Until the Earth is Free

Epilogue

Still glows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,
Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree;
Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,
But what are the beauties of nature to me?

— John Oxenford, The Ash Grove, c. 1802

::

June 4, 1832
1 day left

Paris at its most beautiful. In the mid-evening, with the sun setting and casting a gentle orange light over the city. The faint glow seemingly settled itself into every crack in the cobblestones, in the woodwork of every building. Warming the stones. That half-light breathed in the city's very heart. Such a perfect and beautiful sunset that not a soul could look into it and find their breath taken away. The sunset was beauty, it was hope, and it marked one day less to be lived on this earth. Another day gone. But there is a sort of beauty in letting go.

In the outskirts of the city, by the Gorbeau tenement, some haggard-looking women shared a large, but thin blanket underneath one of the few working gas lamps and sewed at patches in clothing by the faint light. Small urchin children huddled together against the walls of buildings with broken windows and doors clinging for dear life to their frames by their hinges. The children stayed close together, shivering though it was a warm night in early June. Prostitutes dressed in brightly coloured dresses and wearing heavy makeup lined up in rows while the worst sort of men lingered about them like a bad stench, reaching out and grabbing, picking out their plaything for the night with mocking scrutiny. Which one had the largest breasts? Which one looked the most nervous and would prove the most fun? Which one looked the most desperate? Such were the choices these men made on a nightly basis.

Far from these night terrors, in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the last of the evening strollers wandered, arms linked, the man leading the woman, as was proper. Though the sun was setting, many of the ladies still held parasols in their dainty hands, as was fashionable. Children, properly done up in tiny waistcoats and well-shined shoes, frills and lace and bonnets on those precious little heads, ran ahead and laughed, only to be scolded by their parents, for they would soil that lovely new outfit that Papa paid a great deal for.

In the Place San-Michel, life still buzzed about. The old man still sat on his stoop with weathered fingers reaching out and hands cupped in a prayer for kindness while that same battered hat sat at his feet. The scruffy young boys played with their India-rubber ball, tossing it against the wall and laughing when they caught it. The young mother still sat hunched underneath the lamppost knitting, and her little child still stayed close to her side. The schoolgirls crossed the square, giggling and gossiping, while the factory women sipped at their coffee and their daughters played Knights and Princesses, a game which they never tired of, just far enough away that their mothers could see them but not intervene or scold them for anything. A carriage rattled through the square, disrupting a pigeon that had been poking its beak between the cracks in the cobblestones in search of food. With a start, the bird flew off, leaving just a lone feather behind.

::

Éponine sat on the edge of her bed in the tiny room, resting her chin in her hands, scraggly hair falling over her head like a dark halo, and she the broken angel. There was just enough space here for her to place her bare feet on the cool stone floor. Éponine could hear the sounds of arguments coming from the main room of the apartment: angry shouts and curses, mostly. The others had chosen a mark, some rich couple living near the Pont Neuf, but her father was in disagreement. He thought the next target should be one in an even wealthier neighbourhood. In the Champs-Elysses, the gossip was that the couple residing in one of the homes were on a most expensive vacation to Austria, and thus would not be home to alert the authorities if the Patron-Minette chose to rob them. The problem was that they had a dog and a hired guard.

The furious argument went on, and Éponine sighed and shook her head in disgust. She hated these nights, nights when she couldn't leave this blasted room without having to face them, especially Montparnasse, nights when she didn't know where Azelma was, nights when she worried for Gavroche. Nights when she could hear Marius in the next room and found herself overcome with desire but most of all, her bitter sadness.

The candle, the only source of light in the room, was flickering out and dying. With the door closed, she'd soon be shrouded in total darkness. Éponine considered her options: she could either stay in this room in pitch blackness, probably all night and surely at the mercy of Montparnasse later on, or she could slip out and be free for the night, a wild thing borne of the streets, but most certainly be forced to face the Patron-Minette and her parents. It was when she heard the door to Marius' apartment open and close that she came to her decision.

As soon as she left the room and closed the door behind her, Éponine felt all eyes turn on her. Boring into her. The seventeen-year-old tried to compose herself, kept her back stiff as she went for the door with her head held high. Yes, that's it, 'Ponine. Just keep walking, and you shall soon be out the door. You mustn't let anything they say stop you and it shall all be fine. You shan't be harmed. As these thoughts passed through her mind, she heard a crooning coming from the table of men, one that forced her to take a deep breath.

"Where's our pretty little 'Ponine goin', then?" Montparnasse's words were like the trickle of ice cold water. "Surely, you'd wanna stay and help Papa. He is attending to most important business matters, and I should think 'e wants some help from his little girl."

Éponine's eyes flicked to her father, but at present he seemed disinterested in his daughter and whether she went out or not, a bottle of beer at his lips. The other members of the Patron-Minette were leering at her, but at the very least she was being ignored by Thénardier. She raised her chin defiantly. "I am going out," she responded to Montparnasse's jeers. "And I do not know when I shall be back." And with that, she went on walking, past the table and out the door. Down the stairs and into safety.

