In 1817, Paris, a boy was born into despair and poverty. Saved by his own resilience to live, he knew he was destined to greatness, deserving of respect, no matter the cost. And he would die before he let anyone keep it from him.
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[Status: ~76k words, 13 Chapters, Complete]
Fandom: Les Misérables
Characters: Montparnasse, Éponine Thénardier, Jean Prouvaire, Cosette Fauchelevent, Javert, Jean Valjean, Enjolras, original character, other minor characters
Pairings: Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire, other pairings
Content Warnings: child abuse, visual descriptions of brutality, transphobia, visual descriptions of gore, murder
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Chapter 1: Let us all pretend this is a happy Beginning
Chapter 2: About the Impossibility of finding Joy in a Slaughterhouse
Chapter 3: If one were to think this is the point in the Story where the Events bring goodness, they would be wrong
Chapter 4: We return to familiar but unwanted territory
Chapter 5: We follow episodes of aesthetical Dispair
Chapter 6: The Light at the End of the Tunnel is of flaming copper Hair
Chapter 7: It is a strange feeling to watch other people suffer instead of oneself
Chapter 8: Once again, we thought happiness had been found, but there was one more corner it could hide behind
Chapter 9: Beauty can be found in shared Inconveniences
Chapter 10: When the Past catches up with the wrong Person
Chapter 11: The Past knocking on the Door, taking the form of Strangers
Chapter 12: Justice is a confusing wench and Rationality has never been the Policeman’s strongest suit
I still don’t know why I’m here. Survival Wilderness Training in the US seems more a way to get me out of your hair than anything actually useful. The fact I’m with CIA agents might foster cooperation, but really, why do I need to know edible plants in the wilds of California, of all places?
Today I climbed 4500 feet of elevation with a 75 lb pack. After roughly 3000 feet I thought perhaps you were trying to teach me a lesson. That I am too old or too soft to do this anymore. I admit, the altitude gave me some trouble after my months at sea level, and I’m the oldest taking the training by several years.
After 4000 feet I thought perhaps you hate me now. I know the way I left — taking the car and the girl and leaving the destruction of Nine Eyes in my wake — didn’t make me many friends. Even the other double-ohs were a bit icy on my return. The Q Branch minions don’t even acknowledge me when I enter the branch. I’m sure there was a lot of cleanup I missed, and I’m resented for it.
But then I got to the summit and saw this:
And now I don’t know what to think. Surely someone who hates me wouldn’t wouldn’t send me somewhere so spectacular.
I found this phone when I unpacked my tent. Sending me with contraband, Q? It says it has no service, but if I know you, you have it hooked up to our satellites so you can keep tabs on me. So I’ll send these messages like postcards, not expecting a response.
A SINNER’S FUTURE, Chapter 3: IF ONE WERE TO THINK THIS IS THE POINT IN THE STORY WHERE THE EVENTS BRING GOODNESS, THEY WOULD BE WRONG.
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If you think Montparnasse had achieved the life he wanted simply because he had managed to be hired by Madame Brilal, I must disappoint you. This is not that kind of story with a quick happy ending. Montparnasse was not that kind of person that lived this kind of story.
It is true, that from the beginning of this new chapter in his life, even Montparnasse believed all his problems had been resolved. It was a wonderful time full of new pleasures. Beginning with the first morning he woke up in the shop, Montparnasse found himself living in what he could not describe as anything else but paradise. Madame Brilal invited him to eat breakfast with her and Montparnasse, who had never tasted oatmeal, felt something bloom inside him the first time she gave him some to try. On the first Sunday he spent at L’atelier de Joséphine she even gave him some cream to eat with it. This was what heaven must have felt like.
After breakfast, the two of them would open the store. The first thing Montparnasse was tasked to do was rearranging the display window. According to Madame Brilal, it was important that the clientele sees something new each day. This way, they would fear that whatever design they wanted was out if they didn’t buy it immediately and they had something different to admire each time they passed the store. Of course, Madame Brilal didn’t create new outfits for each day, she couldn’t have done so even in her glory days and those were long behind her. Instead, it was Montparnasse’s task to find a way to make everything look new without needing to actually create something new. As early as his second week of work, he would spend his evening and early morning when he could not sleep roaming among the seemingly endless rows of cloth, dresses, blouses, waistcoats and everything else the store of Madame Brilal had to offer. If Montparnasse only forgot himself and the world hard enough, it sometimes seemed as if there was a world full of wonder and beauty if he only walked to the end of the corridor. But the end was nothing else than where he had started, bright light flooding the store through the tall windows, the harsh reality hit Montparnasse each time anew without ever lessening the blow as he watched the dust swirling through the air before setting on the counter or whatever free surface seemed to attract it the most. Slightly disappointed without ever admitting it to himself, Montparnasse would go back to designing the store display. He learned which cloth looked best assorted with a satin dress, learned to recognize which fold pattern thrown together didn’t make the entire ensemble look like something an actor would wear on stage to be flamboyant and obnoxious as to be seen even in the back of the theatre and which coloured neck tie would fit best with a very specific light-yellow shirt. The display window was Montparnasse’s world to create and he was its all-supreme god. Or would have been if there wasn’t one thing Madame Brilal categorically refused he moved or even touched if it wasn’t for dusting it. On the left side of the window was an old looking dress and Montparnasse could not help but wonder why the store owner clung onto this one specific garment so much. The colours were mostly faded from the long hours in the sun and Montparnasse was sure he had seen moth holes at the bottom of the skirt. But every time he even mentioned the dress, Madame Brilal would either tell him to be quiet since he didn’t understand its importance anyway or would get a dreamy look in her eyes and give the impression she was somewhere else. Somewhere Montparnasse’s voice would never reach her.
