thesphererp | Éponine Memshare 1

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Éponine Memshare 1

note: per my usual I took all the dialogue directly from the source. In this case, I rewrote the chapter from her point of view. If you'd like to read the whole thing, which I do recommend because Hugo's usage of language is outstanding and this book is the most relevant book of always, you can find the chapter here. Public Domain, what what!

A young girl stands in the doorway of a decrepit apartment. Clothed only in a chemise and a petticoat, she stood barefoot looking all at once both fifty and fifteen. She could have been beautiful, once, and there were still echoes of it visible on her pale skin. Unfortunately, years of poverty and degeneracy had taken their toll on her.

She’s at a young man in the room, a handsome man with dark, tousled hair. She looks at him for a moment, looking at him until at last he spoke.

“What do you wish, Mademoiselle?”

“Here is a letter for you, Monsieur Marius,” she said, calling him by his first name rather than his family name as was traditional. Her voice was aptly described as belonging to a drunken convict by old white men. Without waiting for any permission, she moved into his room, looking around at the same sort of room that her family occupied next door. They shared a wall, if she wasn’t mistaken. She held out the letter for him, newly sealed.

She waited, watching him with wide eyes as he read the letter silently. She knew what it said- her father was prone to sending her and her sister out with these letters, each one addressed to a different man, hoping to procure a benefactor for the family that had come to be known in Paris as Jondrette. The letters were filled with pretty lies and flowing language that her father hoped would impress those he caught in his trap.

As Marius read, she began to pace about his apartment, letting no object go untouched or rearranged. Though her chemise was prone to slipping over her thin, pointed shoulders, she paid it no mind when she moved his chairs, or touched his dark green jacket, humming bits of old melodies. At least, until something caught her eye.

“Hullo!” She cried, moving to the object, “you have a mirror!” She approached, fixing her long, stringy hair with a smile. She knew she was not a beautiful girl, and the mirror reminded her. Still, it was a rarity to be able to gaze upon a mirror. Her family could not afford such objects of luxury.

The mirror only had her attention for a moment, as she continued to float around the room. There, on the table- “Ah! Books!” She looked over at Marius before attacking the book, picking it up and opening it up to a random page. “I know how to read, I do!” Another rarity for a girl of her standing. As though already sure he would protest, Eponine began to read out-loud: “--General Bauduin received orders to take the chateau of Hougomont which stands in the middle of the plain of Waterloo, with five battalions of his brigade.” She’d grown up near Waterloo, hearing stories from her father. Knowing this, she felt it best to impart the wisdom on her new best friend.

“Ah! Waterloo! I know about that. It was a battle long ago. My father was there. My father has served in the armies. We are fine Bonapartists in this house, that we are! Waterloo was against the English.” But a man as surely well educated as Marius did not need a history lesson. Even less so when his own father had been there besides. But Eponine did not know the latter, and instead, focused on impressing him with her scant levels of education. Setting aside the book, she went for a pen and paper. “And I know how to write, too! Do you want to see? Look, here, I’m going to write a word to show you!” Without waiting for an answer, she put pen to ink and pen to paper. When she was done, she held up the paper bearing the words: The cops are here.

She threw the pen down with little care and even more pride and continued to answer questions that he had yet to ask: “There are no faults of orthography. You can look. We have received an education my sister and I. We have not always been as we are now. We were not made—“And she broke off, looking at Marius as she let out a sharp laugh, before the laugh turned into a word: “Bah!” The words of a broken girl who had once had so much to look forward to.

Almost as though she hadn’t burst out laughing, she began to sing, “I am hungry, father.
I have no food.
I am cold, mother.
I have no clothes.
Lolotte! shiver, sob, Jacquot!” Her voice was low and husky, prone to cracking from disuse, but her mind bounced from one subject to the other without a second’s hesitation.

“Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have a little brother who is a friend of the artists, and who gives me tickets sometimes. But I don't like the benches in the galleries. One is cramped and uncomfortable there. There are rough people there sometimes; and people who smell bad." She keeps an eye on Marius, looking him up and down. Then, as fast as you liked, “Do you know, Mr. Marius, that you are a very handsome fellow?” She smiled at him, traces of her sorrow gone. Marius blushed in response, but remained silent.