She caught Marius leaning over the well, adjusting his cockade pin, which had come loose. The way he stood, shoulders slightly hunched and tongue peeking out from behind his lips, his cravat askew and his hair just slightly mussed, was enough to cause her heart to beat faster. Éponine watched him a moment and hoped he would notice her. He did not. So she leaned in the door frame and grinned. "Why, m'sieur Marius!" she crowed. "I certainly did not expect to see you about."

Marius looked surprised, and for a fleeting moment she thought him to be rather like a startled rabbit. But when he saw it was only Éponine, he smiled sheepishly and, she noted, adjusted his cravat. He stuck one hand out, which she took and clasped tightly in both of her own. "A good evening to you, Éponine," he said politely. "Fancy seeing you as well. Where were you headed, might I ask?"

She cocked one eyebrow. "Me? Everywhere." This last word she uttered in a rush of breath and with a coy smile. "I am going absolutely everywhere and should like it if you would join me, m'sieur." She didn't let go of his hand, and Marius had to shake himself free.

"Yes. Well, 'Ponine," he said, and her heart soared, like it did every time he used her special nickname, "I've a meeting to attend … would you care to join me? You do know, of course, that you are always welcome at the Café Musain, and I'm sure Enjolras would like it if you joined us. He is rather passionate about recruiting others to our cause."

By silent agreement, they began to walk down the ever-darkening street. Neither acknowledged the filth, Marius out of politeness, Éponine because she was well used to it. She was seventeen now, nearing eighteen, had been on the streets since she was twelve. Yes, if there was one thing she was used to, it was living amongst poverty and filth. They passed the place where the prostitutes often lingered, and she felt several eyes on her. But m'sieur Marius was with her, and she felt protected. Not that she would have allowed any of those men near her, of course. She would have been all too happy to give them a slap or a knee between the legs. But that was beside the point.

"What shall you be doing at the meeting tonight, then?" Éponine asked lightly.

Marius glanced sidelong at her. She had, at one point, slipped her arm into his without his noticing. "We shall be discussing our barricades. As I believe you are aware, they are to go up in the next few days, and I shall be fighting there alongside my friends." In his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful green eyes, there was a strange sort of fire and passion she was not used to seeing in their depths.

She stopped short in her tracks and looked at him with an expression of shock and incredulity. "Pardon? The … barricades? But no, you mustn't go! You shall get yourself killed!" Her voice grew small, faint. "I do not think I could bear it if you died."

"It will be a glorious revolution," Marius said. "But I know you, 'Ponine, and don't you dare to try and fight alongside us. God, Éponine, you might be shot, for surely the army will be involved and attempt to put our revolution to an end. Your support to the cause would be greatly appreciated, but I don't want to see you in danger right there amongst the fighting. No, I won't allow it. The barricades are no place for women besides."

"But you might be shot as well," Éponine argued. "You cannot go." Her mind reeled, spun. She tried to visualise a life without her Marius, dear, dashing, stupid Marius, who wouldn't even look at her and yet she loved more than should be possible. When they'd first come to Paris, hungry and haggard and living in a sewer of an apartment in which they still resided, she'd met him, and suddenly, she'd felt as if she'd had a purpose to life. She'd been thirteen, and he nineteen. He'd come into her life quite by coincidence in a time of darkness. He was her very own private miracle. Back then, she'd thought him handsome with his proper clothes but messy hair and freckles, and had not been afraid to tell him so, even at thirteen. Then, the following winter, she'd been fourteen and had come to a realisation: she was in love with him. She yearned for him, and in these years he'd been the only person she could turn to, her only friend. To think he might leave her life now was heart-shattering. Though every moment she was with him her heart was breaking, it would be worth it, all would be worth it, because at least he'd still be there for her. Quite distressed now she added, "I won't allow it."

"Éponine – "

She slipped her arm from his, and as he'd not been holding on terribly tightly, it was hardly a difficult task. "I think … " she began, "I think I shall go for a walk on my own elsewhere now, m'sieur. I need time to ponder upon this situation." Éponine did not wait for Marius to say anything more. She hurried off into the night, and only when she'd turned a corner did she sink to her knees and silently weep.

No. Marius would not die. But she feared he would, and she knew she couldn't change his mind. She also knew she would not, simply not, be able to live without him. At the moment, any thoughts of whatever might happen to Azelma and Gavroche – or that her brother might very well join the fighting himself – were cast from her mind. If Marius were to die, then she would simply not permit him to die alone. She would die with him, and perhaps then everything would be right again.

::

Marius had told her he'd not be there for her that night, that he had a most important meeting with his friends. He wished to, he'd told her yesterday in the garden, but alas, he could not. In fact, he'd behaved rather oddly with her their entire meeting. There'd been more tenderness in the way he'd kissed her, stroked her hair, brushed his fingers against her face. Almost as if it was their last meeting and they'd never see each other again. But of course, she chided herself, it was silly, for he'd been seeing her a full year and he would never leave her.

