? But he's so bright. So, so brave. A real leader... See?" Éponine put up her fists facing each other and imitated an English boxer once more, but this time with a childish pout. “If only I haven’t let him go...” Her brows knitted and a shadow spread on her face, her hands dropped lifeless to her sides.
Enjolras stepped back, not willing to mock his luck. His heart ached, very close to the sensation he felt when he discovered that Grantaire had disappeared. A strange hurtful hope filled his head, a wish that perhaps just a little - maybe just slightly, he could have a place for her in his heart. That kind one would reserve for family. And maybe that space wouldn’t be small but quite large.
Leaning onto the wall and trying hard to breathe deeply, he counted the stars and traced the bark with his fingers, trying to feel each hard ridge on its surface. Literally anything just to ground himself. Éponine thought of him as a replacement for the foster sister she would never reach, and his presence recalled old memories for her, which hurt her soul for many years. Or so he thought. Enjolras didn’t know what to make of his emotional roller-coaster, but the one thing he knew was that he wanted to help her. He wanted to be kind and show compassion. Therefore he braced himself, coughed loudly and made his appearance.
“Took you long enough!” 'Parnasse grumbled, lifting his head and shifting awkwardly underneath Éponine's weight. Enjolras winced, he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought after all. “Enj!” she called him all jolly. The happy grin on her face didn’t last long, because as drunks tend to do, she switched to sadness very quickly, hanging herself on his elbow like a coat hanger. “Come now, we go to sleep now, right?” She shook her head and pouted. “I’m not tired,” he led her slowly to their corner and thought of what to reply as they passed a log. “But I am. Keep me company?” She considered and affirmed with a nod. “I can do that! Will you tell me a fairy tale?"
To get her in a state prepared for sleep was a challenge. That even sounded like understatement. He could barely pull of her coat and almost gave up midway. 'Ponine rolled in the furs like a fat seal, heavy and uncoordinated. As he cradled her on his arms, he saw her for what she was. Smaller than him and perhaps very similar to him in her sadness. Thus, he pretended that night he wasn’t a prisoner, but that he chose to be her support in her weakened state. "But will you listen to me for a little? I will tell you a little more about myself."
Éponine's eyes gleamed and she sat back on the furs, reclining against the wall, eager for another insight on such an interesting person. Her head was beginning to swim, she felt drowsy indeed, but she was even more curious to get to know about her captive. As the two laid down and covered themselves with the tapestry of Atalanta's last race which went for a blanket here, the swarthy girl hugged Enjolras gently and asked him to tell his story one more time. “I like good stories, remember?” she said. “And I especially liked your one. So tell it to me again.” She couldn't wait for the blond to reply soon enough and ask about the happenings of the day, the houses of the rich, and what exciting things their children did.
"Of course I have had a family once, but it was so long ago... As you know, I was and am an only child, adored by my parents, a stock breeder of horses and a lady of the minor nobility," he told the robber maiden with a sigh. "When Yours Truly was born, both of them were pleased and proud. As a newborn I was handsome and healthy, a worthy heir for the Enjolras surname, as beloved as a prince, beautiful as an angel. Oh, how they loved this noble little baby! He was as delicate as a prince and as handsome as an angel! Of all the parents I could have known, mine are the kindest. Over the years some would-could ill afford a sick child; others would have grown weary of caring for one. In public they feigned love but in private they lost patience. I regret that at times I, too, lost my temper with them. They never faltered in their devotion. And thus, I grew up handsome and healthy, a worthy heir for the Enjolras surname, and as I grew into a toddler and then a sturdy little boy, they started to look out for a horse that their boy could grow up with, and train, and be trained by."
Éponine had heard little to nothing of her southern captive's childhood, and it pained her to know so little in exchange for all the story she had given him. Raised without siblings in a grand estate in the Camargue, instead of the eldest of middling innkeepers' children somewhere up north... "Tell me more, Enj! I feel so sorry not to hear about you in exchange..." She was visibly excited and worn-out, but he could see she was not too intoxicated, the better for her to listen to the stories he had to tell.
"Let me tell you my first memories, and make yourself comfortable by my side." The weary Thénardier girl nestled on his lap as he cleared his throat and began: "At three or four, I am so much healthier than when I first woke in this body. And so beautifully cared for. I sleep on soft sheets in cloudlike comfort. My mother, the local beauty, brings the scent of lilacs with her when she leans in to kiss me, which she does frequently. Her tenderness elicits such a response. It amazes me to feel myself rise to her love. And my father, he’s so kind. Every day he comes with a present in his pocket. They have spared no expense in finding a cure for me. They have thrown both their energies and their resources into meeting with anyone reputedly wise in the healing arts. Yet they’ve never subjected me to treatments that might cause undue pain. I was an amazingly handsome boy, with fair curly hair cut very short, my mother's dark-blue eyes, and a clear pale translucent skin. The only child of exceedingly fond parents, and the object of constant pampering that, curiously, never spoiled my character. Their expectations all rested upon their only offspring..."
Éponine swallowed hard, a sound like a purr forming in her throat. "Awwwrrr..." Enjolras could see that her eyes had become glossy, even slightly teary, and that she would never plunge her knife into his heart in that state, as he resumed:
"On stormy November evenings... The fireplace in my bedroom radiates comfort. Embers make delicate sounds, like fine china splintering. This room, like a princess’s chamber, sparkles. The chandelier bends firelight and sends it dancing across the ceiling. There is a table set with buns and cocoa."
He stopped abruptly, looked at a teary-eyed Éponine, thought of Cosette and of himself, and gasped. The Thénardiers, who besides lived in a far harsher northern climate, had even been willing to steal and to deceive, and led into a life of crime, in order to procure such comforts and a decent education for their own daughters, which had led the whole family to live outside the law, to the point of wresting from the fair leader, and many others, the magnificent presents they had been given. This was the reason why he had to start a revolution. This was the reason why all of his friends, led by Enjolras himself, had to die violently and leave beautiful corpses, before they all turned thirty.
"It must have been quite a cozy spot, right?"
Enjolras swallowed hard and nodded. "A group of holiday revellers, emboldened with drink, defy the storm, shouting to each other on the street beneath my window. My parents host a small dinner party below. The sound of music came softly through their windows, and laughter, and the heavenly aroma of roasted meat." The scene made the dark maiden think of the Christmases of days gone by, back when they were innkeepers... and especially of that fated Christmas Eve when Cosette left the Sergeant's Inn, never to return. Crystal tears streamed down her olive-skinned face as she sobbed only once, but that was enough for Enjolras to produce a silken handkerchief, embroidered with floral motifs and scented with lavender, to dry up the robber girl's tears. "And in summer?" she choked back, eager for memories of hot sun and azure waves.
"How many times have these parents taken me to the dunes? In the summer we would go with a picnic hamper. Mother would make certain my straw hat, with its blue velvet ribbons, kept the sun off my face. I remember insisting I could run down the hill and then, halfway down, collapsing. I had been carrying a chocolate bun that flew from my hands. Father gathered me in his arms. I nestled into him. He smelled of cologne and freshly pressed cotton. His golden moustache tickled my cheek. He bought me a new bun and held me as I ate it." As he said those words and remembered the fond days gone by, Enjolras looked for a while first at the Thénardiers, then looked back at his own childhood, and really learned to love the Camargue.
Not just the horses and the frogs – anyone could love horses and frogs – but the mansion itself and the estate and all the people in it.
It was easier in between the springtime and autumn downpours because it had at last stopped raining; patches of dry ground appeared, and the artificial lake showed glimmers of blue.
Though not literally a count's child, he had been quartered in a castle-like mansion in greatest comfort; a nice-looking, well-born little one...
"I have never known boys or girls whose greatest pleasure arose from tormenting others," he told her with a sigh, as he locked eyes with her, night-black with day-blue, "not in this life. I have known no one like that in this life. These parents would not allow such a child near me." The thought of his own parents not allowing such bullying children to come near him made the fair leader think of M. Fauchelevent cutting all ties between Cosette and the Thénardiers, and Éponine's subsequent feelings of betrayal. "With Combeferre and Courfeyrac, however, it was a different story. Combeferre lived in the centre of Arles; his parents were a doctor and a female tutor, who took care of their patrons' children in another region, and thus his unquenchable thirst for knowledge about life has been with him for as long as he has lived; he often ventured out of town to study the plants and the bugs in the bush, and the little things the sea washed upon the shore. The Manoir Enjolras, with its surrounding gardens and kindly masters, became a spot this clever little boy would obviously frequent on the way home to Arles, bringing now a bright green emerald-like jewel beetle, now a piece of sun-whitened coral, now a shell with rainbow mother-of-pearl on the inside, now a fossil shaped like a snail which he had found inland in the hills or near Roman ruins, now a fallen leaf which had been so withered away that only the vessels remained, just like a lacy gauze... Ever since his parents lived at their employers' in Gascony, our own Arles-based household physician, the one who had advised that there should not be more children than Yours Truly in the nurseries of the Manoir Enjolras, was a good friend of the Combeferres' who respected them, even the best man at their wedding, and had taken up their boy under his wing in their absence. I waited for whole days for his return, being too small to go outside on my own and too young and privileged to go to school, and therefore I had more than one private tutor. Presently, down the straight white road which led from the village, a small figure appeared, looking even smaller under the weight of the school satchel on his back. Little Combeferre couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and looked less. His skin was a clear olive, and burnt darker still by the sun, with a spray of freckles across his face like a dusting of gold, and he had thick auburn hair that looked as though it had been cut with shears – so that his strange light-flecked eyes were very noticeable. Those honey eyes were flecked with lighter colours; with bronze and hazel and with gold. The boy came back without his satchel, dressed in a pair of breeches and an old linen shirt. Without his cap, and with his spectacles on, he seemed even smaller. Though he was so small, the child was not shy. He took my hand and led me with absolute assurance to parts of the estate, and the surrounding pinewood and lavender-fields and shoreline, I had not seen before. And, in my grander bedchamber, his own eyes widen as he looks at the chandelier, the table laden with food, the enormous gilded mirror, the library stuffed with more books than he had ever seen before. And, from sharing all these little rarities, and all those grand rarities as well, with the scion of the estate... in that auburn boy with spectacles I found first an acquaintance, then a dear friend, and finally the very best lieutenant that any leader could ever wish for. It didn't take long for me to warm up, he was a bright and smart boy who loved surprises. Especially surprising others. It helped that he knew the stories in all the Enjolras library by heart. Soon we begged the Combeferres to bring home new ones. And they did, borrowing them from a kind employer... and thus he became the truest friend I ever had. We shared a tutor, we rode together, we went climbing together. I looked up to him, and vice versa, but really we were like brothers. We used to come together and talk about all the things we were going to do."
"And Courfeyrac?" Éponine raised her head eagerly, bringing Enjolras back to the bright side of a childhood otherwise so wearisome and bereft of a purpose that he would rather forget it.
"I had only heard the surname every now and then... and I knew that they lived in a far grander mansion, a real château, in Gascony, and that they had an only child as well, a boy slightly older than we were... Once they had been proper French aristocrats, surnamed de Courfeyrac; they had been driven out from the land and gone south with the flamingos and left for Catalonia or Valencia during the Revolution, until they returned to our land post-Thermidor, without the particle before their surname, having "abdicated" the particle as Courfeyrac still says. Of course now that France is a kingdom once more, his parents are de Courfeyrac, but the lad himself has never used the particle before his surname, not even when he is drunk. Anyway, Madame Combeferre was the dark, lively Courfeyrac boy's personal tutor when it came to etiquette, and Monsieur Combeferre was their household physician. There you have it, who were the Combeferres' employers! Every Monday morning they left Combeferre at his guardian's, then departed to take care of foreign children and bid them a good day. But sometimes, let's say for holidays around Christmas or Easter..."
"Lemme guess... They would sometimes bring their boy to the Château de Courfeyrac for playdates, in spite of the distance, and His Lordlingship would have heard a lot about Enjolras from little Combeferre as well..."
"Exactly! And the end of it was, that I had made two friends at the age of twelve or thirteen. The little Gascon came over each summer to stay at the Manoir Enjolras. Courfeyrac at our place had roughly the effect of a live firework lobbed into a box of cartridges. He was, in a word, incorrigible. He had been sent there after causing too much trouble living at home, but his parents had objected not so much to his defiance (which he had, gleefully, in spades) as to his habit of seducing the chambermaids. Or at least that was the word going around among his classmates. Whatever the original incident had been, it grew, fed on rumour and exaggeration, until Courfeyrac had acquired the reputation of a veritable sixteen-year-old Don Juan Tenorio. At first Yours Truly, unaware that Courfeyrac was perhaps not as complicit in this reputation as he appeared, wasn't sure whether to be charmed or extremely irritated by him. To keep from finding out, I did my very best to avoid him. Courfeyrac, however, was not very easy to avoid. Was he really more ubiquitous than the other students, or was he just impossible to ignore? Hard to say. At any rate, there he was, talking back at the professors and sneaking off to smoke pipes with the kitchen wenches and generally making himself noticeable. A boy, then a young man, who saw and sees the world as something to revel in. He was and is the centre of any party, the teller of tales, and the heart of every warm touch. Even when I walk alone, I felt and still feel like surrounded by his presence. Years passed and the boys grew to young teenagers, a gap of only four years between them. They --all three of us-- still hung close to each other, but we soon noticed Courfeyrac released his hand quicker in the presence of others when they were teased. He seemed restless, always wanting to move. They spent a lot of time in nearby woods and fields, exploring the nature or playing with the other children. We three would go on swims, and explore ruined watchtowers together... whenever our parents allowed us to be together... though I easily grew weary of these pursuits, no matter for how long my friends seemed to enjoy them... The most irritating thing about them was that underneath Courfeyrac's habitual flippancy and Combeferre's habitual rationality, they often had opinions Yours Truly agreed with, and my friends would champion them in what the Enjolras heir considered the most counterproductive ways imaginable. There was also Jehan Prouvaire, a shy little boy who looked more like a girl with that crisp Titian hair and those dreamy honey eyes, who came over every summer from Collioure. Oh, he was an only child too, and his family, descendants of the last surviving Cathars who lived through the Inquisition, had made a fortune distilling lavender and pompom-rose perfumes; he was as shy as a violet, and turned red as a pompom rose and stuttered whenever he had to speak, so he spent the summers with us, with his parents' hopes that he would open up, but he often detached himself as I did, and would rather be left quietly on his own...
When Jehan was a little child, his mother had worried for him.
“My only child, and there is something odd about him,” she had said.
“You speak so little,” she had said.
“You frighten me, always sitting there looking at me, never saying a word. Go play, my child,” she had said.
Jehan had never possessed the need that some children seemed to have, to speak to hear their own voices, to garner attention.
He had been a quiet child, with few friends and no siblings, and none of the rambunctious energy many boys possess.
He had been too busy learning and watching life go by.
Even as a child, Jehan had been filled with wonder at the world around him. (See the way those finches hop along the branches and the way the sun looks through a cloud and the vibrant colors of the flowers in his mother’s garden.)
Even as a child, Jehan fell in love easily and often.
Quiet boys do not always grow into quiet men.
Jehan does exactly that, however, and adulthood finds him mild-mannered, mostly-pleasant, sometimes-melancholy, still fond of songbirds and the way the sun looks through a cloud and flowers, and possessing a peculiar air of timidity that occasionally disappeared entirely when he was worked up about something.
Jehan had been a quiet child, with few friends.
He is, for most purposes, a grown man now, still quiet, and it cannot be said that he has many friends, precisely, but the friends he has are larger than life.
Surely because none of us was raised with siblings, our friendship became as strong as a blood tie. And thus, when all four of us had come of age and were ready to study at the University in Paris, and of course quite eager for the move to the capital, with all its monuments and its white winters, all four of us made the trip by stagecoach together, with my parents, the Prouvaires, and the Courfeyracs paying for the middle-class Combeferre's needs... Workmen had been called in – plasterers and carpenters and roofers to repair the leaks, and new servants had been engaged – but what occupied everyone was getting me ready for University. The day when I would go was getting very close, but Yours Truly did not seem to be nervous in the least.""But you come home for the holidays, won't you?"
"Only for Christmas, and in summer for the days from around the 14th of July to the rentrée. Of course they always miss me and the others..." Until that fateful conversation, he had not realised the least that he was actually harbouring feelings towards his parents and their servants.