It had been two months since Montparnasse had begun working at the tailor shop that the mystery of the old dress was finally solved. It was beginning to get cooler and both new and old clients had come in steadily throughout the day to look at possible winter clothes. Madame Brilal was busy fixing the back of a waistcoat the customer wanted to take home immediately as to wear it to a ball held in his house later that evening, when the every familiar ringing of the little bell fixed above the entry door echoed through the room. Montparnasse had just crouched behind the counter to put away a stack of needles. Curiosity and of course, his magnificent senses of salesmanship, made him peep as to see who had entered the store. It was a new client, one he had never seen before. She carried herself straighter than anyone he had ever seen but not as if somebody had screwed a rod to her spine like he had seen it with to many other women, but with grace and dignity and what seemed to be the unshakable assurance of having found her place in this world and that she belonged right where she was in this very moment, without doubt, without hesitation. She was the most beautiful woman Montparnasse had ever seen. Her bright white hair was twisted into an elegant and complicated bun, held in place by several needles and topped by an emerald green hat. Her dress was nothing out of the ordinary, but she bore it with an air of such sadness Montparnasse had nothing to it compare to. He could not help but take a step forward to be a little closer to her. A gentle smile appeared on her face, making the wrinkles on her skin disappear within the happiness and peace she radiated with.
“Good afternoon, Madame,” Montparnasse greeted her, bowing slightly. He had seen some of the better dressed men greet Madame Brilal like this. A quiet laugh, clear as shattered glass, escaped the woman in front of him.
“Well, good afternoon to you as well, my young monsieur. I have never seen you here before.”
“I’ve begun working for Madame Brilal only recently, Madame.”
“Ah, good for her! I’ve always told Joséphine she shouldn’t overwork herself so much and get someone to help her! I trust you to keep her safe and to do everything in your might to help her. Would you do that for me, young man?”
Taken aback by this sudden seriousness, Montparnasse could not help but nod. With the motion on his side the heaviness of the entire situation suddenly seemed to disappear. The same laughter as before echoed through the room once more. With big eyes as if she had suddenly been filled by her early child, the elderly woman turned around, taking in the entirety of the store as if she had never seen it before. Her skirts slightly lifted and twirled. As if on cue, she suddenly stopped right in front of the ugly dress in the display window.
“Good God! I can’t believe I still have to see this! Boy, tell me, who oversees the display windows?”
She snapped her fingers at Montparnasse. Nervous, he took a few steps forward. That day especially, he was incredibly proud of the display he had created. In his opinion, it truly showcased the passage from the hot days of summer which where over by now to the slightly colder but even the more so colourful times of autumn.
“I do, Madame.”
Like a fury in a hurricane, she turned around, facing him like the wrath of God itself.
“What made you think it was a good or even a remotely acceptable idea to put this old rag – she pointed at the old dress Madame Brilal had forbidden Montparnasse to remove from the window – into the display? When I first saw you, I expected better!”
“Well, you see, Madame…” Montparnasse hesitated to answer. He didn’t want to put Madame Brilal in a bad light in front of a costumer. However, he did not want to be held responsible for the horror that was the old yellowed dress which ruined his entire work of the early morning. On top of that, he could not help but think that the woman was right. It truly was an old rag.
“Madame Brilal forbids me to replace it. I’m not even allowed touch it. I would like nothing more than make something truly and completely beautiful to show everyone what kind of art is created here, but I am unfortunately unable to live out my full potential.”
With a thoughtful look on her face, the woman looked at Montparnasse, then at the dress and back at Montparnasse again.
“Yes, that’s the Joséphine I know and have learned to love. Pray tell me, do you know how long she is still occupied with her work?”
“Uhm, I’m not sure. She is currently with another client, so I would probably say not anytime soon.”
“Good, that’s enough for me to tell you the story of this dress and why it’s not only incredibly ugly but also why keeping it in display is actually hurting her. Come sit down.”
As if she belonged here, the shop belonged her and with the grace Montparnasse imagined a queen to have, she had taken place on one of the armchairs reserved for waiting clients. Impatiently, she patted the armchair next to her while looking at Montparnasse with a piercing look. He decided not to make her wait any longer than he had already done. The armchairs were just as comfortable as he had always imagined it. A little dusty maybe. Like a mystery teller, the woman leant over. As if on instinct, Montparnasse mirrored her movement. Her voice was hushed when she spoke.
“You must know that Joséphine has been a tailor for a very long time and more importantly, she has been very good at what she does for a very long time. When the old Austrian princess, Maria-Antonia, came to Paris for her marriage to Louis XVII, she needed a new dress. This was the one she wore for her presentation to the French people. It was the greatest honour for Joséphine to dress a member of the royal family, and the Dauphine no less! After the revolution and Maria-Antonia’s execution, she somehow managed to retrieve it and has since then never been able to let go of this prime time in her life, even if it meant clinging onto a nearly sixty-year-old gathering of cloth which does nothing but catch dust. By not letting go, not only is she showing that she does nothing else but look back, she also hinders herself from ever making anything better than this dress which as you can see right now, grows more and more tragic as time passes by.”
The woman’s gaze was now far away. If in the past or in the future, Montparnasse could not tell. They sat next to each other in silence until Madame Brilal came back with the last costumer, this time wearing a fitted aistcoat as he walked through the door of the shop.
When Madame Brilal saw the woman, she broke out into a smile and welcomed her with open arms.
“Guenièvre! It’s been so long since I last saw you! You should come more often, I cannot help but feel responsible for how little clothing you have! Montparnasse, be so nice and clean up the needles and threads from the back.” With this order, Montparnasse was left alone to do his chores and Madame Brilal took her next costumer to accomplish her every desire.
Of course, Montparnasse could not pretend everything was perfect. He could not have expected it to be. The days were long, and he went to bed with aching muscles from having kneeled and squatted all day long in search of lost needle Madame Brilal could now afford to buy anew in case she lost them. The costumers frequenting her store, no matter their age or fashion preference, always saw something to criticise in him. The first time something of this manner had happened, it had been about his hair. A young man, Montparnasse would have guessed him to be in his early thirties, dressed in a tight fitting maroon coat with light grey trousers, had described him as “a rat somebody had left lying in the mud for so long the hair resembled the fur of a puli dog.” He had expected Montparnasse to be out of hearing range, but the boy had understood the insult very well and could see Madame Brilal blush out of shame in one of the mirrors which were set up all around the shop. The very same evening, she had dragged him to the back of the shop where there was no risk of anyone seeing them and with the big scissors she used to cut cloth pieces down to size, she cut down his hair strand after strand until Montparnasse felt nothing else but naked. It was dark in the backroom which had no windows and even though Montparnasse had never paid attention to his hair or simply cut it with his knife whenever it had begun falling into his eyes, he knew she had only made his looks worse. There were patches of hair missing above and around his ears, making him look as if he suffered from hair loss and his the little hair she had left him on the top did not fall into his eyes like it used to but not stuck out as if it had been replaced with hay. Madame Brilal was the owner of a shop for fashionable clothing but, as Montparnasse realized in this moment, she had no knowledge of what the concept of fashion entailed. He was ruined. He would have no choice but to use the practical knowledge she had to his own advantage. There wouldn’t be anyone else to help him achieve what he wanted. The next morning, Montparnasse began to work.