Spurned on by a realization, she moved to him, placing her hand upon his shoulder. She kept smiling as she spoke, trying her very best to make her voice appear to be soft and fair, like one of the women in the plays. “ "You pay no heed to me, but I know you, Mr. Marius. I meet you here on the staircase, and then I often see you going to a person named Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction of Austerlitz, sometimes when I have been strolling in that quarter. It is very becoming to you to have your hair tumbled thus.” She almost reaches out to touch his hair, to better show him, when he pulls away.

“Mademoiselle,” he tried again, keeping his voice even. “I have here a package which belongs to you, I think. Permit me to return it to you.” He held out an envelope.

Eponine’s dark eyes lighted up and she clapped her hands, grabbing on to the envelope with greedy hands. “We have been looking everywhere for that! "Dieu de Dieu! how my sister and I have hunted! And it was you who found it! On the boulevard, was it not? It must have been on the boulevard? You see, we let it fall when we were running. It was that brat of a sister of mine who was so stupid. When we got home, we could not find it anywhere. As we did not wish to be beaten, as that is useless, as that is entirely useless, as that is absolutely useless, we said that we had carried the letters to the proper persons, and that they had said to us: `Nix.' So here they are, those poor letters! And how did you find out that they belonged to me? Ah! yes, the writing. So it was you that we jostled as we passed last night. We couldn't see. I said to my sister: `Is it a gentleman?' My sister said to me: `I think it is a gentleman.'" She tore open the envelope to reveal the four letters. She pulled one out, and began to further explain: "Here! This is for that old fellow who goes to mass. By the way, this is his hour. I'll go and carry it to him. Perhaps he will give us something to breakfast on."

The idea of breakfast was a very comforting, if not foreign one, and Eponine allowed herself to toss her head back and laugh, her mouth watering at the very thought of breakfast. "Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast today? It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day before yesterday, our breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day, and all that at once, and this morning. Come! Parbleu! if you are not satisfied, dogs, burst!"

As she ranted, Marius began to look through his coat pockets, counting out sous and francs. But Eponine paid him no mind, much more interested in walking about his small room again, her voice filling the space. “I often go off in the evening. Sometimes I don't come home again. Last winter, before we came here, we lived under the arches of the bridges. We huddled together to keep from freezing. My little sister cried. How melancholy the water is! When I thought of drowning myself, I said to myself: `No, it's too cold.' I go out alone, whenever I choose, I sometimes sleep in the ditches. Do you know, at night, when I walk along the boulevard, I see the trees like forks, I see houses, all black and as big as Notre Dame, I fancy that the white walls are the river, I say to myself: `Why, there's water there!' The stars are like the lamps in illuminations, one would say that they smoked and that the wind blew them out, I am bewildered, as though horses were breathing in my ears; although it is night, I hear hand-organs and spinning-machines, and I don't know what all. I think people are flinging stones at me, I flee without knowing whither, everything whirls and whirls. You feel very queer when you have had no food." He doesn’t need to know this, her deep thoughts, but here he was, and he was listening to her. Anyone else would have told her to shut up, have hit her or thrown her from their apartment. But not Monsieur Marius. He was sweet and let her read his books.

And, what was more, he held out a five franc coin. With a gasp, she grabbed it out of his hands. “Good!” She said, happy to have succeeded at least in part on her errand. “The sun is shining! Five francs! the shiner! a monarch! in this hole! Ain't this fine! You're a jolly thief! I'm your humble servant! Bravo for the good fellows! Two days' wine! and meat! and stew! we'll have a royal feast! and a good fill!” She adjusted her chemise with a broad smile, and bowed low to the man. That was it, she had the money, there was no more need to stay and talk, though she was sure she would return. They were neighbors, after all, were they not?

With the coin securely in her pocket, she could not stop beaming as she approached the door. “Good morning, sir. It’s all right. I’ll go and find my old man!” She was about to leave when something on the floor caught her eye. With another gasp, she nearly dove for it, picking up the offending object. A crumb of bread.

“That’s good! It’s hard! It breaks my teeth!”

Without waiting, knowing she had another round of letters to deliver once she gave her father the money. With any luck, he wouldn’t squander it. But with a man like Thénardier, you never knew.

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Then I'm sick with jealousy. [Her innocence and sweetness had a way of making him smile and laugh, despite his wish to remain serious and depressed.] I don't like the look of him.

[From what he could tell, the man didn't show much interest beyond kindness. He seemed good enough, the sort of petty noble he might have seen among the southron houses.]