"It must have been an exciting day, right, Enj?"
"Well, on the evening before, they had a grand soirée with all of their friends in society; it was so that Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and I could debut ere we left for Paris. The following day in the morning, after breaking my fast and donning my travelling clothes, including my brand new hussar-style waistcoat, I asked that the staff could be assembled in the courtyard so that he could make a proper farewell speech. Yours Truly knew that this was what the heir to the Enjolras estate was supposed to do, but the ceremony fell rather flat. Our old coachman was too deaf to hear a word that I said, and the new maids hadn’t been there long enough to understand what an important occasion it was."
Now he was almost a grownup: fourteen years old and as clever and learned as anyone and handsomer than everyone.
The castle looked as large and impressive as it had the first time one had seen it. The park around it had not changed either; but all the servants were strangers, not one of them remembered.
How tall and thin he had become, but he had the same eyes and the same angelic mouth. He looked at the others but didn't say a word. He turned as if he were going to leave, and "That is enough," he said, and left the room.
Now he was tall, fourteen years old, a bright, beautiful boy.
The castle was as magnificent and the gardens as lovely as ever, but the servants were all new.
How tall, thin, and lanky he had grown, but he still had his beautiful eyes and angelic mouth; and he looked straight at the others without a word. Certainly he had no recollection. He turned to go, "All right," he said, "that's enough," and then he left the room.
"Awww... but, knowing you in spite of what little time we have had, you must have done your best, right?"
"Why such a doubt, 'Ponine? All the same, I did well, asking the staff to give my parents the loyal service they would have given him if he hadn’t been going away. Then our coachman brought the carriage round, and my three friends stepped in after me, as we picked them along the way across the southern lands before heading north, for the capital. After we had driven off..."
"I know the end of thish shtory," she replied, slumping down upon his lap. "But one more queshtion, Enj... why did you travel dresshed as a husshar?"
"For caution," Enjolras replied, "to ensure I remained safe and sound. A cadet or a little lieutenant is not such a helpless-looking prey for innkeepers or brigands, as you well know, right?" He winked a wistful eye at Éponine as he resumed his tale yet again, while the maiden listened intently; for the fair leader's story of his own boyhood had appealed to her imagination.
Thus he looked back at the trials and turning points of adolescence; aged thirteen, sweetly embarrassed by his breaking voice, aged fourteen, growing into the size of his hands and the breadth of his shoulders... Aged sixteen, laughing, aged seventeen, in uniform-like waistcoat. In Paris, where they had gone to University together, the freedom they had fought for and would soon win from the King. Their first stray cat, their first swords, the first time they tried to cook, the first time... Aged nineteen, searching for a longed-for je ne sais quoi that was as relevant to him as ideals and human rights.
"As you may remember... Even though I had found two or three friends I still hold very dear, and even though my life was charmed right from the start, I was very lonely, even though I was surrounded by people. I was always different from other boys. I never cared much for games. I took little interest in those things for which young boys of rank usually care so much. I was not very happy in my boyhood, I think. My one ambition was to find the ideal for which I longed. It has always been thus: I have always had an indefinite longing for something, a vague something, a je ne sais quoi that never quite took shape, that I could never quite understand. My great desire has always been to find something that would satisfy me. I was attracted at once by sin: my whole early life is stained and polluted with the taint of sin. Sometimes even now I think that there are sins more beautiful than anything else in the world. There are vices that are bound to attract almost irresistibly anyone who loves beauty above everything. I have always sought for love: again and again I have been the victim of fits of passionate affection: time after time I have seemed to have found my ideal at last: the whole object of my life has been, times without number, to gain the love of some particular person. Several times my efforts were successful; each time I woke to find that the success I had obtained was worthless after all. As I grasped the prize, it lost all its attraction - I no longer cared for what I had once desired with my whole heart. In vain I endeavoured to drown the yearnings of my heart with the ordinary pleasures that usually attract the young. I have been striving to cheat myself into the belief that peace had come at last - at last my yearning was satisfied: but all in vain. Unceasingly I have struggled with the old cravings for excitement, and, above all, the weary, incessant thirst for a perfect love."
"Wot kind of perfect love?" Éponine asked with a shrug of her shoulders.
"Just before coming to Paris, and without my parents' knowledge, I had written an icily polite letter to the family of the girl they wanted me to marry. The Enjolras heir regretted, in the most formal language he could muster by imitating Father's business correspondence, to inform them that the engagement had been made on false pretenses, that they were under no obligation to abide by an agreement he had not been party to and could not in good conscience uphold, that their daughter could seek a more suitable match, etcetera. Now that I considered the public sphere more-or-less irrelevant to my personal life, Yours Truly began to think more seriously about the private side of life.
At fourteen, I considered the matter dispassionately and concluded, with all the solemnity of a child with no personal experience in the matter, that surely I had been too hard and too harsh on my parents, but that it would never do to end up in such a marriage. Equal partnership was best—let neither party be disproportionately beholden to the other, let neither be master of the other, let it be a common bond of trust, affection, and fraternity. The Republic of Love if not the Republic of government. And if fraternity and equal footing were impossible in marriage—which seemed likely, given the girls of rank I had met and the laws that made the husband master of his wife at last in theory—well, surely someday I would find the Nisus to my Euryalus. The idea was vague, but it made a great deal of sense in my adolescent head.
At fifteen and in full bloom of puberty, these thoughts stopped being a purely theoretical exercise. Several potential Nisuses or Nisi presented himself to my imagination, most of them boys which I had found perfectly uninteresting before. I even shocked the old drawing-master, who taught a bit of art history on the side and was used to teenage boys developing a sudden interest in nymphs and Aphrodites, by becoming passionate about male nudes, athletes and warriors—'I never knew a boy his age to truly appreciate pagan sculpture like he does for its artistic appeal, not its carnal appeal,' he was once heard to say. Matters were compounded when I went home that Christmas of my first university year, attended a ball to please Mother, was presented to a number of beautiful young ladies of rank, and spent most of the evening being enchanted by the company of their brothers. By then I knew full well that this behavior was ridiculous and refused to let my adolescent body's new demands push me into commonplace lecture-hall sodomy; underneath the tempestuous desires of adolescence, I held out hope that someday I would find a boy (and by now it was obvious that it would have to be a boy) with whom Yours Truly could have a deeper partnership along the lines of the one I had once imagined, from my reads of Euryalus and Nisus, Apollo and Hyacinth, Orestes and Pylades... When the time came to go to university we went all four together, as I've said before; and it was a heady time —it was like the door of a cage opening. So happy to be free of the bowing and scraping. We met all sorts of people—idealists and dreamers and poets who wanted to make everybody free. And I was going to do exactly that, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac to help, by my right and left side. I suppose most people guessed who we were—but it didn’t matter; we were students first and foremost."
When he had reached the end of his story, the robber maiden clapped him on the shoulder heartily, and even blinked away a tear, so moved was she by the pains the fair leader had endured for his friend."And you shettled down... flower boxesh... the Café Mushain... revolution... new friendsh, Grand'R, he ish no longer himshelf, he dishappearsh," the robber maiden said in a slurred tone, with a shrug of her shoulders, before she fell once more on his lap, trying to have some rest, but too wide-awake and excited in preparation for the upcoming morning.
The robber princess took her captive by her shoulder and brought him back to bed. They tried to sleep, but sleep didn’t come.
“What are you going to do now?” the robber girl finally asked.
“I will go search for Grantaire,” Enjolras said.
“If you go, I will have to kill you,” the dark robber girl said. "Instantly, but painfully."
“Then I will go and die,” he said firmly.
“I’ve stripped you of your clothes,” the robber girl said. “Naked among the snow you will freeze to death.”
“Then I will go and die,” Enjolras said. “I knew from the start I wouldn’t make it. There’s just no chance a little gentleman all alone could go for a journey like that and actually find the person while having no clues. I knew I would die having made it halfway through. I went for it nonetheless. I couldn’t do otherwise. Learning that Grantaire is still alive, actually finding some kind of clue is already a miracle. I’m happy with it. But I can’t stop. I have to go on. And if it means dying, then I will go and die.”
“This kind of love…” the robber girl exhaled in amazement. “Dying for your beloved… that’s the most romantic thing ever. The act of true love. I’ve always strived to find such love...”
“That... your parents did that for you,” he noted.
“I know,” the swarthy girl nodded. “I mean the other way around. I’ve always wanted to love someone so much I would want to die for them. And seeing this kind of love in you is what made me fall in love with you. So deeply, so desperately… I can’t resist it anymore…” the robber girl nodded at her dagger.
The awakening came abruptly. "Get up!" Éponine said, swinging a slight kick to his solar plexus, making a convulsed Enjolras curl into a ball at first. A loud whistle whipped the morning air, Enjolras jolted from his sleep and grabbing his coat he ran out of the nook. The pure whiteness blinded him momentarily and he held his hand in front of his face, squinting around to get some picture what was the alarm. As the dawn cleared up the skies, Éponine sauntered from her upholstered straw-bed, now completely sober without a trace of a hangover, as nimble as a stray cat (reminding Enjolras, for the umpteenth time, of someone equally dark and jaded).
The following morning, Éponine rose her prisoner while it was still dark. After checking on something outside, the darkhead nodded to herself and made her way to the horses, who shied away from her.
The two rose early and had some breakfast (leftover rabbit stew) as they thought over the problem. Then she jumped out of bed, rushed over to kiss her mother, and flung her arms around the virago; she threw her arms around her mother's neck, clasped her mother by the neck, pinched her in both cheeks, pulled at her eyebrow bristles, and startled her: "How is my dear old bitch? G'day, my own sweet fine li'l dear old hussy; bonjour!"
These are quite uncouth words, and even more uncouth if spoken between mother and daughter (no matter whether it is the daughter who addresses the mother, like here, or vice versa); and, in fact, Enjolras believed at first that the sutler woman would lunge with clenched fists at her child in response to such an exceedingly irreverent address. But Madame Thénardier simply burst into sarcastic laughter, muttering something.
"Argh, 'Ponine, my li'l bratty hussy!" Then, she slapped her daughter right across the face, gave her a few headbutts, and boxed her ears, making Éponine at least slightly wince, yet this was by no means a punishment, or a correction, but rather the opposite of that; those were little Thénardier-style signs of friendship and tokens of endearment, for their displays of affections were wild and of unusual nature. The mother tweaked her daughter's nose, flicked finger-snaps at her nose so that it turned both black and blue, and gave her a few headbutts, but all of it was done out of love. Those were tokens of true robber-mother's love. And then Madame Thénardier scored a right hook on that same maiden's nose so that it not only turned black and blue, but even swelled and bled from the nostrils, but all that was done as signs of friendship, out of sheer affection and pure, true, burning maternal love expressed brigand-style -- that was all done from the purest of pure, loving kindness.
Then, at mid-day, just as Éponine had said, the robber mother turned on the keg-tap and knocked back a little swig from her keg, and then by a second, followed in turn by a third, to warm herself from within: gluck-gluck-gluck! (one sip was good, she thought; two were better; and all good things came in threes)... and then, after draining the keg to the last drop at one single deep draught, she looked all around herself with a puzzled air; then, she lay down, as she had the custom, to take her customary little mid-day nap. Then, as soon as she was settling down for a nap, twice or thrice more, she opened her glazed eyes. At last, her loud roar-like snores came to announce that everything had unfurled exactly as foretold by Éponine.
As soon as Madame Thénardier had tipped off that keg, draining it to the last drop at one fell swoop, and was settling down for her forty winks, then dozed off to sleep, and was taking the first winks of her "little" nap, her daughter, staunching the blood flow from her nostrils, sauntered off towards the prisoner. So as soon as the mother had tipped up the barrel and had had her drink and, after having drunk from the keg, dropped off into a snooze and was taking a little forty winks, the robber girl put her Bowie knife in her pocket and ran to his side, seizing him by the wrist. The robber woman even talked in her sleep. The words she spoke were all dreadful: death, hunt, fight, pillage, raid, steal. And thus, Enjolras wondered if she'd ever had anything kind to say to anybody aside from maybe the semi-spoiled Éponine... who had just tossed into his lap a slightly bloodstained tangle of his rumpled shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, and even the ribbon for his hair, and was commanding him to dress up as soon as possible.
Once he was fully dressed, hair tied back and all, the robber maiden packed Enjolras by the wrist, sheathed her Bowie, and, after opening the door so that it stood a little ajar, she looked back over her shoulder, to see if anyone of the others was coming, while crouching low and glancing left, right, left, right. The blond barely had time to turn his neck before Éponine was back again, and then gone, and then back:
"On ne saurait prendre trop de précautions", quoth she. "Tranquille. Luckily, the coast is clear. I could still find the greatest pleasure for ages in tickling your lilywhite throat quite many more times with this sharp Bowie... I'm still after tickling your gullet a lot more times with my sharp 'little penknife,' because it makes you look funny, I have such a good notion to keep you here, really have this peculiar urge; for, though you try to hide it as much as you can, alors you're so frightened that I'm about to burst in twain and die laughing! Though you don't chicken out like 'Parnasse, and rather freeze, putting on thar brave face of yours... c'est trop drôle! Car alors tu as si peur, que j'en crève de rire! Mais n'importe... But nevermind, no matter -- Ha! And me what? -- who gives a hoot? Nevermind that! So I'll put my best foot forwards, detach a horse off a rope, take you out of doors, set you free and help you outside so that we can run off and return to the North, but it's not without one condition, that is, that I shall carry this storyteller, this rebel leader, to the castle of the Morrigan. Right now, we'll leave this place, so that we'll head up north...! Haven't you listened to what I said... but then you heard for for, like Cassio, I am one of those who talk in their sleep, quite loudly, and you know how to listen, and you were listening! Couldn't sleep a wink with all that chitchat! I suppose you've heard what I told, surely, for I spoke so loud, loud enough, and you were probably eavesdropping, as you always do! Since I was taken away by her, I know the way, more or less, and we will soon find ourselves before the keep of the Green Faery, where your companion is." Éponine was quite restless, really on tenterhooks, heart pounding against her breastbone and rising up to her glottis: on the one hand, racked with insecurity and with her deepest fears of betraying her parents and the Patron-Minette gang; on the other, overflowing with excitement at the prospect of impending adventure. She let this positive excitement override the fears that made her waver and paralysed her. "Alea iacta est!" she finally decided, without stopping to think anymore, no longer mulling upon the question, and decided to leave with Enjolras on horseback.
"Do you engage yourself positively?" Enjolras was still insecure.
"I swear! Robber’s honour! Foi d'Éponine Thénardier! You shall descend in the very courtyard of that keep." She cleared her throat and avoided his eyes, and then added a "Hush" forcefully with a glare. "Don't say anything," she snapped, cross again.
"We won't get in trouble for this, will we?" he asked worriedly, thinking again about what consequences both of them would face as a result of their leaving. Though they hadn't gotten to a good start in their friendship, and she would often be temperamental, Enjolras did feel that, over the past few hours, Éponine had thawed a little and warmed to the fair leader -- her first friend. And Enjolras didn't want a friend to receive punishment or difficulty for helping him on the quest. "If there's another way we can do this," he started, but she shook her head.
"They'll not have a clue I had anything to do with this," she said as her face shifted between being casted in the moonlight's warm glow and the shadows of the tall, imposing pillars that surrounded them. "Most of them are drunk! They won't have any idea what happened tonight and simply assume we ran off. That their li'l girl now all grown up eloped with her Suskewiet. And stole Papa's military gear to make matters worse." She pulled out her knife with her left hand.
Then she suited deeds to words and darted towards the horses' corner. And she loosened the knots in the rope halter that tethered one of the carriage horses claimed in the ambush, a nutbrown gelding with a silver blaze, to a pillar, and outfitted the horseback with a saddle, and a little pillow for a cushion for the fair leader to sit on, behind it, not seeming surprised when the beast immediately danced backward, out of reach. Enjolras watched on, surprised, restraining tears of joy as many as he could. She had decided to help him herself (even while warning him that, if he didn't lie still in bed, she would stick her knife into a vital point of him)!
Éponine eagerly helped him to climb onto horseback, before handing him a small pillow for her to sit on. Next, she led them out into the main hall, where a good number of the robbers were sleeping. Enjolras watched her sneak around the room with surprising finesse, shoving a few loaves of bread and some ham into a small sack that she tied around his wrist.