At first, he retrieved a pair of scissors. They were small and used to cut threads. Madame Brilal screamed at him and scolded him for his incompetence when he told her he couldn’t find them, but she had given up searching for the things she needed as soon as Montparnasse had begun doing this kind of work for her. The scissors stayed in Montparnasse possession. When he was sure she couldn’t see or hear him, Montparnasse snuck away one of the mirrors the shop possessed and set himself to work. His most important task in this moment was to make himself presentable. The last few strands fell to the floor and Montparnasse’s reflection bore a strange resemblance to a hedgehog, small and very spiky. He did not look presentable in any way, but he did look better than what Madame Brilal had done to him. This was all that matter. The rest he could sort out as his hair grew back. Perfection took time, after all. Secondly, Montparnasse began observing everything around him with meticulous care, beginning with the client’s behaviour. He knew that if he wanted to live in the lap of luxury like they did, he would have to make everyone believe that’s where his righteous place was and always had been. He began walking straight like the gentleman coming in to let their trousers be shortened to accurate length, held his chest out like the lady’s having a corsage fitting. He listened to and emulated their speech to the best of his abilities and copied the way they extended their pinkie finger when handling a cup of tea in the café on the opposite side of the street. He watched how Madame Brilal took measurements and cut cloth before sewing it together, creating something useful out of nearly nothing. He observed how she treated her costumers, always with a certain docility and submission. Montparnasse decided this was not something of his style. He aimed to become better than all of them. In the end, he would become the one with the best craftsmanship. They would require his services and help, and it would be his choice alone whether they deserved it. He collected the scraps of cloth which were left over and spent his evenings trying to meticulously imitate the work he had seen during the day. At first, he simply managed to prick his fingers trying to pull the small stitches which were far too near together to make it easy for him learning this way. It was a disaster. Patience had never been one of Montparnasse’s virtues, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
In November, Madame Brilal finally gave in to her age. It had been quite some time since she had tasked Montparnasse with small things like cutting threads and sewing on buttons. When the first snow fell, she called him next to her. Rolled out on the table were two huge bands of cloth, one blue duchesse satin and the other a Bordeaux charmeuse one. The silhouettes of the cut pieces were already drawn on in chalk.
“My fingers hurt today. Cut these out for me,” Madame Brilal said, pointing at the big scissors laying on the cloth. They were the same she had used to cut Montparnasse’s hair. Thankfully, it was slowly growing back. He paid attention to keep it short around his ears and to the best of his abilities on his neck, but it was hard work and his arms only reached so far. However, this did not mean he was not more content with how it looked now compared to before. On the contrary; it was a vast improvement.
Montparnasse took the scissors and set himself to work. Madame Brilal spent the evening seated in an armchair next to him, overlooking his work. Although she depended on him to complete the work she could no longer do, she was far away from trusting him. After all, he was nothing more than a street boy she had taken pity in and who had not proven himself to be absolutely useless. With argues eyes she supervised the simplest of motions on Montparnasse’s behalf, ready to scold and punish him for the smallest mistake. To her surprise, nothing of this kind happened. Montparnasse’s hands were steady as she could have hoped to be a long time ago and his cuts were clean and precise. Furthermore, he did his work faster than Madame Brilal had ever expected to be possible. Whether she liked to admit it, he had done good work. Of course, she did not confess that much. Instead, she had snorted approvingly, nearly ripped the pieces of fabric from his hands and set herself to the slow and painful task of beginning the actual sewing process. Montparnasse was left to deal with everything else.
The days dragged on and turned into weeks, turning into months. With every new task and obstacle Madame Brilal faced, Montparnasse was burdened with new work. The days grew longer, and the nights grew shorter. By the time Madame Brilal had nothing left to teach Montparnasse, – Not that she had ever willingly done so. Teaching someone and using them for one’s own personal gain are two very different things after all – it was a rare occasion that she even got out of bed in the morning to look after the shop when it opened. It was less rare of an occasion to have customers come in asking whether Montparnasse was the new owner. To his great displeasure, he wasn’t, and the ugly dress Madame Brilal still insisted on displaying in the window was a daily reminder of his imprisonment. The one improvement was his liberty in dealing with whoever had decided to consult his services that day. Montparnasse was an unlucky fellow and his bones persistently refused to grow. At 12 years old, Montparnasse still had the height of an average child and consequently suffered from the lack of respect customers and everyone else showed him. If he refused to dress them, it was no one’s fault but their own. It was their choice to let someone without skill or knowledge sell them overpriced horridness’s after all.
As he was working in candlelight, drawing the silhouettes of several pieces for the bodice of a gown some red-headed girl had ordered with him earlier that day, Montparnasse became convinced of one thing: There was nothing left to do for him anymore. He had to find a way out. He had to find the next step in his social ascent, to feel for the next rung on the ladder that would bring him out on top. The only question left was finding something to satisfy his needs. Lying down the piece of chalk, Montparnasse took the candle and went over to his bed. Now that he had decided of the next step in his plan, it was time to find a way to get there.
Montparnasse liked to begin with the easiest things. As soon as he was finished with his work and Madame Brilal was off to bed – the latter happened more and more frequently earlier than the former –, Montparnasse would sit down at the small desk where Madame Brilal used to write her letters and with painfully detailed hand begin to work on a letter by her handwriting. It was no rare occurrence to see him sit there until the sun came up and the shop called for his attention once more. Stroke after stroke he put the ink to paper, careful to copy the letters to their most exactitude. No one was allowed to question the authenticity of these papers once they were finished. It was a frustrating process interrupted by countless burnt letters, the result of unsatisfactory work.