But, Cosette pondered, then why had he given her such a sad lock as he'd walked away the last night? And had his eyes been wet with tears? Thinking back, she thought his behaviour quite disturbing, and she chastised herself for not having noticed it that night, when she might have questioned him about it. Surely something must have happened to cause him to behave in such a fashion, and perhaps he needed her but had been too embarrassed to say so, and she'd not been there for him. But whatever could have happened, it did not explain why he acted as if it would be the last time they'd ever see each other. Such was her concentration that she could not focus on her reading. So she was relieved when she heard Papa calling from the kitchen: "Cosette! Dinner is ready! Run along and wash up now, love."

She stood, setting down her book. She washed her hands and face at the washbasin, then joined Papa for dinner. He'd made a soup, and was carefully pouring it into two china bowls from the pot. As he served the food, she set the table and poured milk into glasses. By the time she was folding the napkins, he had come with the bowls as well as some slices of that morning's baguette and put them in their places. "Thank you for setting the table, Cosette," he said with a smile as he sat down. "That was most thoughtful of you. Are you ready to eat?"

"Certainly," she returned with a smile of her own, taking a seat opposite him. She held one of the silver spoons in her hand, dipped it into the soup and brought it to her lips. "Mmm. Why, it's delicious."

"Thank you, my Pet. Which book were you reading there?"

She blushed. "Mansfield Park, again. It's simply my favourite, you know. I know I've read it many times, but … "

Papa nodded understandingly. "Yes, we do enjoy reading our favourite books over again. I know how very much you enjoy it, and I must say I agree. Miss Austen was quite a fine writer." He frowned suddenly, noticing the way she was playing absentmindedly with her spoon. "Are you quite all right, Cosette? You're quiet today, distracted. Is something the matter?"

"N-nothing," she said quickly, hiding the worry that must be on her face with a dazzling smile. "I'm fine. I was simply … thinking, that is all. About my book. Don't worry over me, dear Papa."

He regarded her carefully. "Well, if you're certain," he remarked, and they resumed their meal in silence.

::

The Musain, as always, buzzed with life. The elite and the working class mixed together just in this one place. Mugs of beer were gripped firmly in fists at the bar counter amid laughs and rowdy shouts. The working class men were thrilled by a bold young barmaid who twirled locks of her hair around one coy finger and lowered her neckline just so. The rich turned away, shielding the scandalous view with fans and newspapers and heatedly whispering about the absolute nerve of her.

Things were different in the room upstairs, where Enjolras prepared for the night's meeting, wearing his red vest and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. The young student sorted through the ever-growing stack of papers without properly looking at them, his blue eyes flicking back and forth before the sheet was discarded, shoved aside, tossed over his shoulder, sometimes even crumpled up. At present their revolution was growing hot, with General Lamarque so ill and weak; they hosted rallies in the streets nearly every day, and their barricades were sure to go up in the next few days.

Over the next half hour, the room filled up. Marius was, quite miraculously, on time today. In fact, he arrived even before a few of the others: aside from Enjolras, Grantaire and Joly were the only ones to arrive before him. Enjolras was rather pleased with this turn of events, and, while of course he did not say so, he was proud of his friend. Marius was, after all, the youngest of them other than little Gavroche, at twenty-two years.

On the topic of the eleven-year-old little urchin, Gavroche was the last to arrive, which was quite unlike him. He often took care to arrive early, oftentimes even before Enjolras. But he came in mere minutes before the meeting was due to start, his hair scruffy as always, wearing his token battered blue vest, well-worn trousers, French cockade pin proud on his lapel … and hauling something in a very large case that was nearly twice his size. As he dragged it with some difficulty into the room and dropped it with a heavy thunk on the nearest table, all eyes turned on him.

"Gavroche," Enjolras asked with raised eyebrows, "whatever is that?"

"A cello," the boy retorted bluntly. He did not elaborate further, just crossed his arms over his chest.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "A cello," he repeated, struggling to come to terms with this fact. "Gavroche, I am not going to ask where on Earth you found it, for I should think I'm afraid to know, but would you please return it?"

Gavroche's voice threatened to reach a whine. "But it's for the barricade!" And frankly, Enjolras saw little point in arguing with him. Arguing with Gavroche often resulted in unfortunate consequences and besides, there was never any winning a fight with the young boy. Choose your battles, Enjolras reminded himself. At present you've more important things to think of.

After this odd exchange, their meeting began properly. Not a long ways into the meeting, Gavroche went downstairs a moment, and when he returned, he delivered some grim news he'd overheard: General Lamarque was dead.

And it was here Enjolras made his decision, finally: tomorrow, at the funeral procession, their barricades would go up in all their glory and promise. Shouts were heard throughout the room, passionate shouts from all members of les amis: "Vive la France!" "Vive la republique!" "Vive la révolution!" "On the candles our grief, we will kindle our flame!" "Let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts!"

Enjolras spun a phrase so as to stir his friends and the people: "Red, the blood of angry men!" The young revolutionaries repeated it, a promise that would live on to see tomorrow and many days to come. The promise was passion, it was fire, it was stirring. Red, the blood of angry men! A brilliant promise of change and hope, and a cry that, unbeknownst to them, would be silenced come the morning after tomorrow. But for now, that phrase and promise was heard, and it was made of pure hope.

Scarlet hope.

~ The End ~