"Thank you for everything, 'Ponine. I will never forget you or your kindness. You won't be in too much trouble with your mother, will you?"
She smiled softly. "No, Maman is wild and violent but she loves me. I know she does, even if she won't say it." Then she made a dramatic pause; for he was so touched by her thoughtfulness that he became teary-eyed.
"Ah! I cannot suffer that your eyes get teary, Enj, it doesn't suit you at all; you should, maintenant, be in a sunnier mood, since we are gonna find once more your companion. I don't do things half way," she said. Now... Here are Papa's old fur-lined Wellingtons for you," said she, as she took a pair of old, battered, worn-out military boots from the bottom of the pile of provisions the robber band had captured from others, and held them out to him, “for it's getting cold and it's gonna be very cold, bitter cold, freeze-your-balls-off cold, and there will surely be patches of thorns that will tear your breeches to shreds, so try stay as bundled as possible. They'll reach up to your knees indeed. Still, you, you won't freeze. And here's his fancy old bicorn hat, and Maman's big old woolly mittens, for it will get cold as hell, and I don't want you to freeze your wrists off either, or to leave the skin on your pretty palms torn off on the keep doors; here, allons, stick your hands in! They'll almost reach right to your elbows. Put 'em on!" The hat was plumed and decorated with a golden cockade, definitely too fine for a non-commissioned officer, and thus, most likely to be stolen goods; while the equally gold-laced military boots were a bit too wide for the stripling's slender legs, if it weren't for the soft, fluffy lining of rabbitskin that Madame Thénardier had lined them with on the inside, most surely to keep her husband's feet warm and healthy during the Russian winter.
The Sarge's feet were just a little bigger, but the boots that Enjolras had hastily put on, before donning the bicorn, were still warm from his feet.
"There! Now you look just like my dear old Papa!" Éponine told him with a flourish. "At least when it comes for the hat and the footwear..."
"More like Puss in Boots, actually..." Enjolras muttered as he donned the thick winter mittens of wool, lined with the same fluffy rabbitskin within, that reached so that his arms entered into them half-way up to the elbows, but the robber girl just scoffed.
"At least your li'l lily hands look as nasty as old Maman's big ugly bear-paws! You ought to be looking delighted, overjoyed, right, Sir? You oughtta look pleased now. You oughtta be delighted! I'm so glad I could help in some way. And here also is your pack that we took from you. Not only are our mutual friend Shakespeare's tragedies back in there; I have put two loaves of ration bread and some salted meat inside it, both ham and bacon, for the road so that we needn't starve. And there's this li'l keg of eau-de-vie inside, too... for we shan't die of thirst either, shall we? Here, take these provisions along, so that we won't starve or die of thirst." In a quite uncommon gesture, most likely spurred by trou normand consumption, she gave back the knapsack; she wasn’t looking his way as she spoke and busied herself with tying the opening of the pack, to keep the provisions inside safe. Enjolras looked at the bag and back at her in confusion.
"'Ponine, stop! I have to leave now. I can’t stay any longer. I must-” His attempt to sound resolute and imposing was cut off by his backpack thrusted roughly in his arms. If he didn’t catch it, it would fall down.
Enjolras found himself near to sobbing in gratitude, and he asked the robber maiden if she would not leave this place and come with him on his journey. "Truly, you are so kind,'Ponine. Perhaps you should escape this place, this life. You are better than it. For this life that you are living now is no life for a child. You are better than it."
In response, Éponine grinned fiercely, and shook her head, as she took up, and slung over her shoulder, the musket her father had carried for so many years.
Ducking her head shyly, she shook it. "I have been cutting men's throats all my adolescent life, I am merciless as the winter, and I have not been a child for almost a decade. Those happy days shall nevermore return... No... I may not like this life and I know I am not well-suited for it but all of the people I love are right here. Still, I have been beginning to grow weary of this life I lead in a ruin in the middle of the woods (here she yawned slightly); so maybe, at the end of our quest, if we ever make it through, with this musket and these franc notes I have pocketed from Maman's purse (here she winked an eye at the fair student and produced the bundle of banknotes), I can go south to the Camargue, or most surely to Montmartre, or to the Left Bank, where all the art and where all the excitement is forever filling their hearts... though it's unfair indeed that no woman can enter University —I wish I could someday, and I hope it comes true after that Revolution of yours!—, and try my luck at being an honest writer or actress; and perhaps also demonstrate for women's rights to vote and to a higher education." Then, when these provisions in the knapsack were tied on her back over the gun barrel, she frowned, and studied him carefully.
"Once we go out, we can’t stop. Can’t look back. If we do any of that, we’ll never make it to her castle. Y'know, I could still use some pleasure in tickling that lilywhite throat of yours with this Bowie knife of mine, and bursting into laughter at your reactions. I have a good notion to keep you here... But who gives a hoot anyway? Nevermind that! You oughtta be delighted! Keep your spirits up... we shall find that friend of yours, shan't we? And, in his absence, such a stripling still needs a companion worth fighting for; someone quick and strong and able to survive in the wild, someone who knows that way up north, someone who would gladly fend off some obnoxious korrigans while you set your squire free... For who would care when the others wake up tomorrow and find the two of us gone? Nowadays, Maman and Papa know I'm nobody's fool and I can fend for myself! I’m really bad at this. I won’t say goodbye. For we're in this together!" The girl squeezed Enjolras' knee with a sparkle in her eye.
Then, she unwrapped a bundle and handed it to him, and Enjolras saw that it was his peacoat, his gift from the Fauchelevents. She stood in front of the fair leader, effectively barricading his field of vision completely, the smug troubadour smile on her lips and a familiar crimson velvet coat wrapped under her elbow.
"You'll need this," she said gruffly, "for it will be very cold. You’ll need it more than me.” She threw the coat over his shoulders and kissed him heartily on both cheeks. The loud smooch almost popped his ears. “Thanks for borrowing it to me, chéri!” Borrowed? How..? And then, somewhat embarrassed, she added, "I'm afraid the others have already sold your other horses." She was donning her old dark overcoat, which the fair leader had just given her back in exchange.
The fair leader, as he donned his warm crimson coat once more, knew it was much more likely that they had eaten his horses, but he didn't want to upset her. Restraining himself, he accepted the gifts with thanks, as formally as a commanding officer would have thanked someone under his command. This pacified Éponine's pompous side, and she smiled contentedly, glad to be part of the story. "That's all right," he said hastily, anxious to be gone before the other robbers realized what had happened. He hesitated, though, just for a moment. "'Ponine—"
But Éponine was already striding away, her back to Enjolras, and there was nothing he could say to change what had happened; she half-opened the rickety gates, so that they stood ajar, before tying the pack of provisions tighter to her own back, and that little pillow as a cushion behind her saddle for the blond to comfortably sit on to the horse's back, and seating herself on the saddle in front, riding astride her steed, with one leg on either side, and turning its head northwards. "You ought to be looking delighted, right? Now hop on, Sir Galahad," she motioned to Enjolras, as she helped him up behind her. "And hold tight to my back! Well, don’t just stand there like a fool! Hurry up!"
In response, he didn’t hesitate a moment more and climbed up on horseback with Éponine's help. She lifted or hoisted him on top of the cushion and on horseback, much to his awe, then carefully tied him in place, attaching him safely into place with leather belts. He stepped into the cradle of her hands, and, letting him use her shoulders as a stepping place for the hop in between, she swung him over the bony horseback before attaching him into place; she had the good sense to tie the rider on, for him not to fall from horseback, and indeed to give him even her own little pillow for a cushion to comfortably sit on. Once he was up, he glanced down on her with strange mixed emotions, as she looked back over her shoulder, to ensure that no one had returned.
"I don't do things half way," she said. "On ne saurait prendre trop de précautions!" said she... and gasped the last syllable when she noticed that he was also looking at her.
Their eyes met and the fair leader really wished she was his sister. He wished he could introduce her personally to all of his lieutenants. He wished he could spend an evening with her, together with his friends at the backroom of the Café Musain, or together with his parents in the Manoir Enjolras' garden. But something in her gaze told that she’d not appreciate such unrealistic things. She was a woman of action and sound thinking. She smiled awkwardly and caressed his side for reassurance as if she didn’t know how it felt under her fingers. Once more she was a complete bundle of uncertainty.
As he mounted and clung to the maiden who sat in front, she drew her sharp Bowie and, with a single swing of the left arm, she cut through the tether or rope halter that tied the horse to the pillar, then shook the reins and yelled:
"And mind that we don’t dawdle on the way. Allons-y donc!!"
Their steed at first walked slowly, hooves making only the softest of clopping against the stone floors as Éponine led them across to the archway, where a set of large wooden doors would have once stood, but now were torn off their hinges, leaning haphazardly against the archway. Once she was standing at the side of it, vaulting deftly to ride astride behind the blond on her makeshift pillow-saddle, she turned to look at Enjolras with another smile.
“Good luck. Run.”
And when she gave a swift slap to the horse's rump, as if it was his cue, the gelding fired off like a flash, as if shot from a cannon.Thus they bounded away; over stumps and stones and through the forest, leaping over swamps as their mount ran as fast as four legs would allow.
Instantly, they set off at breakneck speed, and Éponine flung her arms out to open the off-torn doors completely wide; Enjolras threw himself forwards and wrapped his arms around her waist as tightly as he could as they started careening, departing as if shot from a cannon, launching themselves out of the château, then out of the garden, then through the woods; first following her through the darkness of the ruin, then leaping over the hedges and bushes, over ruined statues and dried-up fountains, in two great bounds, and then out into the star-lit night, through the forest. He stretched out his hand, quite bare now that he had given his gloves away, and the robber-maiden took it. "Allons-y," she said, "and I wish you good luck."
In a moment he had donned the rabbitskin mittens in haste and they were outside, in the woods, plunging over stumps and stones, leaping off over bushes and stubbled fields and fallen trees, over hedges and ditches, as fast as they could, through the deep forest underbrush.
"Free! We're free!" the blond panted joyfully as they ran, but the dark maiden, who had just sheathed the Bowie in her pocket once more, clamped her hand over those comely features, trying to shush him.
"Not yet," she hissed. "We've still got the robbers to get past." But her warning came too late—already the alarm was sounding, figures shouting and running through the trees.
A loud whistle whipped the morning air. Madame Thénardier, now completely sober with no trace of a hangover, stood on a small mound and shouted orders on her men, who had returned from their recon mission and rushed back and forth. Everyone was gathering something, people were assembling. The fair leader himself was about to ask, when the virago caught sight of him and her daughter, and stormed off in their pursuit, on foot.
"What's going on?" Enjolras asked, now that they were at a certain distance from the lair. “Ah, the blokes are back, they’re all packing up. They’re moving on to a new location," replied Éponine, plunging the spurs into the sides of their steed. “The camp is leaving. Hurry! She’s not in a good mood today.”
Enjolras could barely connect the dots, the fright of him getting even a bit further away from Grantaire caused him goosebumps. He couldn’t let that happen anymore. He would make final appeals and if need be, he’d fight. Even if he was unarmed and not much of a fighter. He scanned the surroundings, trying to figure out in panic how he could escape from the camp the easiest way.
As he glanced at her sideways, Enjolras could swear he saw a glint, a snicker in her eyes. The dark maiden's wavering had vanished as quickly as it had come over her; her general of bandits demeanour back in full force. A lioness sending him off. This silent approval filled the fair student with pride and confidence; Éponine was strong and recognized his strength in return. Enjolras straightened on horseback and felt as if he grew several inches. With everyone's confidence put in him, he was growing more confident.
Yet this was not yet the time to be safe and sound —as we have said before, already the alarm was sounding, figures shouting and running through the treetrunks.
To the two young people's dismay, the robbers' leader appeared directly in their path, snarling, and nearly took the horse's head off with a vicious swing of her cutlass; the steed was forced to wheel around and race back the way they had come, Madame Thénardier close on their heels. On level ground, the riders would have outpaced the brute in a heartbeat, but in the trees, they were forced to go carefully to avoid catching their hair in the branches, and they barely stayed ahead of that wicked, curved blade.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!! OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!!!" roared the virago in their pursuit, slashing her way through the woods, as she stormed through the underbrush, by cutting down branches to left and right.
To the two young people's dismay, the robbers' leader appeared directly in their path, snarling, and nearly took the horse's head off with a vicious swing of her cutlass; the steed was forced to wheel around and race back the way they had come, Madame Thénardier close on their heels. On level ground, the riders would have outpaced the brute in a heartbeat, but in the trees, they were forced to go carefully to avoid catching their hair in the branches, and they barely stayed ahead of that wicked, curved blade. The gelding soon began to tire, and Enjolras feared his weight would cost the beast his life.
Just as he was beginning to think they were lost, the horse reared up unexpectedly and dodged to one side, unseating him and the maiden who showed him the way. Enjolras flew into a clump of furze and landed with a grunt on top of Éponine, flustering both of them for a mere instant, but they barely had time to think about whether they'd been hurt; when Madame Thénardier saw that she had frightened the beast, and most surely killed her own beloved daughter, the only child she had left, leaping to conclusions, a cold fist seized her own heart.
For a long moment, Enjolras and Éponine were transfixed by the dreadful sight. Then the robber sank to the ground, and the cutlass with her. It was the most terrifying thing either of the riders had ever seen. The two young people held their breath, watching their master's body crumble under the terrible weight of her dismay. Before she could scramble to her feet and try to run, Madame Thénardier's body came to rest in the furze and moved no more for a while, until she came to her senses and found that both riders and steed had vanished into thin air.
She was already striding away, her back to the North, and there was nothing she could say to change what had happened, nothing but to cross her fingers and hope that at least her dear 'Ponine was still alive. During her mother's seizure, the maiden, after jumping onto the horseback and helping the blond southerner up as well, had turned the horse's head northward and urged him forward, blinking against the stinging sleet as it began to fall thickly, laying a new carpet of white for their journey.
"You saved me," he said at last, still not able to believe it. But Éponine only shook her head, unable to look at him in the eye.
And then both of them turned and galloped away through the great, dark forest, their steed's hoofbeats taking them north, towards the edge of France.
One could not even follow them with one's eyes; leaping over thorny bushes and gnarly roots, storming across valleys, and rivers, and heathland, and marshland, and cultivated countryside, as fast as they could go, and they never stopped to look back; as if they were riding a pegasus, not being stopped by the howling of the night-wind nor by that of the wolves behind them, in the forest depths. The robbers' den was made up of forest and marsh that shaded into its landscape... Wolves howled in the forest's depths, and ravens screeched harshly in the branches overhead, but Éponine kept on clinging to the reins, unafraid: she had grown up in the wilderness; she knew all the ways of the forest; she understood the souls of the beasts and the plants and the fungi that lived in it; and she loved it. On and on they sped very swiftly, over the rocky paths of the forest, through marshes and plains, all at a break-neck speed, as fast as she could spur the horse onwards. Faster and faster they ran, through the night, through the day... It seemed that they were riding a pegasus, flying rather than galloping; fire was breathed out of their steed's nostrils. Sparks of fire seemed to fly from the horseshoes and reflect in Éponine's eyes, while Enjolras clung dearly to her waist for his life, the hoofbeats and the heartbeat of the dark maiden throbbing within his head.
Just then did he comprehend how much force there was hidden in behind her kind eyes and watched amazed how the colourful particles rushed from underneath the hooves. Day turned to night within a heartbeat, the woods were gone... their steed had slowed from a full-on sprint to a brisk jog once they had cleared the part of the forest that the bandits lived in.
"Ah, oh, voilà our North Star! Look, Enj, look at it flash; how brightly it's shining!"
And, upon beholding that sight by night, following the North Star, she shook the reins and doubled their speed across the frozen wastes, running on faster than ever -- night and day. He just clutched to her back purely on instinct, since the ride itself didn’t seem dangerous. Although it was ferocious, their bodies felt light and weren’t fighting with the air. In fact it seemed like the air flowed around them like a steady current. It was contagious now, the happiness that had come with their freedom. It was like seeing the sun for the first time after being shrouded in darkness for a decade. It brought with it new clarity.
There was something wrong with the time, neither one could put a finger on it. Just the full moon, round as a polished silver coin, watched on as they cantered through the land.
All day we waited for mother to get drunk,
As soon as she fell asleep, we both crept outside.