Madame Brilal was to die soon, and Montparnasse would make sure he was to inherit the entirety of the shop. Forging her will was only a small necessity for a greater good.
Montparnasse was finally about halfway done with a body of work he could call himself proud of, when Madame Brilal put spokes through the wheels of Montparnasse’s plan, even though it had never been her intention of doing so. It was already well past noon and Montparnasse was currently working on the sleeves for a ball dress a young woman had ordered earlier this week. It was to be finished for her sister’s wedding who she wanted to show off to, as a revenger for stealing her paramour and tricking him into marrying her. At least that was what she had told him while he had taken her measurements. He did not truly care for the occasion or any reason why she had been pressuring him into telling Madame Brilal she would not pay for anything less than perfection. Montparnasse had barely managed to suppress a scoff when he listened to her. There was no way he would let Madame Brilal anywhere near the craft’s table these days for he could not to bear to be responsible for anything less than the best he could create, something she stopped being able to provide a long time ago as she fell behind him in both skill and creativity in fashion. He could have continued to work as he currently did for a few more hours at least, if he had not needed a special type of golden thread that was nowhere to be found in his near vicinity. Sighing, Montparnasse put the needle down and made his way to Madame Brilal’s room. As the owner of the shop, she had kept the only habitable piece of the building to herself. On the top floor, where no neighbouring houses could hide the sun or throw shadows over everything, as was the case for the rest of the rooms, the walls of her room were free of mildew, enlightened by the sun entering each morning through the windows until it set at the end of the day. It was no rare occurrence that she called for Montparnasse, making him walk up the entire sets of stairs over the 4 flours of the house, yelling at him for being to late according to her, then asking him to go get her something incredibly mundane she could as well have waited for or walked down to get herself, and therefore making Montparnasse walk the entirety of the stairs down and up again. It could even happen several times a day. That Montparnasse’s productivity and efficiency at work were more than hindered by this type of annoying games she liked to play for the sole reason of showing off and proving she still held the power in this store and therefore over him is nothing I need to tell you as it is as obvious as the fact that Madame Brilal had by now become practically useless for Montparnasse and the only things keeping him there were his pride in leaving no work unfinished as well as his determination to lead the wealthy life he deserved, one he needed a spotless record for. There was no way he could allow himself to disappear, having to security on what doing next and no proof of a finished tailor formation.
When Montparnasse knocked on the door – for Madame Brilal was prone to throwing a tantrum if she was ever disturbed – there was no answer. He knocked a second time. She must have overheard him, for her hearing seemed to worsen with each passing day, or she had thought this to be a new type of game to test his patience, a game he was more and more willing to lose the more he had to suffer through it. Madame Brilal still gave him no answer. Carefully, ready to close the door at any given moment before Madame Brilal decided to throw a book or worse, her scissors she always kept near her, even when she was in bed, after him, Montparnasse stepped into the room. To his suppressed surprise, she was still in bed. He could see her once white bonnet peaking out from under her cover, a luxury she had granted to Montparnasse himself. Slowly, and as silently as possible, Montparnasse approached her. It was unusual for her to sleep in so late, but it was not unheard of, and there was no point in invoking her wrath if he could avoid it. As Montparnasse stood directly next to her bed, she had still not stirred. With extreme caution, as if approaching a wild animal – not that Montparnasse had ever left Paris or had the experience to touch any animal wilder than a street dog – Montparnasse stretched out his arm and lightly shook her. She did not react. Montparnasse shook her harder. She still did not wake up. Exasperated and running out of patience, Montparnasse shook her as if the house was on fire. Naturally, if the house had really been on fire, he would have been too busy protecting himself and the clothes he was working on to care about saving her, but we are talking in comparisons here, so realism is no matter with which to concern us. Madame Brilal did not move one single eyelash. It was in this exact moment that a dubious and somewhat unsettling thought was born in Montparnasse’s brain. Carefully and with great hesitation, he laid his hand on Madame Brilal’s cheek, the only part of her face he could see or access as she was rolled up like a small animal under her cover. Her skin was cold as stone. As if he had just burned himself at an open fire, Montparnasse pulled back his hand immediately.
There was no doubt. Joséphine Brilal was dead.
For the first time in his life, Montparnasse was at loss for ideas what to do. He knew from experience and tales of the others when he had still been working for Grimal that he needed to do something against the body. If he left it in the bed as it currently was, the smell would become unbearable way to soon. But how would he do that without raising suspicions and getting unwanted attention? Pacing through the room, Montparnasse grabbed one idea by its tail just to let it go the next second in favour of another one. The sun had already begun to set when he finally left the shop, putting up the closed sign inside the glass door and leaving to do his highly necessary business.
Montparnasse could not remember the last time he had put foot inside a church. He knew he must have been in one at least once, for he was baptised. However, it had been done without Montparnasse’s permission and since then, he had found more pressing matters than going to church and say Amen to be worthy of his time. His footsteps echoing, making him sound like a herd of bulls, Montparnasse made his way between the banks of wood, covered in shadows thrown by the many chandeliers and plaster decorations, all the while the many icons adorning the walls gazed down upon him. It seemed as if his less than quiet arrival had been noticed for before Montparnasse could even fully arrive in front of the altar and contemplate the interior of the chancel and apse, a man with dishevelled hair barely tying his morning robe together entered through a door on Montparnasse’s left.
“My son, what brings you to me on this late hour?”, he asked, looking down at Montparnasse, trying to discern his face beneath the brim of his hat.
“I have an urgent matter I need help for, and I believe you are the man in whose area of responsibility this type of topic falls, Monsieur.”
The priest appeared to be in a bad mood, which might have been linked to both being woken up abruptly in the middle of the night and the fact that Montparnasse still refused to take off his top hat. When he heard Montparnasse’s answer, it appeared his opinion of the teenage boy in front of him managed to reach an unprecedented low.
“Father,” the priest stammered, clearly still taken aback from the lack of submission shown by the other.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is tradition to address a priest as Father. That’s the rule in our Holy Church.”