He's a better man than some, if he found a way. Blood and House is everything in my world.

[He nodded.]

You showed it to him. He had to know in the end.

[This is a fun game, she likes it.] No? You don't like his hair, do you?

[She loved his hair. But she loves Robb's as well.]

Is it, your House Stark? House Thénardier, we are loyal to ourselves.

[She's the strange mix of innocence and hard truths about the darker facts of life. They were facts, there was no need to be somber. Make fun with what little life you had. Here, though, she can embrace that innocence, and have a life that perhaps she should have been born to have.]

I did. I told him, when he held me. I said, 'I believe I was a little bit in love with you,' and he kissed my forehead. I felt it, before I came here, I am sure of it.

No, I don't like his smile either. It doesn't quite go to his eyes. [He's really reaching for anything to use, but it is amusing how quick he can come up with reasons he doesn't like that feature.]

My House Stark and the North. The North was under my care, I had to be like a father to it.

[The word is painful still and he doesn't want to think too much about the past, his past at least.]

You must have no regrets left after that. [He doesn't want to assume, but she had the chance to say goodbye and the things that weighed on her heart.] He's a good man from the sound of it.

You think him dishonest? [she loves this game. Let him be jealous of a man that never thought twice about her. That didn't see her at that barricade until he nearly tripped over her.]

You were a good father to the North. [She's loyal to him 100%. She also has no idea about anything beyond what he's told her.]

No, none. I delivered my letters to him, and he held me. With any luck, he went home to his lark. And that my brother heeded his words and went with him. [She sighs almost dreamily.] I could hear him singing, as I went.

I think he's cold. [Which really could apply to him, but he'll play along.] I don't trust him with you.

[He doesn't want to break that illusion. Let someone think well of him in this world, even if it is false.]

His lark? [An odd way to put things.] You at least had this goodbye and spoke one last time to your brother. Not many have that chance.

He was always a dangerous man, that Pontmercy sort.

[No, if anything, Marius was a lamb. Though she'd seen a side of him at the barricade that impressed her deeply. Or would have, had she not been busy dying.]

His beloved. I knew her, before, and we called her a lark. Just a frail little bird of a girl.

No, I didn't speak with him. I knew if he saw me he would scold me. He was younger than me, but always seemed much older.

He looks it. You're safer now, here with me.

[Or here in general, from the looks of it.]

He was in love with another woman? Who was she?

Were you close to this brother?

I am happy to be.

Her name was Cosette. A beautiful girl, rich. I knew her as a child, she came to live with my family and work in our inn. Her mother paid us to care for her. Then her papa came to take her away, and our inn with it. [More or less. She'd grown up blaming Cosette for their losses.]

I wish I were closer. Gavroche- he is the one that left home.

[Cosette was the sort of woman that he might have known or seen around Winter Town. She might even be Sansa. He could imagine it stinging that this woman was given so much while everything slipped from Eponine's hands.]

Her father took your inn?

[Maybe for the first time, he had to wonder if it had been similar for Jon? Resenting? Hating? How Robb must have seen to him when they were boys. He never realized his privilege before, but seeing it through Eponine's eyes, he could begin to understand his brother.]

How old was he? Jon and I were near the same age, but my younger brothers were still just boys.

[It was bad enough Cosette had been taken away by a rich man. Cosette left, and that meant the Thénardiers no longer had her to take the brunt of their wrath. That particular honor fell to her.

What was more, neither of her siblings remembered Montfermiel. She had no one to speak to about it, save for her parents. Her father had told her a great many things about what had happened the night the man in the yellow coat took Cosette away. One of which was that he had been responsible for getting them shut down, that he must have bribed the police with the money he'd hidden. Money her father could never find.]

He as good as did! There were children there- then out on the streets. I wanted to bring my cat, she was my baby as Azelma and I would play. [But she hadn't been able to bring her. Robb didn't even need to ask what happened.]

I believe he was ten. Cosette, the Lark, she is my age. And she will grow old.

But he only took his daughter? [He's starting to get an idea of what happened, but it sounds more like it's Eponine's father's doing. The girl was likely slave labor, no different than what happened later to Eponine. With that source of labor gone, nothing would ever get done. It's enough to make him frown, feeling the heat of anger towards the man he had yet to see.] Your father never did his own work, did he?

She will grow old, others will forget. The same with my brothers and sisters. They'll grow old too, have children, wed and live their own lives.