I untied a horse and helped Enj to mount him,
and swapping boots and our mittens, we bade crime goodbye.
She adjusted her knapsack, which became lighter as they spent their supplies, and made their way through the autumn forest. The rain subdued and night pulled its curtain over the land, bathing it in darkness.
Yet still they felt hope welling through their chests as the air soared through their hair and washed their faces. Enjolras couldn't believe he was free, and neither Éponine that she had finally flown the coop. Both of them had expected to remain with the bandits for much longer, but her goodness had let them escape.
Off they bounded away, over bushes and stubbled fields and briers, over stumps and stones, straight through the great forest, over swamps and across plains, as fast as their steed could run. They crossed through the great dark forest, then clearings, fields, marshes, plains, up valleys, across rivers, once more through profound woodlands, through those territories she knew uniquely well, all the way to their goal; over stumps and stones, away through the great forest, over marshes and heather, as fast as their steed could go and as quickly as they could, as if their mount had wings... and away they went very swiftly, over the rocky paths of the forest, through marshes and plains, all at a break-neck speed. Through the forest and across the great plains, as fast as they could; and suddenly the sky was all filled with light. Then Éponine was sure she saw some blue lights like flames quiver up in the night sky on the horizon and thus she grabbed deep inside her reserve for the last bits of strength. Neither she nor Enjolras didn’t feel so cold anymore, perhaps it was the heat from moving and the effort or excitement. Hope filled both of their hearts as they pursued those elusive faery lights; neither one couldn’t wait for finding the nearest person and ask the questions which burned upon their lips.
They galloped like that, without allowing themselves any rest or respite, riding in that stormy pace for six days and seven nights, and the two loaves were eaten, and the ham and bacon within the pack were gone as well, and the eau-de-vie had been drained to the last drop to stave the cold away.
Great balls of greenish light, and sickly green streaks of light, ripped through the heavens, rolled crackling across the sky above.
Six days and seven nights later, and far to the north, at the end of the trail of faery lights, they stopped at an old, crumbling abbey, beside a lake. It looked quite empty, as though no one could have lived there; the roof was entirely gone, and the walls were made more of holes than wall. They went inside anyway, for both questers were quite tired and hungry, and, led by the Thénardier girl, who had stooped to pick something golden along the shores of the lake, they decided to encamp for the day.
The closer they got to the lights, the clearer it was that it wasn’t any ordinary land. There were only ruins before them, but still a lot of commotion. The two questers arrived at that large lake. It was full of life, the frogs croaking for their dear life in spite of the cold (it was about time for their winter sleep), floating lights above the water - the faery dust. It was pure magic, but they knew it was real, more real than rêverie itself. They did not stop until they stood in front of the ruined Gothic abbey.
At first Enjolras, so worn-out that he could barely stand upright and even speak clearly, looked around the ruins, all over the place and at the broken faces of virgins and saints crushed during the Revolution, while wondering why Éponine had chosen this for a campsite... when suddenly she smiled, as if she could read his thoughts, and beckoned towards a low, rough wooden door; to enter, one had to nearly slither over a floor littered with what looked like a carpeting of bones and thorns. Through this door he followed her into a cramped tunnel that led into the cellars below the abbey.
At last they reached another door, even smaller than the first, and when this was opened they found themselves in a warm, comfortable chamber hung with velvet draperies. In the center of this room, a quarter of an hour after their arrival, a fire burned brightly on a little hearth, slices of bread and chanterelle mushrooms were being toasted golden on the hearthstones, and a teakettle whistled cheerily. It was so warm that the girl immediately shrugged off her mantle and fur-lined boots, and the fair leader followed suit, taking off his coat and boots. Then she poured Enjolras a hot cup of spearmint tea with milk, and, after she poured herself another, gave them both hot bread and butter, topped with chanterelles, to eat. As Enjolras knew from days of riding and nights of encamping alongside her, she had not only had the caution to attach him to the horseback and even give him a cushion to sit on, or to gather durable provisions, enough for two, and attach them on horseback as well, and not only given him his coat back; she knew how to gather kindling and light a good fire, how to milk cows behind the cowherds' backs, how to find edible mushrooms and berries, and herbs for brewing tea, and how to tell them from the poisonous ones, and she had not wasted any time when it came to gathering whatever she could find to eat, or brew tea out of, around the lake. She had dragged her blade along the stone floor to make sparks. Then tossed birchbark and pine-cones around them, until the flame was large enough to be fed with proper kindling; the gift of her company had ensured rapid and expert coverage of the vast distance between the felons' den and the very precinct of the Belle Dame's palace.
It was relevant to perceive the differences between the two of them. He had lived since birth in a large mansion, and been wealthy, and raised, though not with siblings, with a decent education, even attaining a University degree, and, though his upbringing had been so sheltered, knew how to behave himself well in society; but already she, his polar opposite, seemed more interesting, because she did not know how to behave herself or what decency was, for she had been spoilt by her parents, living in village taverns or abandoned castles in the middle of the forests, together with a band of other scoundrels and miscreants and vagabonds and whatever of less than desirable reputation. She had been pampered to the point of commanding all the others, even her own mother, the one who de facto ruled the roost, thus contriving to subjugate authority, imposing her own will and desires. Even though at first his situation as a prisoner had seemed unfavourable, Enjolras had discovered, with the sister he'd never had, a brand new light in which to see everything. If this rescue journey was also one towards a full, admirable coming of age, it would have been incomplete without sympathetic experience of the lives of the marginalised, the helpless, the incapacitated, the criminal, incurring gratitude and affection; not censure and judgement; to accomodate the existences and even the personalities of those of less firm clay than himself, of those inclined by chance and skill to err. And thus, they had managed to conquer one another, to help one another back to the freedom of the road up north, and were helping each other on the last leg of this quest... She exhibited an efficiency and resolve, as well as an intolerance to gentler emotions (though her façade had cracked under the influence of strong drink, nights ago) that gave her a somewhat masculine, or rather androgynous, cast, not unlike Enjolras' own. This robber-girl turned out to be the greatest facilitator of their travels: the gift of her company had ensured rapid and expert coverage of the vast distance between the felons' den and the very precinct of the Belle Dame's palace.
She’s far from inconspicuous. She stands head and shoulders taller than many women. Maybe some say her nose is too long and that she is far too slender and that her hands are so twisted. Maybe some say she’s too plain. But I’ve seen her laugh. I’ve seen joy in her dark eyes. That is among the things that vindicates each day. She may have failed in her particular love magic, and we continue our quest together --this time she finds it right to be friends.
When they were comfortable, the fair leader inquired whether this was a royalist hideout, where exiles headed for the United Kingdom during the Revolution had spent the night. Éponine nodded, and told him that she had found it by chance, when exploring the woods around the village of Montfermeil as a child, while looking for a chanterelle-picking place; she laughed her beautiful, musical laugh.
With that, she went to their pack corner and took down Shakespeare, opening the volume where it was inscribed with wonderful characters and the title "La tragédie du roi Lear" (what better to peruse in a royalist hideout?), and began to read as if she were quite finished talking to him. But Enjolras' soulful eyes begged so hard for his sake that she couldn't help smiling her sad and knowing smile, and blinking with those clever, wistful eyes of hers.
"Oh, we poor dears," said the Thénardier girl with a sigh, the next day in the morning before their departure. "I'm afraid we have a long way to go yet. We must travel more than two miles further... Some of the things that the Fair Folk do can be set right with soil, others with ice, and other kinds with fire, but the most wicked things they do can only be set right with blood, and no blood is as strong upon this Earth as that of a pure young person..." She drew Enjolras into a corner and whispered to him: "Oh, Enj... and what I said in the Patron-Minette band's lair when I was sleeping... is actually true. The Morrigan, though a warrior goddess, needs no weapons - her powers alone are enough to take on the enemy. They say that her battle-cry is as loud as that of ten thousand men! And your sweetheart, your friend, your whatever Grand'R really is with La Belle Dame Sans Merci, but you must understand, he finds it a delightful place and it appears to him that there is nothing better than that; everything there so much to his taste and his liking that he believes himself to inhabit the finest, the most charming, the most exquisite place in all possible worlds, because he has everything he could wish for... but it is only because his heart has been poisoned by her evil blood. This is because at least he has received into his throat a few drops of her blood, that have entered all the way into his heart, and they keep on circulating throughout his system. Fey blood denatures feelings and ideas, as I know from first experience, right? So he was hit very hard. A great quantity of that liquid sits in his slowly and quietly dying heart, he feels neither cold, nor hope, nor joy, nor pain, nor any attachment but a thirst for this drink. All it takes is a droplet down one's throat to cause destruction and despair everywhere that person goes. It also makes him criticise everything. But it's the Green Faery's kisses that draw the life out of him. She has succeeded in making him forget his past and all his loved ones... Almost every feeling in him is already dead, his heart is frozen... he is going to die soon! The air of that realm is as necessary to his life as oxygen once was to his mortal body, and is to ours. Though permittted to travel to the mortal world and beyond, he will not long survive outside that keep, and each exercise will further weaken him. First and foremost, these drops of fey blood must be taken out, or else he will never be a human being worthy of being called one again, and the Lady of the Green Kirtle will retain, for evermore, her power over him."
"So if it somehow made its way into Grantaire's heart..." Enjolras thought back to when the savateur had suddenly changed from that caring and thoughtful artist roommate to a cruel and dismissive stranger who wanted nothing to do with anyone else. The blond breathed a sigh, closing his eyes. "He... was...?" Enjolras felt that his own heart sank. If only he'd known! He would have tried to help Grantaire instead of letting go. Even have his own derrière ripped apart by the savateur's member until the blood flowed. He had to change back into the young man he'd been, not the terrible and destructive freak into which he'd turned. That wasn't Grantaire. That was... an empty shell of his former self with no real Grantaire inside. He dropped his eyes and looked away, but she cupped his chin and made him raise his gaze to hers, night-black with day-blue, against his will.
"So if it somehow made its way into Grantaire's heart..." Enjolras thought back to when the savateur had suddenly changed from that caring and thoughtful artist roommate to a cruel and dismissive stranger who wanted nothing to do with anyone else. The blond breathed a sigh, closing his eyes. "He... was...?" Enjolras felt that his own heart sank. If only he'd known! He would have tried to help Grantaire instead of letting go. Even have his own derrière ripped apart by the savateur's member until the blood flowed. He had to change back into the young man he'd been, not the terrible and destructive freak into which he'd turned. That wasn't Grantaire. That was... an empty shell of his former self with no real Grantaire inside. He dropped his eyes and looked away, but she cupped his chin and made him raise his gaze to hers, night-black with day-blue, against his will.
"I wonder if I might ask you something," said the fair leader, who was overawed by that country and had spent days and nights with the robber maiden, and therefore knew something of her wisdom and skills. Éponine's clever dark eyes twinkled, but she said nothing. "You are so clever, and I do not only mean cultured and well-read... You are a maiden of unusual skills," the fair leader said, for, having lived an entire decade and a half in a mansion as a sheltered heir, he knew pluck when he beheld it. "You’re so clever and strong, you know great secrets I had always wondered about,” he replied, as sincerely as he could, so she could trust that statement not to be a flattery. "Like... you can hold your liquor, for sure, and tell poisonous mushrooms and berries from the edible ones, and I've seen you light fires more than once using this Bowie knife of yours. So... do you know of a way that we may conquer this power, or attain a greater power to break this charm? Or give us the strength of a small army to fight... to subjugate, to overcome the Green Faery and Grantaire? Or at least can you give us something that might give Grantaire regain power over himself on his own? Like... bestow some charmed cup or potent herb that may restore him to his senses?"
Enjolras whispered as he sipped his milk tea. The thought of Éponine gathering chanterelles and blueberries led to that of a certain equally catlike dark boy pilfering apples and citrus fruits behind the backs of orchard owners. In fact, while reading the story of Euryalus and Nisus in the gazebo of the estate gardens on a certain Mediterranean winter afternoon, the child heir had once seen such a boy, a bit older than he was himself, who had climbed up the garden wall of the Manoir Enjolras, snatched a few lemons from the branch that hung above the wall, and hastily hidden them, tucking the fruits into the cleavage of his oversized and sun-bleached striped Marseillais sailor shirt, as he nimbly leapt from the top of the wall, landing on his feet like a cat, and ran away, shooed away by a gardener with the longest and sharpest of pruning shears. Of course the only child of M. and Mme. Enjolras would keep the fact that he had eagerly watched the whole incident a secret from his parents and servants, and never even told his closest friends about it. It had been merely for an instant that the dark gamin caught the attention of the little blond scion and vice versa, and who would ever have said...? This remembrance of Grantaire, and maybe of the fact that prompted him to ask that rhetorical question, was full of insecurity when it came to facing the supernatural.
Enjolras whispered as he sipped his milk tea. The thought of Éponine gathering chanterelles and blueberries led to that of a certain equally catlike dark boy pilfering apples and citrus fruits behind the backs of orchard owners. In fact, while reading the story of Euryalus and Nisus in the gazebo of the estate gardens on a certain Mediterranean winter afternoon, the child heir had once seen such a boy, a bit older than he was himself, who had climbed up the garden wall of the Manoir Enjolras, snatched a few lemons from the branch that hung above the wall, and hastily hidden them, tucking the fruits into the cleavage of his oversized and sun-bleached striped Marseillais sailor shirt, as he nimbly leapt from the top of the wall, landing on his feet like a cat, and ran away, shooed away by a gardener with the longest and sharpest of pruning shears. Of course the only child of M. and Mme. Enjolras would keep the fact that he had eagerly watched the whole incident a secret from his parents and servants, and never even told his closest friends about it. It had been merely for an instant that the dark gamin caught the attention of the little blond scion and vice versa, and who would ever have said...? This remembrance of Grantaire, and maybe of the fact that prompted him to ask that rhetorical question, was full of insecurity when it came to facing the supernatural.
"The power of...!" she laughed her beautiful, musical laugh. "That would be of very little use." With that, she went to the pack corner once more and took down Shakespeare, opening the volume where it was inscribed with wonderful characters and the title "La tragédie du roi Lear"(what better to peruse in a royalist hideout?), and began to read as if she were quite finished talking to him. She only turned around when she had finished reading. But Enjolras' soulful eyes begged so hard for his sake that she couldn't help smiling her sad and knowing smile, and blinking with those clever, wistful eyes of hers.
"But you can give us some strength, right?" he asked with a pout. "A - a weapon of some kind, any kind, to help her release Grantaire?"
“Nonsense!” the robber girl shook her head and said rudely. "How dare you wish for no greater power than you have already...?!" she slapped him across the face, causing Enjolras to stroke his bruised right cheekbone, as she winked an eye and resumed. "Don’t you see how strong that is? How many obstacles you have overcome, Enjolras, and how well you have gotten through the wide world, alone as you are? This little lad here left Paris on foot, on his own, don't you see, and yet all kinds of people are forced to serve him, and, in his gold-braided red waistcoat, he's already walked a lot through bitter experience; crossed the northern half of France unscathed, on his own two feet! Does he look helpless to yours truly? He is a weapon! Survived being kidnapped by bandits and talked his way to freedom for the both of us. You cannot receive any power greater than you now have, which consists in your own courage and the nobility of your loving heart. It is only your pure heart that will be able to save him. There is no-one and nothing else." She was greatly affected by his plight, as seen by her at last earnest expression, while Enjolras frowned at her words, not altogether comfortable with her way of describing his quest; she sensed this, and smiled. “There is nothing to be ashamed of being called pure, and it has more meanings than you could ever understand. 'Tis not from others that we can obtain this power. The strength we both need is something we've already got; it comes to us from our selves, it resides in here, deep in here, it's in our hearts; it consists in the fact that we are young and full of resolve," she prodded his chest at left nipple height with an index finger, and glanced at him. “The queen is a very powerful being,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Quite frankly, if you were anyone else, I would discourage you from going on this suicide mission.”
Leading his little society and planning the Revolution, Enjolras was everything: confident, beautiful, skilled... But Grantaire made him dizzier than pirouettes, wilder than river rapids, and shyer than buttercups. Grantaire just took that perfect Enjolras and made a mess of him. And he loved every minute of it. There was no epiphany or shocking realization about it. Loving the one he sought to free came to him as easily as breathing, as singing...
