Lisette

Chapter 45 ~ The Mountain Gives Birth to a Mouse

Through the next month or so, Eponine continued coming to the Musain. With the harshness of the weather, it was hard to tell whether or not the remedies for her chilblains were working. They didn't disappear, but with the continued bad weather, they could easily have been far worse. With her growing familiarity with the others in the back room of the Musain, she increasingly came out of her shell. 

As I had half thought, she and Grantaire got along, and while she sometimes sat with me, or pored over whatever books Jehan had brought along, she would often play dominoes with him. The stability of her company seemed to result in his drinking less, though it may just have been that he was specifically drinking less at the Musain, rather than generally. I took to sitting with him more often too, for all that it baffled Enjolras - on his good days, I genuinely enjoyed his company, and on his bad days, I couldn't help but want to try and help.

Gavroche became increasingly competent at writing, and took to teaching Navet what he had learned on the occasions that Navet came to the Musain as well. With the cold continuing through into February, the two of them were present almost every evening. Gavroche seemed to be glad for Eponine's presence as well, and often spent time with her.

For all the cold, Monsieur Mabeuf seemed to be keeping well, and Marius was often also there on the occasions I went to see him. Unable to tend to the plants in his garden, he was planning new ways to tackle his indigo problem, and seemed confident in reaching a solution this year. Marius's father's old comrades and generals sometimes invited Marius to dinner, and it seemed he enjoyed having the opportunity to talk about his father with people who had known the man. He went more often in the present weather, on account of the cold. To spend more time in the warm? No, because the frosts meant that his boots didn't become dusty from walking, and he could hardly afford a carriage. As he said, though without any bitterness in his tone, 'Men are so made that in a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes. In order to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable thing is asked of you; your conscience? No, your boots.'

Visits to Cosette often felt like journeying to a different world. The warmth, light, and luxury of her little house were wildly different to anywhere else I spent my time, and from her insulated little nest, she seemed fascinated to hear about the outside world as I experienced it. She visited the poor with her father often, to give alms and charity, but she barely knew anyone besides her father and her stuttering maid servant Toussaint. And me, I suppose. Having first heard properly about the students and the few women I spent my time with, she took to asking more about them, and I couldn't help but on occasions observe things in the Musain or Corinthe thinking that they would make good stories to tell her.

Towards the end of January, we (that is to say, Musichetta, Claudine, Rosalie, Marguerite, and Eponine) arranged to go out for lunch together at the Palais Royale. Initially, Eponine seemed somewhat hesitant about coming. As she said, her clothes would hardly permit her to enter a nice restaurant or coffee shop - she would be turned away at the door. And she had no shoes, neither. 

After persuading her to come over, one afternoon, and try borrowing some clothes from Musichetta and myself, she seemed more at ease with the idea of coming out with us, provided her father didn't find out. Musichetta had a spare pair of shoes, and between us we had sufficient petticoats. Eponine's form was spare enough that my jacket was loose about her, but she seemed barely to regard that. With the warm water in the wash basin, she washed her face, and gladly took my old piece of comb as a present that she could keep ("My father can hardly sell that!"), and as we walked on to the Palais Royale, delighted in looking at herself in shop windows. 

The Palais Royale could hardly be visited without also going window shopping, and with full stomachs from lunch, we drifted from one shop to another, gazing at things we could never hope to afford. I did, however, buy a cheap notebook and pencil in one of the stationer's shops, so Gavroche could have something more than just the slate to write on, and in the bookshop next door, Eponine seemed amazed at the sheer number of different books that could be available to her.