All we have is here.

He did. [Her own view of what had happened was so warped, twisted through the veil of nostalgia, poisoned by her father directing her thoughts and beliefs.]

Oui, he did! [A flash of anger rises in her. He's still her father. But just as quick as it's there, it's gone.] He kept the inn, did he not? And has done many thefts himself. They call him a wolf, too, you know.

He will never forget me. Her... I do not even know if she remembers me.

We do. Which means we have each other.

[He's surprised to see the sudden bolt of anger in her. Despite her earlier implications about her father's dark nature and intentions, it seemed that there was still some sense of protectiveness for her family that he didn't imagine he'd see.]

Who cared for the inn? How often did you have to bring coin in his stead? [His voice is gentle, trying to explain his thoughts, but he's walking onto a battlefield and he doesn't have the energy to argue over such things.] I hope she does remember you.

[But he doubted she did. The sad truth was, there were a number of girls like Eponine, even in Westeros that lived and died and none heard of. It was unsettling to learn of it now, when he couldn't do much for them. He only could try his own form of comfort for her and keep her in his mind.]

We do.

We all cared for it. Mama and I would cook and I would often inspect rooms for damages. My father taught me my numbers then, how to work the books. I would help with the coin, yes. I had small hands, and most found me charming. [So much of Montfermiel was rose-colored.]

Perhaps it's for the best she does not remember me. We were not kind to her. And when she left, that burden became mine.

I am glad you're here with me, Robb. That we have met and found one another.

It sounds like a better life than what you had in Paris. [He understands nostalgia for the past. He still placed his father on a pedestal, unable to live up to the standards he believed his father naturally set for both honor and leading.] If you know all of that, you could start a tavern here of your own.

I am as well. I am glad to know you.

It was.

[She makes a small noise of acknowledgement.] You think I could do such a thing? [She smiles at him from ear to ear.] Then I shall have my own tavern! And you, my Robb, will work at my side. Do not say that Kings do not serve pints, for I shall teach you, and I shall serve you still as I do now. [You know. Sexually]

Shall we do such a thing? We must think of a name!

[It's not a bad idea and a better one than anything he could come up with. He hadn't been taught to have a profession, only to lead. Sansa could rely on what she learned with Septa Mordane and Jon had his time at the Wall. Robb had little else except being a lordling. Working a tavern, it as at least honest and would need some of the things he had been taught (numbers, accounts, management.) The more he thouht about it, the more he liked the idea.]

I may be a bit thick headed. You'll have to teach me several times.

You could name it for your brother?

I will teach you as much and as often as you need, mon cher.

[She considers it.] Le Gavroche! It is a good name, we will open this tavern and we shall run it. Le Gavroche, owned and operated by Eponine Thénardier and Robb Stark.

You don't have to share ownership with me.

[But he's not going to object too much. Having something like this might actually be enough to pull him free of his funk.]

Should we serve food as well?

[Showing his ignorance now.]

But I wish to. You came up with the idea, did you not? And the idea for the name? You are the brains, and the beauty, as it were.

Of course! There will be plenty of bread and cheese for those who wish it. Meats as well, and such deserts! [She's letting her imagination run wild now. Such food she had never had before, that's what they would serve.] What do they serve at taverns in Westeros? We shall serve that, too.

[He had to stop to think about some of the things he had eaten in taverns. Given that he was marching South and was focused on his family, too often he had eaten without paying much mind what went into his mouth.]

There were some meat pies. [The good and bad ones stuck out in his mind for different reasons.] Chicken, bread and cheese. Stews, especially closer North.

The best taverns have their specialities.

Yes! We will have those, certainly. And stews- you can put anything in a pot and cook it and it will be food! [Not always good food, but food.]

We'll think of ours. I should like to create one of our shots we had, but to make it sweeter. A... French Bullet, I will call the shot. For my death.

[He fell silent at the mention of her death, raising her fingers for a soft kiss.]

I want to make something, but I'm no cook. Something to name for my wolf, Grey Wind.

Yes. We will have a drink for your wolf, but we will have to think. What flavors would you like to taste in it?

[She smiles lazily] You know, I am the daughter of a wolf, I told my father as much.

You might need to help me think of ideas. I only really drank ale or wine back home.

[He smiled at that.]

The wolf is my house's symbol. You would fit in.

[At least in that, if he was honest with himself.]

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Éponine Memshare 1

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