"But I was not alone," Enjolras protested with a childish pout. "For Combeferre volunteered to take the place of lieutenant leader, and he is still standing in for me as leader of our friends at the Musain, and a certain robber maiden saved me from a cut throat in the forest, and freed me from captivity.""But you can give us some strength, right?" he asked with a pout. "A - a weapon of some kind, any kind, to help her release Grantaire?"
“Nonsense!” the robber girl shook her head and said rudely. "How dare you wish for no greater power than you have already...?!" she slapped him across the face, causing Enjolras to stroke his bruised right cheekbone, as she winked an eye and resumed. "Don’t you see how strong that is? How many obstacles you have overcome, Enjolras, and how well you have gotten through the wide world, alone as you are? This little lad here left Paris on foot, on his own, don't you see, and yet all kinds of people are forced to serve him, and, in his gold-braided red waistcoat, he's already walked a lot through bitter experience; crossed the northern half of France unscathed, on his own two feet! Does he look helpless to yours truly? He is a weapon! Survived being kidnapped by bandits and talked his way to freedom for the both of us. You cannot receive any power greater than you now have, which consists in your own courage and the nobility of your loving heart. It is only your pure heart that will be able to save him. There is no-one and nothing else." She was greatly affected by his plight, as seen by her at last earnest expression, while Enjolras frowned at her words, not altogether comfortable with her way of describing his quest; she sensed this, and smiled. “There is nothing to be ashamed of being called pure, and it has more meanings than you could ever understand. 'Tis not from others that we can obtain this power. The strength we both need is something we've already got; it comes to us from our selves, it resides in here, deep in here, it's in our hearts; it consists in the fact that we are young and full of resolve," she prodded his chest at left nipple height with an index finger, and glanced at him. “The queen is a very powerful being,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Quite frankly, if you were anyone else, I would discourage you from going on this suicide mission.”
“But,” she raised that same index finger to shush his protests, “you are not just anyone. You are a very persistent man. You have the most powerful magic of all: love. Love will always find a way. You do love this person, right?”
He thought about radiant days on fields of lavender, of dark-haired young men with stubbly faces, of bright orange flowers and the hands that planted them, of galettes golden warm as the sun and the hands that flipped them. La Marseillaise and legalese, Marie Brizard and barmaids. Love, he realised, was in the little things.Leading his little society and planning the Revolution, Enjolras was everything: confident, beautiful, skilled... But Grantaire made him dizzier than pirouettes, wilder than river rapids, and shyer than buttercups. Grantaire just took that perfect Enjolras and made a mess of him. And he loved every minute of it. There was no epiphany or shocking realization about it. Loving the one he sought to free came to him as easily as breathing, as singing...
"That was nothing - or it must have been chance, was it?" she smirked.
"I would not have got far without Courfeyrac either, for he directed me to Marius and Cosette, and they gave me provisions and fine horses and a fine attelage - conspicuous enough for me to get captured by a certain band of brigands; and now you yourself are giving me direction and advice; a certain robber maiden who was ready to grant my wishes."
As he spoke, he realized that it was the truth. He had felt so terribly alone since Grantaire's departure, and felt alone, in truth, even before he disappeared, from the day that he began to drink that bright green liquor that entered his heart and turned him cold and unfeeling; but at every stage along this journey, there had always been someone to offer aid and friendship.
"That is true," the dark maiden conceded as she packed in Shakespeare, the remaining bread, the cups, and the kettle, "but the fey blood in your friend's heart can be removed by you and you alone. All I can tell you is what I have. I can give you directions, show you the way to go, fight for your sake to clear your path into the fortress. But if you can’t save your roommate, no-one can. If you absolutely cannot penetrate all by yourself into the Green Faery's domain and take her blood out of Grantaire's heart yourself, nous n'y saurions que faire, nous autres. This quest will surely make you bleed, and you must ensure that he kisses your wounds; and when he has drunk your blood, the charm will fall away from him. But if you survive the ordeal I do not know." Her voice wavered for an instant, ere it turned firm once again. "Now... Two miles from here the Lady's garden begins. I will take you as far as that, and we'll dismount next to the last living tree that marks the edge of her realm, a large holly bush that yields red berries like droplets of blood; but from there, you must go forward on your own." She tossed Enjolras' peacoat and winter accessories back into his lap and began to dress herself. “There is another story-thread about the Killer Queen that perhaps you ought to hear,” quoth she, her back turned to the blond as she donned her breeches, then her shirt and overcoat, and flung the musket across her back.
Her voice had taken on the cadence of a song. “In the Killer Queen’s court time passes differently. There are many tales of men and women coming into the Queen’s realm, spending what they think is an evening there, and returning to the outside world to find a hundred years have passed. Their families are dead and gone. Everything they knew crumbled away into dust. Once we enter, Enj, even if we can save both of you and be free of that place—it could cost the three of us everything.”
Her voice had taken on the cadence of a song. “In the Killer Queen’s court time passes differently. There are many tales of men and women coming into the Queen’s realm, spending what they think is an evening there, and returning to the outside world to find a hundred years have passed. Their families are dead and gone. Everything they knew crumbled away into dust. Once we enter, Enj, even if we can save both of you and be free of that place—it could cost the three of us everything.”
The fair leader, as he donned the boots and mittens and bicorn hat after having buttoned his coat, agreed that this was perfectly fair, and, moreover, he asked her if they could not leave immediately, for the knowledge that they were but a few miles from finding Grantaire at last made him too eager to sit still any longer. Throughout the nighttime, by the fireside, both of them had warmed themselves cozy, as they had drunk and eaten and slept together.
"Allez, Enj! This way."
He uncovered a familiar door in the wall, it had dead leaves scattered around it though. It was clear, the hideout ended behind it.
The door opened and both young questers stepped out dressed for the autumn towards the yellow covered ground, leaves making a soft carpet for them to walk on.
"Allons-y donc!" With that, she clapped her hands together and led them back through the small wooden door, up the tunnel, and out into the crumbling ruin of the abbey; they all ventured forth and out into the cold once more, and once they were outside beneath the dark sky that always comes before the red of the dawn. Then she cut the horse's tether with her Bowie and swung more onto horseback. With one easy lift, Enjolras was picked up and placed on horseback. Before he could answer, he had been once more hefted up behind her, and they had begun to gallop, even quicker than before, faster than ever -- both by night and by day.
After timidly peeking over the horizon, the sun had begun to climb the sky. The robber girl had insisted that they leave first thing in the morning, as daylight in the winter was minimal up North, and they'd be racing against the clock to arrive at the Green Faery's while it was still light.
And Enjolras had already seen all the way through the dark maiden and found that she was a gem in the rough: elle était libre, rieuse, franche, avisée... aux allures garçonnières... et le regardait d'un air frondeur. The fair leader would, indeed, have fallen immediately in love with her, if his heart did not belong to Liberty (for he still did not realise that it also belonged to another man) already.
But... they had reached the end of the treeline! By the time they'd finished their provisions, right when they had eaten all the ration breads and the ham and drunk all the liquor they were in their destination.
Day turned into night within a heartbeat, the woods were gone and there were just endless plains of heather in sight. Huge calm sea of purple flowers, glittering like diamonds with the twilight frost.
Flash, flash, went the beautiful blue North Star in the air the whole night long.
They ran on for the better part of two days, galloping as fast as they could, till they reached the forbidding gate into the Belle Dame's demesne.
"Two miles from here the Green Faery's garden begins," Éponine caught her companion's attention. "I will take you as far as that, to the last living tree that marks the edge of her realm, a large holly bush that yields red berries like droplets of blood; but from there, I will stay behind and fight the korrigans, and you must go forward on your own." Enjolras agreed that this was perfectly fair, and moreover, he asked Éponine if they could not dismount immediately, for the knowledge that he was but a few miles from finding Grantaire at last made him too eager to sit still any longer.
The robber maiden clapped her hands together and shook the reins, digging into the flanks of her horse for what could have been the last time in her short life.
The two miles flew by in the twinkling of an eye, and then they came to a stop before a large scrubby holly-bush, or rather a holly-tree, warped and wind-blasted by the frozen air, but covered in bright red berries, like freshly-shed droplets of arterial blood. The two young questers had been riding, without taking the slightest risk to stop or to look back, all the way until they had arrived at the large red-fruited shrub. Beyond it, all was bare rock and frosty heather in bloom, stretching away before them like a great sheet of amethyst crystals.
It was their destination, and they had reached the far north at last.
They found before them a vast plain of heather in bloom, full of bare rocks and here and there a clump of furze or a low, scrubby barren spruce-tree, warped into strange shapes by the wind. At the moment they arrived, it was wuthering, and the gale whipped their youthful faces, rosy with warmth, yet already weather-beaten.
And, in the middle of the heath, on a low hill surrounded with three terrace-rings, there was a perfect circle of stones, something like a solar calendar, in the centre of which they could make up a dark shape of something similar to a fort. All that moorland was lit with an eerie and bizarre flickering green light... It was as if there was fire in the sky.
Overhead, the sky burned with sickly green fire, which Enjolras supposed could only be the ward that defended the keep; that supernatural courtyard wall where one had to do a certain thing in order to enter the castle. The walls were enchanted...
The Green Faery's fortress. They had reached the place at last. They saw the stronghold looming on the horizon.
It was exactly as Éponine had described it.
At first, Enjolras thought of Combeferre and what he would have given, a remark about supernatural, monstrous beings and especially antagonists in folklore always dwelling in outpost-like, isolated castles or estates in the middle of an expanse of countryside, if not a desolate wasteland, without any other structures around, and the Otherworld itself being depicted in the same fashion, as a kingdom without settlements, only a bright pastoral scenery with a royal castle of preternatural artistry and magnificence; setting them apart from society as monstrous Others. Then Prouvaire would have launched a tirade in defense of the noble Other and against society, and there would be a tad of back-and-forth, like a tennis match, and the leader himself would have to tear them apart and make peace... What if they were having this argument right now, in his absence? Could Courfeyrac's swordsmanship be as efficient as Enjolras' own rhetoric? Hoping it would be, the leader stopped his train of thought.
Now what was it they should do next? What had Madame Thénardier done while her husband staved off the korrigans? To open the ward and enter the keep? The dark elves would arrive as soon as they detected intruders...
Dismounting from her horse and then helping the fair leader dismount, after having tethered the steed by the reins to the tree-trunk of the large red-fruited bush at the edge of the moorland realm, she aimed at him another of those inquisitive, wistful stares:
"Don't you remember, Enj? There is only one way to break the ward cast by the Green Faery upon this circle! Go round it thrice, withershins, running as fast as you can, and the first time say:
'Open from within;
Let me in! Let me in!'
"Then go round the second lap and say:
'Open wide, open wide;
Let me inside.'
"Then go round the third lap and say:
'Open fast, open fast;
Let me in at last.'
And the third time, as soon as those words 'at last' have left your lips, the ward will vanish closing with a click, only for an instant, and you may go in, as soon as possible. Only remember to go round withershins. If you go round with the sun, or the hands of a clock, the ward will not open. Nevermore. And come what may, come hell or highwater, never slow your pace, and keep on running without wavering.” She tsk-ed, flicking her index finger back and forth, like a metronome.
Enjolras braced himself. Suddenly, voilà that great dark forms were already beginning to loom out of the thick bluish fog, up behind the heather bloom. Korrigans. A whole army, a whole host, if not at least a whole regiment. And yet they were but the vanguard of the Morrigan's forces, the tip of the iceberg seen from the surface...
It would hurt indeed to take his leave of Éponine after all they had been through, after how much they had got to know one another and looked at one another's true self, beyond first impressions. Now he had to let her go in order to set Grantaire free.
"Halt!" said she, seizing the fair leader by the shoulder as he strode forth towards the fortress. It was time to bid one another farewell, and Éponine obviously felt the same way, tears welling in her dark eyes as she drew her sharp Bowie and took a glance into her reflection. It could not be more obvious that she was choking back some really heartfelt sobs.
"Opening the ward is not enough, Sir Galahad, but merely the first trial. After you have entered the courtyard, you will find a large cauldron hewn out of dark rock, and filled with rainwater, on the threshold of the Green Faery's keep. Now pay attention; walk round the cauldron and push the gates inward, but drink no drop, no matter how thirsty you be; for if in faery realms you sup one drop, never again will you see our Earth, but you will remain trapped, within the ward and without entering the fortress, until the Green Faery herself finds you and forces her blood down your throat. Above all, don't stop; and remember that she has far less power than she herself believes..." Then, as she let the tears flow freely, she clasped Enjolras in those strong arms and planted a kiss upon each of his cheeks. Maybe it was the last bear hug that she would ever give in a short lifetime. And he dried up her tears on those soft scarlet velvet sleeves of his. At the moment of truth, in the last minute, their ways had to part, even though their wish was for all help not to leave them!
As he started forth towards the circle of stones, Enjolras said these lessons over and over until he knew them by heart, not even daring to look back at Éponine. The korrigans were closing in, hastening not only to cut off the intruders' passage, but to surround them and envelop them and put an end to their short lives. They were advancing in a more regular order than ever regiment of National Guards had ever marched, against a sky which was crisp and pure and all brilliant with stars, in spite of the fact that it must have been the middle of the day.
In response, the robber maiden braced herself in a catlike stance, setting her opera hat right on her head, her trusty Bowie knife held firm in the grasp of her left hand, and her warm overcoat wrapped around her right arm for defense.
The closer the korrigans came, the more terrible they grew and the clearer the young people could see what the Green Faery's host looked like. Each of the little pointy-eared dark elves, both male and female adults the size of young children, was armed with a needle-like rapier blade of fire. "A needle of fire which burns to ashes all it touches," she had told him that night in the robbers' den. And all of their blades were so hot that they crackled and glowed in dazzling white. Their dreadful features were the most bizarre you may picture yourselves; some of them had pointy furry ears like those of wolves, while others had catlike or snakelike golden eyes with vertical pupils; they all were the vanguard of the Lady in Green. It seemed as if all these korrigans were ready to ask: "You two and what army?"
"We tower over them, don't we? And our cold steel, furthermore, gives us the edge as well! Now, I storm through their ranks, stabbing to left and right and wreaking havoc in their ranks; so in the end I will have cut a fine path for you to the fortress," Éponine reassuringly said as she winked an eye at Enjolras.
At the sight of the human intruders, each korrigan uttered a piercing scream, and raised his or her sword, the fiery sword which reduced to ashes anything it touched; but without appearing surprised the dark maiden strode forth with a resolute pace, her opera hat still on her head, her knife still in her left hand and her coat wrapped around her right arm, as the young man by her side steeled himself, taking care to remain at a little distance.
Before, the thought of being killed by the swarthy girl’s hands had made him… happy? no, rather than that, it made him somehow comfortable. Now their positions were switched, so Enjolras could perfectly understand the girl’s feelings. They shared a special bond of each of them being comfortable with being killed by the other. And Éponine was now choosing the being-killed side so that he could continue that search for Grantaire. Of course both of them knew that the robber girl could just end her foster brother’s life with her own hands as she did with all others. Enjolras would die young anyway, so what’s the difference? But his story reached deep into the robber princess’s heart. She have always been dreaming of sacrificing her life for her beloved. And now she was not just sacrificing her life for her beloved Enjolras, but doing it so that the fair leader could sacrifice his own life in a similar fashion. It wasn’t a perfect fulfillment of her dream. It was better than perfect.
She straightened his collar caring just as a sibling he had never had would. “You’ll be on your own, and I won’t be able to help you.” He took a hold of her wrists and pulled them away gently. “I’ll keep you all in my heart. Think of me and wish me strength.” Two light kisses, one on each side, painting his cheeks rosy sent him on his way. "Now... Go! Go!! Your lover needs you! GO!!" she pushed the blond in the back, giving him a generous shove forwards as the korrigans lunged towards her where she stood, her Bowie in her left hand and her coat wrapped around her right arm.
Then, she clapped him on the back, and wished him well, and, before she departed, she blew one last kiss at Enjolras; and then she left him without another word, as he thanked her and set off, marching forwards across the stone and heather and frost as quickly as he could. His feet were soon tender and maybe even bleeding, and, while he walked, the lashing rains from the ominous clouds overhead flew thicker and faster, forming a wall of bluish-white fog around him, but somehow never seeming to touch the ground, which remained icy and bare.