Montparnasse barely managed to hide his sneer. He had not come here to find a new family, let alone a father, a position he had never found empty or missing in his life. There were more urgent matters to tend to.
“I am not here for traditions or rules, Monsieur. I am here because I do not know what to do with the owner of the shop I work at who died last night.”
The distaste in the priest’s demeanour did not disappear. However, he now seemed to at least be interested in what Montparnasse had to tell him.
“My son, I am glad you decided to rush to find me in these dire times of need for you. Please let me get dressed in something more appropriate and then I will join you to resolve this matter how the Lord wants us to.”
10 minutes later, the two of them were on their way to Madame Josephine’s Taylor Shop.
For the next three days, the shop was closed. The interior was dark and without any sign of life. Passer-By’s could read on a sign hanging in the entrance door the following:
We must unfortunately announce we will be closed for a yet unspecified duration for personal reasons. We hope to offer you an even better service when we open again.
When Montparnasse opened the shop once more, there was no sign of the so-called personal reasons he had alluded to on the sign. An astute observer could have notice that nothing had changed in comparison to the time before the abrupt and unforeseen closure. Everything was still the same. Simply the old dress in the window had disappeared. But one does not notice the details when good changes to greatness, and the passer-by’s where not extremes resistant to the average.
Whistling a happy melody while he was working, Montparnasse went on as he had always done since taking over most of the work Madame Brilal had refused to do. Since closing the shop and not needing to take care of any customers, he had gotten a comfortable head start on all the orders he still had to finish. Madame Brilal’s death had first thrown him into a panic, but looking back on it, it was probably the best thing she could have done. There was no need to worry about what to do as to escape her clutches anymore. He could build up this business in peace, become the best and most reputed tailor in Paris and, consequentially, in all of France. There was nothing left stopping him from achieving his dreams and everything he deserved. Or so Montparnasse thought.
The day had the potential to be wonderful. It was cold, as was usual for late November, but the sun was out, and it was Sunday, meaning Montparnasse could close the shop earlier, rewarding himself with some time to relax. He was just rolling up a long piece of deep red velour when he heard a knock on the door. It was sharp and stung in his ears, different from the usual gloved hands tapping shyly for fear of disturbing him during important work after closing hours. Annoyed, Montparnasse put the roll of fabric aside, walking to the door. Waiting in front of it and still knocking on the glass with his cane, was a man dressed in a suit and a heavy, warm looking coat, with a top head on his head. When he saw Montparnasse, he began knocking against the glass even more insistently. With a growing sense of anger, Montparnasse opened the door. He hoped the man had a good reason to disturb him. If not, he would find a way to make him regret it.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur. – The man tipped his hat in greeting. – Am I correct in the assumption that you are the apprentice of the late Madame Joséphine Brilal?”
Montparnasse nodded, wanting to say something, but the man left him no time for that.
“Very well. First, we are sorry for your loss. Please accept our most sincere condolences.” Behind the man, Montparnasse could discern another figure, slightly tipping their hat at him as his presumed colleague talked. It was hard to discern any details for they were to distinguish in the dimming light of the setting sun. There was no time to waste thinking about this second person, for the first man required Montparnasse’s attention once more as he continued speaking.
“Second, we are here to talk to you in the name of the Madame Brilal’s bank. Now that she has regrettably passed away, she cannot pay back her debt she has accumulated with us in her lifetime. As per the contract she signed, we are entitled to seize any personal belongings of hers if she ever turns out to be irrevocably unable to pay her debt.” He stared intently at Montparnasse, who was still standing in the doorway, blocking any possible path inside the shop.
“So?” Montparnasse had hoped for a good excuse justifying this disturbance but instead he had gotten two office donkeys who apparently knew that Madame Brilal was dead but did not understand what that meant. Montparnasse had nothing to do with her debt and he wanted nothing to do with it. If they wanted any of her personal possessions, they should have gone to the graveyard. There was nothing else left which belonged to her than the clothes the priest had buried her in.
“Monsieur…”, the man looked as uncomfortable in his skin as people who seem to have been born in suits and uniform could possibly be, “I fear I haven’t expressed clearly enough. We are here to inform you this house and all objects inside it now belong to the Bank. Furthermore, as a forbidden resident, it is our duty to make sure you leave and cannot live here anymore.”
Montparnasse scoffed. They thought he would allow them to play their little games with him. He would show them what it meant to know every single dirty trick Paris had ever created.
“That won’t be possible. She left me all of her possessions in her will before she passed away.”
Dead silence swept over them like wind over desert dunes. The man looked at Montparnasse, the surprise clearly visible on his features. It was no often occurrence that someone resisted him so calmly and self-assured. Until now, every person he had met in a comparable situation had tried to beg to let them have a bit more time, so they could pay back the debt or asked him for any other way to salvage them. He had always been an impartial judge doing nothing but his job and this day would not mark the beginning of his failure. He would make sure of it.
“Please show us proof us this will. You must understand that we need physical confirmation of your assumptions.”
Smirking, Montparnasse reached inside his vest. As fast as it had appeared, his smile vanished. Like the red sea over the Egyptians, the realisation crashed over him. He had been so stupid! After finishing burying Madame Brilal and successfully taking over her shop, he had never given a second thought to the transference confirmation he had been working on, let alone a will. Of course, the customers did not care who oversaw the shop, as long as he manufactured them clothes and outfits in an appropriate deadline and quality, especially because he had done so for quite some time now. He had never needed a legal document proving he owned the building or anything else regarding his life after Madame Brilal did not provide her securing presence over him. He had never needed it until now. He was left with nothing to show as to prove and assert his claim.
“Monsieur?” The man was growing impatient, the tip of his cane scraping against the floor. Montparnasse had to think, and he had to think fast.
“I fear I am not in possession of such a document. But I can retrieve it from the church for you. I would gladly present it to you and your bank tomorrow.”
As he heard this, something akin to pity washed over the bank employee’s face, if he had been able to feel such an emotion towards his employer’s clients or their associates. This truly was not the day he would begin to fail at his job.
“Monsieur, we both know it is not the church who takes care of such things. It hasn’t for a long time. Thus, knowing that you do not, in fact, possess the required document to confirm your possession of this estate or any other objects within it, my colleague and I will proceed to fulfil what we are paid to do. Brutus.”