It was then that Enjolras, as he kept on running and holding back the tears, once he was on his own and felt the impression of the cold, reached up to the crown of his head and found it bare, topped with nothing but soft golden locks. "My hat... I am not wearing it anymore, it must have dropped off during the ride!" he thought. There he was, bareheaded in the middle of that blistering ruthless cold and those obscuring mists; all alone and shivering in his crimson peacoat, he was boldly striding into enemy territory. Looking over his shoulder at Éponine for one last time, he still marched forwards as fast as he could; he gulped down and braced himself, ready to enter the sacred ground as he left her fighting off the enemy vanguard; and then he hastened on to the Green Faery’s castle.
"Say 'allo to my li'l friend!", he heard, behind the nape of his neck, her defiant warcry rising to the skies. "En-en garde!!" From his peripheral vision, he could see Éponine bracing herself, complete with her trusty knife.
Seeing herself in danger of being lynched by all those monsters of whom she had always heard others speak, yet of whose existence in real life she had not even harboured the slightest idea, the dark maiden began to gather momentum for her first strike; the opera hat on her head, the Bowie knife in her left hand, and the coat wrapped for a shield around her right arm. As they grew near, one of the largest of them, a male who seemed to be an officer due to the raven plume in his hat (most korrigans, male and female, wore none), lifted his spear and threw it at the maiden's face. Éponine brought her right arm and musket up in front of him, and the spear struck the cold steel in the gun barrel, and bounced off quite harmlessly. Then she picked up the spear from where it lay on the ground, reversed it, and flung it back at the korrigan; it flew through the air and struck the creature in the neck, where it stuck fast, and the korrigan fell over backwards.
"Strike that! Reverse it! I meant the other way!" had been her war cry as she launched this successful counterattack.
The maiden felt a burst of satisfaction at having dispatched at least one enemy, though she could see that the korrigan army was far, far to vast for her to defeat single-handedly. She thought of Enjolras, and their quest, and her promise. She thought of her mother, of Cosette, of a tragedy she did not want to see repeated.
"I was born a Thénardier, and raised a Thénardier, both for good and for evil," she told herself. To the right, her small, sturdy figure with thick raven curls would dart in agilely with the stock of her gun, scoring a hit against one of the opponents; then, turning to the ones directly before her, she wielded her knife like a shortsword with breathtaking precision, forcing the pack to back away. Éponine threw her Bowie with such ease and skill that it was just like watching a real valkyrie. Though it looked like she hadn't aimed at all, she got a female korrigan in the throat, sending her flying back several metres until she crashed to the ground with an explosion of dust and sparks. A searing heat went all the way down to the bone, but her opponent shattered into a thousand pieces.
Though all alone, on her own, without more weapons, in the middle of that dreadful frosted heathland, she began to run against the enemy lines, head first, as fast as she could.
Though... this was different; those soldiers, the mercenaries, were running for the wall too. They were a little more difficult to scare... Was this what everyone was literally up in arms about? They had repelled armies before; the walls were enchanted... Wait! At least one korrigan must have felt a sense of déjà-vu, noticing her resemblance both to the past general at Their Ladyship's service, a dark young female, and to the oversized bear of a human woman who had swept the floor clean with them, taking down their friends and relatives, ere she left the keep cradling the maiden general in her arms.
Once more she leapt into their ranks, and found herself surrounded once more by the enemy; there was no other way out than to break free through the enemy ranks, even if it meant to take a great risk. A Thénardier. Her father had fought off a regiment of hussars all on his own. Her mother had saved people from the Beresina ice that shattered beneath their feet, their hooves, their cannon-wheels. They were scoundrels, brigands, truants... yet their resolve was also in her blood.
Nailing the muzzle of her rifle to the ground, she gathered all her strength and vaulted over the korrigans where their circle was the loosest. A blade flashed in the corner of her eye, and, upon landing, she felt the smell of something burning behind her, even though she felt no heat searing her skin. The shock surprised her so much that she crash-landed, a female korrigan landing, flaming sword in hand, on top of her. Éponine reacted quickly, from muscle memory of tavern fights, by placing the gun barrel, held in both hands, in front of her face and throat, as she pushed the korrigan away with all her strength. As she tore herself free from her assailant, the stock of the rifle struck Éponine herself on the left temple, right above both the eye and the ear; for a while, countless bright sparks of light flashed before her left eye as she scrambled back on her feet, wincing and clutching her swollen eyelids. This was not her first black eye by any means, and she knew from first hand that her injuries could have been even worse.
There isn't anyone I respect more than my mother, who is, without a doubt, the most intelligent person I know. She always has these words of wisdom, although not in a "fortune teller" sort of way, because she's not vague or subject to misinterpretation. You can always count on my mother always to get straight to the point. Take for example these various little one-sentence lessons she's passed on to me throughout the years. "Never go to sleep without a knife under your pillow." This has saved my life quite a number of times.
But the one lesson that I draw from the most is, "If you ever see anything you want, just take it."
This sentence describes my life. I am the Robber Girl, second-in-command of the Patron-Minette, unrivalled by knife or skill or spunk, feared by anyone with half a brain and/or half a bag of coins who dares venture through my woods (armed or unarmed, doesn't really matter). If I see something I want, I just take it. It's not like I actually have to actively think about it or anything. It's just what I do.
So anyway, my life until a point had been that simple. See something I want? Take it. No fuss, no muss.
Then came Enj.
Admittedly, the first time I laid eyes on Enj, I didn't see him. Well of course I saw the lad, seeing that I was the one who ambushed her just as he was fumbling his way out of their graps, but I didn't see his true self. All I saw at the time was a blond boy wearing a red coat; one pouting and rather splendid young man who was very evidently the only child of wealthy parents' cosseted old age... and, even if he wasn't my type of dark and beautiful, at least he'd taken a military officer for a model when it came to dress, and he was tall and broad-shouldered.
My men weren't even looking at him, of course, they were too busy being drunken miscreants. Lucky thing, too.
Enj was - is beautiful. I didn't realise it at the time, but the reason his beauty shone when he was in that hussar's waistcoat was because he's a wild beauty. If it weren't for his slightly fairer skin, he could have easily passed for a Norse god, Frey or something like that. Without the fake trappings holding him back, he was… was…
His eyes - burning sizzling capturing - hair - restless free tumbling - mouth - plush pert alluring - skin - warm silken enticing -
Ahem. Point, he's beautiful.
I've seen loads of beautiful people in my time. Robbed loads of them, too. Most of them from the grand mansions of the kingdom or their whereabouts, but all forgettable. Enj was not like them. Not like them at all. Had a damn brain for one thing. Guts, for another. And courage. And inner strength. And… and… and… He wasn't like anyone I'd ever met before. In fact, the burn of those blue eyes was one I could recognise because I saw it in the mirror every day. Kindred spirit!
The realisation must have smacked me upside the head around the time my mother was circling her while doing that "entertain me, prey, or I'll eat you up" (quite literally, but that's my mum for you). Maybe it was the heat of late evening fires, or the heavy smell of moonshine and incense in the air, or the way her eyelashes fluttered when he finally realised that my mother would never let the prisoner leave camp alive.
So I staked my claim. Beat up some of my own men to get the point across, too. Hey, I'm the Robber Girl. I get what I damn want!
Yeah, I want Enj. Note usage of present tense.
I'd taken things and possessions with finger-click ease throughout my entire life, but I'd never once assumed that that it would be just as easy to take a person. Give me more credit than that. Especially not someone like Enj, who burned with an ill-concealed fire that I doubt anyone would be able to tame. So I opened myself to Enj. It was so obvious that he understood the pain and loneliness I kept close to my heart, because I saw it in those azure eyes, and there was no fricking way he could have hid that from me. I told Enj so, and he didn't deny it.
I offered him everything. Everything I had, everything I was. I told him about my life, about what it meant to be the daughter of the Thénardiers. How it was like to grow up alone and among people who always looked at you a certain way because of the birthright I never asked for. How I could feel the emptiness crushing me from the inside out and how I couldn't let anyone see my weakness because that was what was expected of me. How I hated myself and loved myself and hated my mother and loved my mother and hated my life and loved my life. And he understood. Could see the darkness of my life reflected in his own.
That one look was all it took, really. I held him tight to me and in that moment I just decided that Enj would be part of me. I'd finally found the one who could make the madness go away. I allowed myself of the peace of sleep, trusting Enj to stay by my side.
Heh. Who the hell am I kidding? I want Enj to be burning and defiant, not docile and stupid. Wouldn't be Enj if he wasn't be able to turn to look me straight in the eye without a hint of fear and then send me reeling with a right hook. (Although, officially, that never happened. The Robber Girl has never been hit by anyone, and will continue to have an untainted record.)
Hoo - I need to shake myself out of going through all these thoughts if I'm to focus on what I'm about to do.
I'm crouching here between leaves and dirt, and there's twigs in my hair and pebbles down my shirt, but I'm the happiest I've been in months. All this just by setting eyes on Enj.
"If you ever see anything you want, just take it."
Well, mother, I see something I want, and I'm sure gonna take it, or my name's not Éponine Thénardier.
I turn to my opponents as if they were my men. "Ready, Freddie? We've got a wedding to crash."
The fight had already begun, and the enemy was getting the best of it, when she braced herself and sauntered up, and in a moment the fortunes of the day had changed. Right and left this shieldmaiden laid about her, and her "sword" pierced the stoutest breastplate (the heat from the flaming swords had softened their brazen and leathery cuirasses enough for cold steel to plunge through). She was indeed "a host in herself," and the foes retreated before her thinking she was was only the first of a troop of such warriors, whom no one could withstand. Thus she continued forwards, shattering and hitting and pushing her way through the red-eyed soldiers that burned as her skin made contact with them. Even as the enemy soldiers left small burns upon her skin and small cuts the girl would not give up, would not stop. She had to let Enjolras rescue Grantaire no matter what!When the battle was reaching its climax, Éponine had sustained a few second-degree burns to all four of her limbs, and her fine pair of white gloves and her fine pair of white spats were slowly turning red, dyed with blood whenever she pressed her palms on her open wounds to stanch the bleeding; though her eye was all no longer sore... and the enemies were counterattacking, as half a dozen enemy warriors advanced, surrounding her from all sides, and pressing hard upon her. Clutching her right leg, she stumbled to the ground, and landed face-up on the heather.
As she crouched in wait for the finishing stroke, a sudden maelström of thoughts dawned upon her. The inn. Maman. Cosette. Enjolras. The reasons that had brought her into that scenario in the first place. The reason why she did not even dare to retrace her steps. "I was born a Thénardier, and raised a Thénardier, both for good and for evil... I have been shown a way to set all those wrongs right... Once more into the fray..." And with one final pause to gather her courage, Éponine suddenly began to press forwards, all but running at the Killer Queen's guards.
Her thigh muscles tensed like springs; she felt no longer sore as she gathered momentum and suddenly came up, and threw herself into the thick of the battle; lunging so strongly that she roared like a lioness. Each time one of these blows landed, each time she thrust her blade into the terrible enemies, a korrigan would shatter into a thousand fragments of embers and sparks, so that they split into a hundred thousand pieces, and disintegrate into nothing. For a while, in astonishment and instinctively to defend herself, she fought her silent battle, until one by one, all the fire-elves were vanquished. When it all was over, she had batted and pulled at the korrigan army until they were all torn into a hundred pieces, and then her momentum had died away, and she once more stood alone, nursing her wounds; nothing but a few second-degree burns, scraped knees, a black left eye, both gloves and both spats dyed bright red with her own blood, an opera hat lost and burned to a crisp by the enemy. It all hurt like never before, she had to admit. Thankfully, she could still remember the location of the royalists' abbey, and the last lake where they had quenched their thirst, and where she now would tend to her own injuries, and surely spend her recovery re-reading more Shakespeare.
The fierce wind of her lithe fighting frame had entirely blown away the storm clouds, and the sky was quite clear and glittering with the North Star, while the air was, if possible, colder than ever before. It was then that she realised that she stood alone, and that Enjolras most surely had entered the fortress at least alive. Reassured about the fate of her companion, and the pain in her left eye having subsided a little, she thought that those injuries could doubtless have been worse.
All around her, at her feet, the korrigans were catching fire from their own flames, disintegrating into piles of glowing embers. Strangely enough, one of their bright scarlet headcovers, right before Éponine, had not burned with the rest of it all - one of those woolly pointed bonnets that looked like gnomes' caps, or like the Phrygian cap she had seen Marianne wear in drawings in the newspapers. What better accessory to make an entrance in Paris? she thought as she bent to pick it up with her left hand, then tried it on for size. It fit like a glove, and, furthermore, as she tucked it over the nape of her neck, she noticed the singed ends of her bobbed hair, which had been cut off by a flaming sword during the fight, dark hair cut to the jaw, long black tresses falling around her like autumn leaves. And besides, she had got a haircut in exchange for her injuries - talk about a lucky strike! That same evening at twilight, while looking at her own reflection in the pool where she would drink and spend her recovery re-reading Shakespeare, she would admire, and give the korrigans mournful thanks for, her new haircut and her new headcover.
And then she heard yelling from the walls.
"Hey so... we're opening up the walls?" a surviving korrigan yelled. "We've always really hated Bear-Lady... and... we are super-happy you're here! We're surrendering to you. Please pillage to your heart's content, but... try not to kill us!"
"Right, lower in the drawbridge! The ward itself is crumbling already, and it may shatter at any given... Thank you!"
Agreeing to those really great terms (while realising that they had her same sense of humour, and that they saw her own Maman as a fearsome beast to be reckoned with), she watched as Enjolras entered the walls. After a fair bit of searching, the former mercenaries found a weary Éponine, sleeping by the wall. She was alive, and too worthy an opponent not to spare her life. Besides, who was this Shakespeare she was muttering about...? And thus, the scarred survivors simply kissed her goodnight and went forth into the dark woods to start their lives anew. They knew what this meant, and they fled in every direction. And just like that there were no more. The circle of stones stood before her, the path clear. Almost collapsing with relief, she hastened forwards to the holly bush lest more soldiers appeared.
Even though the sun was in the western sky, and the heather was in bloom, the cold was so intense that Enjolras could still see his breath steaming out of his mouth every time he exhaled, like a puff of vapour or white smoke, or a long cirrus cloud, and gradually turning thicker and thicker; still he marched forwards as fast as he could. Presently he looked up, eyes scanning the impossibly warped shining blue-green crystal tower that pierced the frozen wasteland of endless frosted heather, a beacon of colour against the otherwise bland environment; a conical structure that spiralled up into the clouds, or at least the glimpses he could catch every now and then through the thick mists of the protecting wards. The day sky above was a dirty white, as dark storm clouds hovered menacingly overhead. It was mysterious and foreboding and magnificent all at once, with its wide and tall turrets, encased within a frozen wall of pitch black rock bereft of greenery. He remembered the advice of the kind robber maiden, whose warcries and the crackling of flames made every muscle in his limbs tense; gathered momentum, and stormed towards his right. It took him until nightfall to circle the holdfast thrice, and say the rhymes for each lap, thinking that this was a weird way to get around... Each hesitation seemed to be like a magnet for the merciless gale, especially now that he was running against the current of air. It barricaded him unwavering and his limbs trembled from the effort.
The hailstones or snowflakes pierced his skin, glued to his cheeks and froze in the place where they fell. The few attempts to keep them out of his face proved to be pointless and he just held his arm in front of himself to have some sort of protection. He had no idea how long it would take to get to the castle and how far he would have to go.
Or if there would be any more trials awaiting within the keep.
As he ran around the courtyard walls of green light for the first time, his strength gradually dwindling and his ponytail fluttering in his wake like a shooting star, locks of hair freed from the ribbon's grasp one after the other, a short-of-breath Enjolras, clutching his solar plexus yet still running onwards at a steady pace, heard the painful groans of both the elves and the robber maiden, and his thoughts wandered, every now and then, towards hopes and anxieties regarding Éponine.