As he said these words, the man stepped aside. Finally, Montparnasse could fully take in the person standing behind him. It wasn’t a man. It even felt unfit to describe him as a colossus. He was not tall by any means, but he was stocky, more muscles than anything else. Montparnasse could distinguish scars protruding from his scalp, the testimonies of one bar fight too many.
Without hesitation or remorse, the brute grabbed Montparnasse by his collar and shirt and lifted him over his head. Next thing he knew, he was flying, landing on the cold hard ground with a dumb thud. Burning pain as he hadn’t experienced it since beginning to work at the shop shot through his back, knocking the air out of his lungs. As fast as he could, Montparnasse tried to go back on his feet. He wasn’t given enough time for that. With a pointed and piercing sting, the first man’s cane sunk into his shoulder.
“We must apologize for this ungentlemanlike treatment, but I know what people of your kind are like. Do not believe we did not do our research when we learned poor, naïve Madame Brilal had hired a new apprentice. Do not believe either that we do not know you killed her to get hold of her store, so you could con her noble customers. Scum of the street is all the same. Please do us the pleasure of not disturbing us anymore. It would be most bothersome if Brutus here were to have to resign to more drastic method as to protect our possessions from delinquents like you. Good night, Sir.”
Without giving Montparnasse the chance to raise another word, he put his foot down against Montparnasse’s chest and lifted his cane. Seconds later, the metal handle connected with Montparnasse’s temple. It was 6 in the afternoon and the world turned dark before his eyes.
During the 15 years he had spent in Paris, Montparnasse had woken up shivering or covered in mud quite often, sometimes even both simultaneously. However, there had never been a time he had felt as awful as this. Is was raining and he was freezing to the bones, his clothes clinging onto his skin and making everything much worse than it already was. The windows of Madame Bilal’s- no, of Montparnasse’s tailor shop were dark but the sun was shining weekly from overhead. There was no way for him to know how much time had passed since the employees of the Bank had overtaken Montparnasse. Now, he was left alone in the dirt, eyeing the empty store and paper, they had placed inside the store. Montparnasse tried to get closer to read it, but all his efforts were in vain. His body simply screamed in agony and refused to get up. The rage inside Montparnasse was building up quickly, like the wrath of the people before the revolution. With this rage came a dawning realisation. Montparnasse had grown soft. When he had been staying with Grimal, he had survived much worse than this, had worked in conditions ten times as hard. Now, he was lying on the dirty floor, without a plan, without a roof over his head for the night and without acceptable clothes on his back. He had been lulled by a false sense of security, by the peace and quiet the ownership over the store had given him. Had Montparnasse finished forging his papers, he could have asserted his claims over the shop and stayed there, until he was old and gray and dying of boredom. However, all these were now dreams, that had flown out a window he had forgotten to close. All these years of hard work had been for naught. He would have to find a new way to find his old glory. Cruel, merciless, invincible. But first, Montparnasse had to get up, both figuratively and literally.
A person like Montparnasse is resourceful, both by history and by nature and the moment his body had touched the ground, a plan for revenge had taken form inside his mind. It wasn’t outstanding, or particularly complicated, but it was easily implemented and teleologically efficient, the only two things he required in this very moment. His goal was to be splendid. This would be only one more step into this direction.
When the two gentlemen from the bank would come back to the store to empty it of all its monetary and valuable content, they would find nothing but broken glass, splintered floorboarding and smoke coming up from a pile of burning fabric. Only one thing had been left behind: an old gown on a headless mannequin, with holes housing moths at the hem, all colour faded from the fabric; a pale imitation of its now past glory. Anything of value was gone or Montparnasse had taken it with him when they had kicked him out of his home. There was nothing left for them to save.
For Montparnasse however, life was good — or at least much better than he had started it all those years ago. He was still scrawny, Paris was still a medal with two very different faces, but now he was living on the edge of it instead of the dark, humid, and slightly mildewy side. Pockets full of money and a fine assortment of fabrics he could work with under his arm, Raphaël Montparnasse was ready to make a name for himself.
A Sinner’s Future, Chapter 10: When the Past catches up with the wrong Person
[read on AO3] [first chapter] [previous chapter]
When Montparnasse woke up the next morning, he felt as if everything that had happened the night before had been but a dream. When he had finally stepped inside the house with Valjean, into a blessing warmth without being overwhelmingly hot, Cosette had already served two bowls of soup, one of which Jehan had been eating and they seemed to have been caught up in conversation when they were interrupted. The soup was cold and both Valjean and Cosette apologized for not being able to give them more, at least to heat up their food but to Montparnasse, there had never been anything better. Not when he had lived in Josephine and Annabelle’s house, none of the sweets some of Madame Brilal’s more loyal and generous patrons had sometimes given her in addition to payment and which Montparnasse had occasionally been allowed to eat, when they weren’t to her liking; these were all illusions, nothing but shadows in comparison to this cold, already slightly coagulating mess which weighed heavily in Montparnasse’s stomach. If this was the last meal he ate, he would die happily.
Jehan had dragged their chair closer to Montparnasse’s and leaned on his shoulder as soon as they had finished their meal. Though it would not appear obvious to anyone else, they had been famished, barely saying a word while they slowly ate. Anytime else Montparnasse had been able to see them dine, they had made conversation in the meantime, always entertaining everyone else around them, asking question and telling whatever came through their mind until nearly everyone’s food had grown cold. This time, they had been quiet and pressed against his side as if they were a cat. The escape and long travel had left its traces on them as well, so it seemed. Montparnasse had felt obligated to make conversation instead, but Cosette always gently pushed him to eating, until his bowl was empty as well. Valjean had disappeared as soon he eaten two spoonfuls and Montparnasse had not known where to.
If he had been able to, Montparnasse would have fallen asleep at the table this instant, without waiting any longer. Instead, Cosette had stood up, grabbed both their bowls and put them underwater in a big wooden container. This was the moment when Valjean had stepped back into the room.
“Ah, Papa, there you are.” Cosette had turned to Jehan and Montparnasse. “You two, come with me. You must be exhausted and deserve a good night of sleep.”