She appeared, by first impressions, as a brash young girl, but the authority accorded to her did neither arrive from her intimidating velleity, nor from being the daughter of a non-commissioned officer who spoilt her rotten. Enjolras thought of shieldmaidens, valkyries, Celtic druidesses, even of Queen Boudicca herself... not to mention Queen Christina of Sweden. Few female characters in Mediterranean lore enjoyed such agency, and even then, the stories of Atalanta, Caenis, and Cyrene were few and far between; enough to be counted with the fingers of one hand. It appeared that the hot sun of his own native lands predisposed southern maidens and women to be languid, sultry, and receive a vain education that caused them to feel most at ease in being still and kept sheltered and dolled up, like lovely ornaments. The cold of the North encouraged all children, male and female, even into young adulthood, to strain their limbs, for the constant movements to keep them warm and alive. And from frolicking and play-fighting in forest and heath to bearing arms in defense of the clan or the kingdom, once they had come of age, there was not a long stride, and neither was there one that told the role of a male from that of a female, both of them alike, equally active and full of pluck in both wartime and peacetime. In spite of the fact that she physically did not look like the northerner she was, the vigorous blood of the North, the strength and valour of the Gauls, the Germans, and the Scandinavians, throbbed within Éponine Thénardier like it all had once throbbed in all of her shieldmaiden ancestors; but so marvellous are the fascinations and so grand the prestiges of the northern lands that this caused Enjolras no surprise.
'Open from within;
Let me in! Let me in!'
Already he was beginning to freeze, his ears and cheeks and nose burning with the false heat that he knew meant frostbite. His breath crystallized in the air before him. Once inside the gates of the first roundabout, during the second lap, he began to run for real, for his life, hoping that he could keep his blood flowing and his body warm enough so that he wouldn't die of the cold, heart beating uncomfortably in his chest. His system had just been put under a spell of exhaustion, he was sure of it. And if he could easily find himself easily falling under spells, then he'd be no good rescuing Grantaire, who was already under several. He had to be, had to be staying here with the Green Faery. Grantaire wouldn't have put up with this frozen wasteland for long. Where would he grow his flowers? Where would he draw or paint his pictures? When would he be able to see their loved ones?
'Open wide, open wide;
Let me inside.'
He thought about radiant days on fields of lavender, of dark-haired young men with stubbly faces, of bright orange flowers and the hands that planted them, of galettes golden warm as the sun and the hands that flipped them. La Marseillaise and legalese, Marie Brizard and barmaids. Love, he realised, was in the little things.
Leading his little society and planning the Revolution, Enjolras was everything: confident, beautiful, skilled... But Grantaire made him dizzier than pirouettes, wilder than river rapids, and shyer than buttercups. Grantaire just took that perfect Enjolras and made a mess of him. And he loved every minute of it. There was no epiphany or shocking realization about it. Loving the one he sought to free came to him as easily as breathing, as singing, as running.
It was the easiest sentence he had ever said.
“I love him.”
It didn’t bother him, since he felt his blood pump through his veins and steadfast calm guarded his limbs.
And thus, the third circle around the fortress was finally closed:
"Open fast, open fast!
Let me in at last!"
Gathering all the strength he had left, the fair leader, his queue undone and all golden locks fluttering in the wake of his head like the tail of a shooting star (the ribbon having fallen down among the frosty heather mid-way across the second lap), took a resolute, firm step forwards, the light within the circle fading as he took that stride into it. It didn’t bother him, since he felt his blood pump through his veins and steadfast calm guarded his limbs.
Quite suddenly, the snow and hail and winds stopped. The madman’s run had its end when a thick milky fog of an icy blue separated in front of him and he realised that, as he uttered the final words, he was immediately enveloped by darkness. The air grew stale, and colder than ever before; and he could no longer see the sky, or the ground. Nor hear the clash of battle from what might be Éponine's final stand. But he knew exactly where he was. He had made it inside the courtyard of the Lady in Green. He felt around, and found he could feel a sharp prick on his palm, a warm liquid streaming through his fingers. As he withdrew the wounded hand, his eyes gradually began to adjust.
And then, he was quickly forced to take a step back... for a circular hedge of dark thorny bushes had begun to rapidly grow around the fort, until it was as high and as thick as the walls of the Thénardiers' lair. At the crossroad grew a bush full of thorns; it stood naked in the winter cold, not having any blooms or leaves, and its branches were covered in ice. The impression was such that the pain from that first thorn-prick was soon overcome and forgotten. And he did not know which way to go. It was impossible for Enjolras to know if he should turn left or right to enter the threshold of the circle of stones, so thick was the hedge, whose thorn-bushes were entirely bereft of both leaf and bloom, and thus seemed to be rather made of black wire, the thorns themselves as long and sharp as dagger blades. The frost hung like silvery or crystal lace from each and every thorny branch, creating a stark contrast of black and white, and icicles like crystal bayonets hung from the longest branches. Only one single leaf, a little one in a crimson or burgundy shade, had just sprouted on a twig next to the thorn where the blond had pricked his palm and shed his blood.
What would Grantaire or Courfeyrac have said? "The Morrigan must have tightened up security," or something like that. She must be dreadfully cautious of losing her prisoner, especially since Éponine's parents had freed her.
As Enjolras stood panting before the hedge of thorns, its rustling in the piercing gale seemed to reply to the questions he was too breathless to ask:
"I have, indeed; but I will not tell you the way they have taken, which way you should go, unless you have not first warmed me against your heart, warming my heart with your life-blood, for, as you see, the cold has turned me into a lump of ice, and not even the Lady of the Green Kirtle herself has ever come to take me upon her bosom... soon I will be entirely made of ice! I will not tell you which way to go unless you warm me with your heart. I am freezing to death! I will turn into ice! For the winter has chilled my sap-veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year. If you want a way, stain my sleeping rose-buds with your own life-blood. You must sing to me with your chest against my thorns, and the thorns must pierce your flesh, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine. I can tell you where they went, but I am turning to ice, irreversibly... I am frozen through, I turn into ice, and a young leader's heart is so warm... I shall tell you if you warm me in your bosom..."
Without wavering for a single instant, the fair leader bent the knees, as if in prayer, and, thrusting himself forwards, pressed the thorns to his chest in order to warm them up, for the hedge to show him the way and let him into the sanctum.
"Be happy, be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will stain it with my own heart's blood."
The dark frosty thorns pierced a scarlet coat and lilywhite shirt, and the silky skin, decked only with a few sparse golden chest-hairs, that lay underneath; the same thorns plunged right into the flesh, deep into his pectoral and intercostal muscles, so that great drops of blood gushed out and fell into the light of day, staining the golden soutaches on his coat and the frost on the thorny branches to his left and right; and the thorns went deeper and deeper into the flesh of his chest, and the life-blood ebbed away. It was crimson blood, the consistence of runny honey, due to all the liquid that the perspiration already had wrested from him. Yet the thornbush grew leaves that were green and fresh, the blood turning to sap as it was drained, and, in spite of the cold winter night, the whole hedge covered itself in blooms, such was the warmth against the chest, and even more inside the chest, of that youthful leader. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-Hedge there blossomed a marvellous thornrose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river Seine at sunrise - pale as the feet of the morn, and silvery as the wings of the dawn. As the reflection of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadowy image of a rose in a water-pool, so pastel was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray.
So the fair leader pressed closer against the thorns, and louder and louder grew the reassuring song, for he sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and... not a maid, but another man, who nevertheless turned his back to his lover.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the crowning thornrose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. Yet the rose's heart remained as white as the pale dead, for only heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a thornrose.
And the branches of the hedge cried to the fair leader to press closer against the thorns. "Press closer, or the Day will come before the rose is finished. And the Ruthless Fair herself will come back home at Break of Day..."
So Enjolras pressed closer against the thorns, and the sharp tips of the thorns grazed his lungs and his heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through the pale ribcage. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew the song, for it sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the Grave.
And the marvellous thornrose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern skies. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a bloodstained ruby was the heart.
And thus, as the stripling's bosom was torn and his blood flowed freely, the bushes gradually budded into life, for the blood turned to sap as it was drained, until the whole circular hedge was covered in the freshest, loveliest green leaves and thornroses, some of them arterial scarlet like bright rubies and others in the darker venous crimson of garnets, in the quiet of the cold wintry night; so hot was his blood and so sure his conviction! But the rosebush shot new leaves and flowers bloomed in the drearily cold winter night, such ardour there was within him, so warm was the heart of a grieving lover and of a young leader; and the rosebush told which of the roads to take. The thornbush grew leaves that were green and fresh, and, in spite of the cold winter night, it covered itself in blooms, such was the warmth against the chest, and even more inside the chest, of that youthful leader. Then, thus, the rosebush showed him the route that he had to take. He had found a way on the paths of regret and suffering, and in his wake red roses grew. Each and every drop of blood that had dripped from his wounds had turned to a crimson or scarlet rose. And, when the thorns that grew before him had retreated, baring the cold dark ground, the fair leader could finally see which way he had to go in order to cross the threshold.
"You will find the one you seek on the route to the right..."
It was warmer now, warmer than he had felt at the entrance to the shrine, whether running laps around it or overcoming the thorns. As he trudged into the courtyard delimited by the circle of stones, Enjolras felt as if he breached a sacred forbidden ground, staring at the surroundings with wide eyes. He was in an outdoor courtyard, surrounded by frost-covered statues and thick pillars made of sparkling blue-green ice-like crystal. Everything looked beautiful indeed, but everything was void of warmth in its austerity. He wasn’t sure how to feel, since this was his goal. To arrive here and face her.
No matter if his knees were already buckling, no matter that slight dizzy feeling in his rumpled fair head, or that his throat was beginning to burn with thirst, he took the most vigourous strides he could across the courtyard, towards his goal, hoping that he would not be too late; on the threshold of the fort, before the closed door, stood a cauldron hewn out of the same dark granite as the holdfast behind it, and filled to the brim with crystal-clear, pellucid, rippling dew and rainwater.
Given how much liquid had been wrested from him through perspiration and blood loss, this proved to be quite the hard trial to resist; at first, he felt tempted to wet his parched lips therein, but his strength of will overpowered his thirst.
And yet he staggered forwards towards the font, breathing heavily, his head reeling, his knees giving way as he leaned forwards upon the brink of the stone cauldron for support and to rest.
Through that liquid mirror, an empty-eyed, weary likeness of himself, rumpled straw-like hair framing a white haggard face, met his gaze. This reflection was staring at him with dead eyes, with a face like stone and a piercing glare, reminding him of the marble Apollo in the gardens of his native estate, but with the gaunt features and matted hair of a consumptive on his deathbed. Those glazed eyes of a duller blue screamed out to him, begging him not to drink any of it.
That reflection did not show who he was inside; rather, that was what he could become if he chose to quench his thirst. This was not the one he was and the one he hoped to die as. The enormity of the stakes washed over him.
Without hesitation, the young man stood, and, gathering what little strength he had left, punched the reflection in the mirror cauldron with both his clenched fists, causing the crystal-clear water to slosh everywhere, to spray all over his skin and all around him on the thirsty ground. Washing all the blood off his clothes and stanching his open wounds, and, where the mixed liquids trickled down around his feet, shooting up as the tiny stems and buds of blood-red anemones, some of them arterial scarlet like bright rubies, others in the darker venous crimson of garnets.
He had done it. He had passed the test.
"Not a sup will I swallow, not a drop will I drink, till Grantaire is set free...!" Enjolras declared.
Then, there was a sound like a crack of thunder or a shot of cannon from somewhere off in the distance. But there was no lightning, no flash of gunpowder. The fair leader steeled himself, restraining the shudder that ran down his spine; and his eyes flew towards the granite doors. He felt a malaise, a darkness, that an ominous presence was coming.
It seemed as though one moment he stood alone against the trials that lay within the stronghold, and the next he was confronted by a pale, ghostly figure, carrying a gun in her left hand and brandishing it against him. And wrapped around her right arm, she wore the French tricolore flag. Directly before him, this figure of a petite woman with shining blond curls just like his own, coiffed with a scarlet bonnet, and wearing the loose white robes of a goddess, wielded a bayonetted rifle with breathtaking precision, holding the fair leader at gunpoint.
Though he seemed to see right through the translucent body of this ghostly warrior, he recognised her, and watched in astonishment as the ghostly figure put the bayonet to his throat; the long sharp blade felt so hot that it glowed red, just like the setting sun, and Enjolras held out as she traced his throbbing carotids, until she finally took one, two, three steps backwards.
When it was over, it seemed to him that the figure solidified a bit, and he was more easily able to make out the face of the warrior who had aided him. Her bright, piercing eyes were now icy blue like the fair leader's own, now steel-blue like her bayonet. Glaukopis, to quote the ancient epics. "How can I thank you?" he asked her, looking beyond the wings on her spirit, the talons on her hands, the sharpness in her teeth, and the colourless bloodstained plumage on her limbs; looking at one kind and noble countenance.
"No thanks are necessary," said the Athena-like figure, in a beautifully accented voice that Enjolras immediately wished to hear again. "You care for Grantaire, and that is more than enough."
"You've seen him?" the fair leader asked breathlessly, hoping it was so.
But she shook her head, smiling sadly. "Not for a long time, I'm afraid," said the blonde maiden-goddess, gallantly doffing her scarlet cockaded cap.
And, as she spoke, he saw that she had been fading away little by little, until only the barest outlines showed against the fog and sleet.
"You'll tell him?" her deep female voice, which he recognised as that of Marianne, asked, her Athena-blue-gray eyes fixing Enjolras with demanding insistence.
"That he is loved?" His voice broke only a little, and he nodded. "Oh, yes."
In another moment, Enjolras stood alone in the austere garden, only the cauldron hewn out of stone for company, but it seemed to him that he felt the cold less, and his feet carried him more rapidly toward the Green Faery's hold. Already the battle seemed to have taken on the surreal quality of a dream, and he wondered if it had happened at all, or if he were experiencing the delusions that came with a slow death from freezing or thirst or exhaustion. No matter. He had come at last to the end of his long journey, and the inner gate rose up before him. All his thoughts were flying towards the one he sought. Almost collapsing with relief, he hastened forwards towards the fort, lest more trials appear. Now Grantaire was within his reach, and almost within his grasp.
"You know what is bloodier still than any battle, heavier than the dewdrops of death on the brow of the dying, torn more cruelly than the victims of revolution? 'Tis a great, lonely, forsaken heart, torn to shreds and full of vast solitude..."
But for now let us forget for a while about Enjolras, on whose fate we are left at least slightly reassured, and peek into the stronghold, to see what Grantaire was doing in the meantime; we must see how he was faring. Let's first see what he's up to. Since the effect was wearing off like ever before, he may have been thinking of his fair leader in scarlet, but most surely, most certainly, he did not doubt at all that Enjolras was so close to him. As the fair leader valiantly fought his way through thorns and pain and cold, the dark lush thought of him not at all. Whatever his thoughts, they were not of Enjolras; he certainly did not dream that the blond was just outside. He was certainly not thinking about the fair leader, and least of all that he was standing there outside the keep; the thought never as much as crossed his mind. And of course why should it have? All memories of the past had been erased. The mere idea that the one he had loved stood out there, so near, was quite far from his mind; in truth, all the while he thought nothing of the once he had loved, and never supposed that Enjolras could be standing right in the threshold of the keep; he could not even imagine that the fair leader was so close! Still Grantaire, with the fey blood in his heart, that which had completely deprived him of feelings, sat before the throne of the Green Faery and did not even suspect how close to him the one he had once loved already was.
COMMENTARIES
(Once more, feel free to see a "to be continued" arrow in your mind's eye and hear the guitar riff at the start of Yes's Roundabout in your mind's ear as you picture yourself the last scene in this chapter!)
And so we get to the ambush and some interaction with an unexpected saviour... The robber band are basically the Thénardiers and the Patron-Minette. The robber maiden who had to end up escorting Enj, who ends up with his gloves and boots while giving him that military gear is, of course, Éponine.
I don't ship Enjonine (I think Enj is as straight as a rainbow), but I know there are those who do... as a way to pair the spares for Mariusette... 'tis not my intention to start a shipping war... I have not come to bury Éponine or to criticize the pairing, but at least some Enjonine found its way here (like the Renlienne scene in The Queen Beyond the Wall), solely because the Thénardier girl fit the part of the robber maiden like a glove (also being a composite with the Finnmark woman for some odd reason...). There's as much Gavroche as there is Javert in this AU, but doesn't the sweet content of this chapter (and of the whole fic) compensate for it?
warnings: Enj is robbed by the bandits, they knock him to the ground, he momentarily loses air. Also has a nosebleed. Mme. Thénardier is making advances at him in a quite handy manner - groping and offers for sex. She also mentions torture. Nothing happens. Enj is bound by a rope and led like that to their lair. Then things get real, including some explicit violence and sexual innuendo. Éponine gets very drunk; there is a slight attempt by her to make an advance on Enj which is quickly cleared, nothing happens.