In Montparnasse’s opinion, it had been a great idea and he stood up, only to nearly fall on the cold floor. The food had sat heavily in his stomach, but in a good way, the kind that meant that he had survived and would get to live another day. Without warning, Cosette had grabbed him by the arm and helped him stay upright. She was surprisingly strong, or maybe Montparnasse was simply too weak from several days of horse riding without the necessary food to help him survive such an ordeal.
Slowly, they had walked up the stairs. Jehan had been behind them, holding onto the railing, but still standing upright on their own strength. Valjean had once again been nowhere to be seen, but Montparnasse had heard water splash and slosh around in the kitchen they had just left. He paid it no mind any further. Exhaustion had been taking over the entirety of his consciousness.
Cosette had led them into a small room, with one bed, a dresser and what seemed to be a spinning wheel, otherwise bare of any furniture. She had looked embarrassed.
“I am sorry, we only have one bed to offer to you. It is simple, but the covers will keep you warm even though-“
“It’s perfect. Thank you very much for your hospitality.” Montparnasse had done his best to smile, even though he felt it looked more like a grimace.
“Well, I will leave you then. I hope you sleep well.”
As soon as Cosette had stepped out of the room, Jehan crumbled onto the straw mattress. Now that his support was gone, Montparnasse had no choice but to follow their example. Whatever had happened next could not have been important enough to remember because when he opened his eyes the next morning, he was greeted by icy cold swirling around his nose and blissful warmth where his body was covered by the single blanket, without any memory of falling asleep. Even warmer hands had slung themselves around his middle and slight weight pressed itself around his back.
With some difficulty as not to wake Jeahn, Montparnasse writhed until he could turn around and look at them. They were still sleeping and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever witnessed. If he was lucky, he would get to see it every morning until the end of his life and knowing Jehan, they would only grow kinder, more passionate, more beautiful as time went on.
As it seemed, Montparnasse had not been careful enough in his movements. Jehan scrunched their nose, blinked once or twice, looked around until their eyes focused on Montparnasse and they smiled. It was as if a gun had gone off in his chest, a gun filled with bullets of safety, security, flowers and sunshine.
“Good morning,” they said. Their cheek was still pressed against the bed, so it came out as more of a mumbled whisper, but Montparnasse imagined this was what the holy ringing of church bells other people had described sounded like.
“Good morning,” he whispered back.
Jehan’s smile grew wider, softer.
“Good morning,” they said again. Montparnasse laid his hands over theirs, still wrapped around his waist.
The house was quiet, as if they were completely alone in this world. Nothing to run from, nothing to fear. It was very different from the many times Montparnasse had woken up alone, very different from waking up lonely.
It was a nice feeling, if he was being honest.
“What are you thinking about?”, Jehan whispered.
“I’m thinking that I like this,” he said. Jehan slapped his shoulder.
“Well, I sure hope so.”
Montparnasse laughed quietly. It felt like they were alone, but somewhere in the house were the two others who had taken them in in the middle of the night — Cosette and Jean Valjean. It would be best not to wake them up. They were guests, after all, and if Montparnasse had learned one thing over the years, it was never to take hospitality for granted. The memory how both of them had held a gun to Jehan’s head without the simplest semblance of hesitation only served to cement this rule in his consciousness.
“So this is how it is going to be?”, Jehan asked. Montparnasse nodded. This was so peaceful. He could go right back to sleep. He wanted to go right back to sleep.
“We should probably get up,” said Jehan. “It would surely make a bad impression if we slept away the entire day, without making a single appearance outside of this room.”
Jehan was right. They had said they only needed a place to stay for the night, and while this was certainly true and Montparnasse could not fully rest until he knew there was half a country between him and Javert, or that the man had given up his hunt, no matter how unlikely the second option seemed, he wished for little more than to fall back into the bed, close his eyes, and sleep for the rest of the day.
This had never happened to him before. No matter how spent he had been, no matter how long he had gone without sleep or a good meal, his body had always found the energy to move and do what needed to be done if the situation called for it. Was this what getting old felt like?
With great effort, Montparnasse swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was ice cold and it took all his will not to retreat his feet the moment they came in contact with the ground. Clenching his teeth and resisting against his muscles crying out as he charged them with more and more weight while standing up, Montparnasse finally managed to get into a vertical position. He would have liked to stretch, to feel his control over his entire body, but he knew that it would cause more harm than good if he forced himself to any unnecessary movements. Jehan did not appear to have any similar problems. They simply looked slightly rumpled, their hair flowing all over and still in the same clothes they had worn ever since they had broken Montparnasse out of the cell. They followed his gaze from their toes to their shoulders and then looked at him.
“I know. Trust me, I did not expect to look like this for the beginning of our grand adventure. Or to smell, if we’re already pointing out all the problems.”
Montparnasse held back from confessing that compared to the things he had needed to endure in his past, Jehan still smelled like a fresh summer’s breeze.
“What grand adventure?”, he asked instead. Jehan looked slightly embarrassed.
“Well, it’s not as if my father was the kind of free thinking man who gladly let his child wander of alone, no matter how far. It was already a great victory when he deemed me responsible and mature enough to go into town without his supervision. He would never have let me discover anything outside without him, and he was not ready to leave his post. So this is… my grand adventure. We will both find our place in this world. Together.”
“I know my place in this world.”
“Do you?” Now, Jehan was back to their old self. Cocked eyebrow, self-assured and arms crossed in front of their chest, they looked at Montparnasse. “Do you truly?”
Montparnasse did not deign to answer that question. Of course he knew what his place in the world was! He had spent his entire life being told by everyone above him how much further down he belonged, this was not something he was ready to forget anytime soon. Sometimes, he could simply shake his head at Jehan, or at least do so internally.
“Let’s go downstairs. Maybe someone is awake already, and we should look after the horses.”
Montparnasse had known the house had not been empty. It still came as a surprise to come down the stairs and see Cosette lounging in an armchair, an old one by the looks of it, a book in her hands which she immediately put down when Montparnasse and Jehan entered the room.
“You are awake,” she said.