The risqué song sung by Sgt. Thénardier was originally a Spanish barrack-room ditty, which I have done into French. Maybe the Sarge translated it in his free hours... I thought those lyrics sounded really risqué and really worth a shot, and wished to use it somewhere in my fiction, right? PS. Here is the tune, as used with original lyrics in an operetta by Chapí: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmC551ong08 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vq6oQGJL-4 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPy4kAscr-k (It's the first stanza: to sing it in French, where the words are one syllable shorter, just lengthen the final words in the rhyming lines, ie as "ava-ant" and "lieut'na-ant").
Speaking of innuendos, the "pox" Jolllly mentions in Enjolras' imagine spot is actually syphilis - I heard the euphemism first in the pharmacy sketch by Monty Python.
Mme. Thénardier, while thinking of how sweetly Enjolras would "sing" when made drunk or tortured, mentions a trained Flemish finch: raising and training male finches of the species Fringilla coelebs for song-offs is part of Flemish culture since the days of Jan van Eyck, and the Thénardiers know Belgium so well from their wartime days! "Suskewiet" is both the Flemish onomatopoeia for the chirp and the regional alternate name in Flanders for a male Fringilla coelebs ("Suske" is short for François, while "wiet" means weed). This is what the chirp sounds like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ni3NsrZW5BE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBQb5Nsj7Bk&t=129s
Sgt. Thénardier also says Goethe's line about Lilith to his daughter --- and oui, the villainess is the archetypal Seductress in all her names and in all her glory. Archetypes and neopaganism fascinate me and I had the idea as part of the plot bunny ever since the Silver Chair/Moulin Rouge idea resurrected its premise.
Also, Éponine became a Finnwoman+Robber-Maiden composite. I couldn't find the right people in the Mis-verse... OK, I skipped a few stories in the original tale (Story the Third and Story the Sixth, because I could not find Mizzie counterparts for those characters... all right, I fit the Finnwoman's role into the Thénardier girl, who already makes a perfect robber maiden (being a military brat, a plucky tomboy, and a delinquent-bad girl in canon)! Story the Third, by the way, or at least most of it, is a big-lipped alligator moment, and so is the first leg of the journey in Story the Sixth! So, cutting out all these big-lipped alligator moments, the basic story of The Snow Queen fits neatly into a classical five-act structure). As for Éponine's literary preferences and nostalgia of the days gone by... we couldn't but, for instance, skip those lively conversations about Éponine's interest in classical fiction: kind of going through Shakespeare, the Napoleonic Wars, corruption, gender, how literature mirrors real life... It's not very often you get a cultured robber maiden, for all that her parents were a non-commissioned officer and a camp follower turned outlaws. As for her fujoshi tendencies (like all that Iassio-shipping, for instance ;) ) and awkwardness around young men of flesh and blood in general (with those three exceptions), all that's from Nina, her Fire Emblem Fates counterpart: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/FireEmblemFatesSecondGeneration The character Nina (Éponine in the original Japanese version) from Fire Emblem Fates was based on Éponine Thénardier and the two share some similarities this includes her pre-localised name, finding it difficult to talk to men (in reference to Éponine being unable to speak to Marius Pontmercy), mentioning enjoying plays and reading, and being a thief.
The Reflection Cave of Kalos, in the Pokémon series, is based upon the Northern French lore of miroirs aux fées (fairies mirrors). Fairy mirrors are usually caves with bright quartz veins or lakes where there are said to live fairies and like to see themselves in them like a mirror. Also, this links to the mirror motif in the original Snow Queen tale, right?
I'm not sure if my favorite thing about it is the bit of homage, or the fairy-tale nature of it.
Éponine as the robber maiden was actually the very first cameos I decided on, and half the inspiration for the story (i.e. "Oooh, and 'Ponine would be the little robber girl, and her Maman would be the bandit leader, and the Patron-Minette gang would be the rest of the band...)
The little robber girl was actually the first character substitution other than Enj and R for Gerda & Kai that I thought of.
Oh, this is just gorgeous. I really love the translation from the Les Mis universe to Andersen's; once I saw this posted tonight, I went and read all the previous parts, as well, and I'm just completely blown away by how beautifully you've combined the two worlds.
Yay, new chapters! I'm very in love with this story, its fairy tale tone and the skillful way you insert other characters.
Oooh yay. I have a ridiculous amount of love for this. I actually figured out who was who pretty quickly this time, and hurray for Éponine! The description of the Queetn's castle as me worried for R again. Jeez it's been so long. I want Enj to get there, but then I don't want this story to end D:
Yay, thanks! I think this section might rival the Mariusette cameos for being my favorite part of the fic so far. I heavily abused wikipedia to come up with appropriate background details for Sgt. Thénardier's old companions (though, because I am a sad history geek, not quite as heavily as you'd think - mostly to remind myself how to spell things).
*grins* There is only the coda left now!
This is my favorite thing to come out of the fairytale challenge. Thanks you so much!
Wow, I can totally spell. <3
*grins* Thanks!
This story is so cute~
Oh, man, this is shiny-sauce. I loooove it.
I'm officially giving up this prompt and handing it over to you entirely, by the way. I wrote an entire femslashy version of the Snow Queen for a friend for Christmas, and so I'm all Snow Queen'd out at present. Besides, this saves me the inevitable embarrassment of trying and failing to measure up to what you've done. ;)
And yet, despite the fact that I've read and reread this story a dozen times or more in the last week, reading yours is still distinct and fascinating. Excellent writing.
Femslash snow queen? Oooh, that sounds all kinds of shiny-sauce, too! Is it posted anywhere?
Since it was a present for a RL friend, and thus--gasp!--printed out in hardcopy, it isn't anywhere. But if you wanted to see it, I'm sure something could be arranged~. (I totally cribbed from the same copy you did, I think. I love fairy tales; the same source story can turn into a whole bunch of different ones, depending on what you emphasize or change.)
:D The thing about him giving up his white gloves and boots and spats and feeling like he'd given part of himself away was beautiful and subtly done. I'm not sure if my favorite thing about it is the bit of Mizzie homage, or the fairy-tale nature of it.
The thing about him giving up his white gloves and boots and spats and feeling like he'd given part of himself away was beautiful and subtly done
Yay -- I'm glad someone picked up on that part! I'm kind of proud of myself for managing to work that in without my anger & bitterness over the bit of canon it's referencing leaking in too much. I had to go over the scene in my head several times to make sure it didn't come out completely tonally wrong for a fairy tale. I had to give Enj a little more action scenes afterward; it was only fair, since he had his costume taken away (but Gerda does lose her gloves and boots in the story, so Enj had to lose them, too).
I'm not even guessing, or trying to eke out symbolism or anything. I'm just chilling, and losing myself in a great story.
Is it wrong that my strongest feelings about this part were sadness and frustration that Enj lost his gloves and boots? Also, I just read your responses to someone else's comment on this bit and I totally missed the symbolism when I read it, although it's obvious now that I know. But I'm amused that I had an appropriate emotional reaction anyway.
*hugs Enj* Hang in there!
There was a Shakespeare translation of all the dramatic works written by Victor Hugo fils (junior), the son of the author of Les Misérables, at about the same time that his dad was working on the "Brick." Moreover, I took the quote spoken by Iago about his feelings towards Cassio (Act V, Scene 1), which Éponine reads out loud, directly from the Hugo fils translation (This reference is far harder to spot than the silver candlesticks in last chapter, but still worth the pain). So pardon me if I attributed the translation to Hugo père (senior) and take it as a license; on the other hand, Combeferre would have read and relished the 1830s de Vigny translation, which does all the pentameter as French alexandrins!
As for the chanson about Poniatowski drowned at Leipzig (which actually was how he died in real life!), it is not a folk song, but was composed, both tune and lyrics, by Pierre-Jean de Béranger in 1831. There is a lot of likelihood that Feuilly would have sung it and adored it, but not the same could be said about the Sarge, in real life. So pardon me for the license of making it look like a folk song (the same as for advancing the Hugo fils translation of Shakespeare in time and attributing it to Hugo père)!
Bowie knives were invented in the US at the start of the nineteenth century, so this detail, on the other hand, is historically accurate (aside from a veiled shout-out to a certain starman waiting in the great gig in the sky...)!
As for the Korrigans and Morrigan, and the Green Faery being an "evolved" form of the Morrigan/Morgan le Fey (and so many other similar figures among mythology), that's my own contribution. Partly to contrast the Thénardiers' Northern descent with Enjolras' from the Mediterranean. Also, the Korrigans' flaming swords come from the Grail myth of Peronnik, one of the oldest Arthurian tales, in which there is a single Korrigan as keeper of a poison apple tree en route to Kerglas, literally Grue (Green/Blue) Castle. Also from Arthurian lore; Morgan/Morrigan/Morgause is such a greatly misunderstood character (I see her, myself, as a powerful woman who made herself).
The Morrigan, though a warrior goddess, needs no weapons - her powers alone are enough to take on the enemy. They say that her battle-cry is as loud as that of ten thousand men!
Against this chaotic, natural presence, we see Marianne-Athena-Rationality, of course. She is as similar to Enjolras as the Belle Dame is to Grand'R, so of course here the Marianne dream from last chapter ties into the trials!
There is an actress allusion to another of Bonham-Carter's famous roles as a literary villainess from the public domain in this chapter, when she pursues her daughter and prisoner - so we challenge you, dear readers, to see if you have spotted it!
The fight scene with Éponine and the Korrigans, and her line to Enj ("GO! GO!! YOUR LOVER NEEDS YOU...! GO!!") before he leaves her, are a tribute to the You Shall Not Pass moment starring Puss in Boots in Shrek 2. If I ever have time to continue In the Shades of Dawning, most surely Aoi will be boxing off against ice knights as she urges Akira to carry on into the ice palace; while shouting to Aoi: GO! GO! YOUR LADY NEEDS YOU...!! GO!! as a tribute to that fricking epic scene of legendary badassery:
You Shall Not Pass!: Puss-in-Boots holds off a pack of guards, in payment of his debt. He's not honestly in much danger from them, but that makes him holding them all off no less impressive, especially for a normal-sized housecat.
Jennifer Saunders' cover of "Holding Out For a Hero" may be better than the original. Helps that the scene accompanying it was awesome. It's often brought up in discussions about which covers are better than the original song.
The entire "Holding Out For a Hero" sequence is one big Moment of Awesome for all the characters involved.
The assault on the castle. From [···] to Puss in Boots holding off a dozen guards, all accompanied by an amazing rendition of "Holding Out For A Hero" by Jennifer Saunders. (And Puss holds off the guards to "like-a-fire-in-my-blood, like-a-fire-in-my-blood...")
Puss in Boots does so many awesome things that it's hard to pick just one. Nonetheless, there's a scene where Puss decides to repay his debt by staying behind to stall the enemy guards chasing the heroes and then disarms the guards (figuratively) by making an adorable sad kitten face. Before they can regain their senses, he whips out his rapier and goes to town on them.
A really badass scene to a really badass tune that always keeps me on tenterhooks and gives me enough power from the fight-or-flight response, hence my decision to have the robber maiden stall the guards in these two epic Snow Queen AUs starring OTPs of mine! Whether Aoi or Éponine, the one standing in for Puss/the robber maiden in both retellings is a real badass, right?
(PS. The reflections R made in Chapitre II on being unable to reach Enj are also a homage to an action scene earlier on in Shrek 2...)
The way to enter the circle of stones into the keep of the Morrigan is also from Celtic/Arthurian lore, from the tale of Childe Rowland. In particular, it is the gate to the Dark Tower that opens if a hero goes withershins (counterclockwise) around it thrice, saying "Open, door, open door, let me come in!" each time the circle is closed. As for the detail of running around the circle of stones the fastest one can... it is in the preparation for the third trial, with the cauldron full of rainwater before the entrance to the keep; which is also from the Dark Tower: "drink no drop, no matter how thirsty you be, until you are safely back home." Of course Childe Rowland, though he at first wavers in this test hof character, finally steels himself: "Not a sup will I swallow, till Ellen is set free." If Enj does not withstand and sips at least one drop of the rainwater, the doors of the keep will never let him in, and the circle of stones will never let him out, within his lifetime.
As for the hedge of thorns that blooms into red roses when pressed to someone's chest, the thorn bush warmed up and watered with heart's blood, I took that motif from an Andersen tale, where, according to Jacob Böggild, it symbolises suffering, more specifically emotional pain translated into physical pain by the thorns that draw blood, as well as hurting oneself unconsciously in pain (Ritva-Liisa Cleary adds an interpretation of sharing psychological pain with others, and making them benefit from empathy, while Jacob Böggild reiterates that the physical pain reflects and symbolises the emotional pain); while Maria Tatar says that "the thorns of the bush conjure associations with the Crown of Thorns, and the love becomes transformative, turning the icy branch into one that blooms." Marianne Stecher-Hansen points out that the tale can be read in biographical terms, that "this sacrifice may represent the creator's sacrifices for their art: when one's blood flows for the thorn bush, it is the artist offering their heart to the public (Stecher-Hansen, 103)."Just like both Enjolras and Yours Truly, and so many other authors who have echoed the motif, have done. The motif has been echoed in subsequent literary tales by Oscar Wilde and Magda Bergquist, both deeply influenced by Andersen's fairy tales.
I just felt that such a cathartic motif would never be out of place in an Enjoltaire gothic fusion fic like this; it encapsulates Enjolras' character perfectly (and also echoes the refrain of La Marseillaise to a certain degree = ie the blood that will water the meadows and furrows of France). That qualifying test of warming the thornbush had always been a poignant image, all the way since childhood. I felt that I had left 'Ponine to deal with the korrigans and not given Enj enough demanding tasks by means of having him run thrice around the fort. So the thorn bush came in handy; it also echoed Sleeping Beauty (the prince making his way through) and the Tireur d'Épine in the first/second chapter, and added more symbolism of warmth and blood and hearts/chests to the story and to Enj's character arc in both canon and this Snow Queen fusion.
So there are three trials before reaching and freeing R (not counting the savateur's final reaction -the climax, in next episode- or the korrigans): the running around the circle, the hedge of thorns, and the cauldron of rainwater (which, given how much liquid Enj has lost through both perspiration and bleeding, is an ostensibly irresistible temptation).
Yay for update! I love this story in all its fairy tale glory. I'm so excited that the next one will bring about the conclusion. It's been a fantastic ride.
We're almost at the end? I'll be sad that it's over. I wasn't even trying to guess who is what (I'll do that on my second re-read) I'm just immersing myself in ficcy goodness now.
Does that make sense?
Heart, valour, hardship, love, and the ability to do things greater than self. That's what heroes and fairy tales are made of.
D'awww.
I just love this fic to pieces! It's just so beautifully written. I have no clue how the fairytale ends, and I am content with waiting to find out in your version. :)
In some ways, the cameos are the best part of this story. *grins* I'm glad Enj knows about what happened to R's heart, because if he arrived after all these travails and R was all cold and remote and Enj didn't know why, I think I might have broken his (and my!) heart. Hard enough to know that R hasn't even thought of him. *sniffles*
I'm looking forward to the next part!
So there are three trials before reaching and freeing R (not counting the savateur's final reaction -the climax, in next episode- or the korrigans): the running around the circle, the hedge of thorns, and the cauldron of rainwater (which, given how much liquid Enj has lost through both perspiration and bleeding, is an ostensibly irresistible temptation).
Yay for update! I love this story in all its fairy tale glory. I'm so excited that the next one will bring about the conclusion. It's been a fantastic ride.
We're almost at the end? I'll be sad that it's over. I wasn't even trying to guess who is what (I'll do that on my second re-read) I'm just immersing myself in ficcy goodness now.
Does that make sense?
Heart, valour, hardship, love, and the ability to do things greater than self. That's what heroes and fairy tales are made of.
D'awww.
I just love this fic to pieces! It's just so beautifully written. I have no clue how the fairytale ends, and I am content with waiting to find out in your version. :)
In some ways, the cameos are the best part of this story. *grins* I'm glad Enj knows about what happened to R's heart, because if he arrived after all these travails and R was all cold and remote and Enj didn't know why, I think I might have broken his (and my!) heart. Hard enough to know that R hasn't even thought of him. *sniffles*
I'm looking forward to the next part!
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