“Yes, please excuse us for taking so long,” said Jehan. Montparnasse was holding their hand and the longer he was standing in the room, the tighter his grip turned. If he let go of Jehan now, he would fall to the ground. Screw politeness and conventions, he should have continued to sleep like he wanted to.
Cosette frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but a deep voice beat her to it.
“If we are being honest, we did not expect you two to wake up before sunset.”
Jehan turned around and dragged Montparnasse with them. Standing in the doorway was Valjean. He was holding a wooden tray with two bowls which seemed to contain something hot enough to emit steam into the air. His air was tied back and he was not wearing his nightgown this time, having opted for thick, woollen trousers and a knitted cardigan instead. He put the tray on the table and pointed at Montparnasse.
“Boy, you should sit down. You look as if you might lose consciousness any second.”
If Montparnasse was being honest, this was exactly how he felt. The walk down the stairs should have been nothing and yet he was out of breath and his legs suddenly seemed to be made of dough, unable to hold him up. Cosette jumped up and slowly led him to the chair she had been sitting in. It was nice, already warm. Montparnasse melted into the cushions like a piece of butter in the sun. Yes, he should definitely sleep and this was the perfect place to do so.
Something nudging him in the shoulder kept him from doing so.
“Boy, don’t close your eyes. You need to eat first.”
Slowly, Montparnasse opened his eyes again. He did not know when he had closed them. Valjean was leaning over him, resting his hand on his shoulder, a worried look on his face. He lifted one of the bowls towards Montparnasse’s face.
“You looked like you were a few feet from Death’s door. One small meal and a few hours of sleep will not entirely put you back onto your feet again.”
There was a wooden spoon in the bowl, almost standing straight up. Montparnasse grabbed the wood and almost burned his thumb when he plunged his finger into hot sludge. How was he supposed to know it would be filled to the brim?
“Careful-“, said Cosette, still standing to the side of the armchair, but it was already too late. Montparnasse was blowing on his finger. It hurt, but Valjean was right. He was not used to going several days without food anymore, especially ones which were as physically tiring as the ones since he had been thrown into jail, and it was an absolute necessity for him to eat anything substantial and truly filling. How was Jehan even still standing upright? With great difficulty and slower than he would have liked, Montparnasse managed to get a secure grip on the bowl and lifted the first spoonful to his lips. It was oatmeal, seemingly sweetened with something akin to apple, if Montparnasse identified the taste correctly. It felt heavy as a rock when Montparnasse swallowed it, Jehan, Valjean and Cosette keeping a close eye on him. Montparnasse ate a second spoonful. It was good. It was exactly what he needed. The only thing he would have liked in this moment was for everyone to stop staring at him. Cosette walked over to the table and grabbed the second bowl, which she handed over to Jehan.
“You should eat as well.” Her voice was soft and silky, like a creek flowing through the forest on a mild summer day. Or at least how Montparnasse imagined a creek would sound like. Jehan readily and gladly accepted the offer and began eating as well. Valjean and Cosette continued watching them eat. After a few more spoons of the oatmeal, Montparnasse didn’t mind as much anymore. With every bite he ate, the door to the hunger he had begun to bury deep inside him over the last few days began to open a bit wider, until the bowl was empty and he felt like he might explode if someone merely nudged him in the side. Never had he felt this full, so content, not even when Madame Grimal had given him his first full meal in years. Something was different this time, Montparnasse simply could not put his finger on what.
“Thank you for the generous meal,” said Jehan and put the bowl down on the table. Montparnasse hastened to follow suit and thanked Cosette and Valjean as well, who both simply waved it off.
“It was not much we could offer you, but we are glad we can be of help to you,” said Valjean.
“You were in luck to have found our house, especially in the dark like this. Had you missed it, who knows what would have become of you!”, Cosette continued. “We are the only people in a radius of several kilometres. You’d likely have starved before you could have found someone else to help you.”
“Yes, speaking of which, what were you doing in the middle of nowhere, alone with nothing but two horses, nearly starved to death and without proper winter clothes?” Valjean had turned much more serious and inquired them with scrutiny. Montparnasse looked at Jehan, but said nothing.
“We-“, Jehan threw a short glance in Montparnasse’s direction before turning back to Valjean, “We were running from my father. He does not agree with me about Montparnasse and-“ They hesitated again. Montparnasse looked at Valjean and Cosette to evaluate their reaction. What Jehan just said could be interpreted any possible way. Admitting to being on the run from one’s parent, the father no less, was not guaranteed to win their favour.
Valjean’s gaze was soft, full of warmth and pity.
“I understand. There is no need to explain it further. Welcome in our humble home, you are welcome to stay until you feel stronger again and have decided how to continue on your travel.”
Montparnasse starred at Valjean. This was it? No more questions? They did not have to leave this day?
“You should both take some more rest, especially you,” Valjean pointedly looked at Montparnasse, who felt nailed to the armchair under his gaze, as if the slightest unnecessary movement would bring the wrath of an angry mother hen upon him. He simply nodded.
“And Cosette already fed your horses, so there is no need for you to worry about them.”
“Yes, they are currently on the field on the northern side of the house. I will get them back inside when the sun sets, feel free to come with me.” Cosette’s smile was warm, her teeth shining brightly against her dark skin. The candle behind her head threw a ring of light around and through her strongly curled hair, as if it were a halo. Maybe Montparnasse truly did die and found himself in some sort of heavenly after-life. It seemed unrealistic for anyone to open their arms to strangers like Jehan and him without asking for anything in return.
Next to the candle was a doll, leaned against the wall. It was old, some of the paint on her face was either faded or beginning to flake off. It had a light blue dress on, the colour also mostly faded, likely from both years of being handled and hours spent in the sunlight. A cream coloured bonnet sat in luscious brown locks. The colours reminded Montparnasse of the clothes he had sewn for Éponine. He wondered what he was doing. By now, the three Thénardier children could be anywhere. Maybe they had already found their two younger brothers? Or they had been led to nothing but a dead end and had to resign themselves to giving up their quest for the search of a new home, a more permanent place to stay. Now that he thought of it, Montparnasse had not had the time to think about his friend in depth ever since they had parted ways. He had promised Gavroche that they would see each other again, so he could get his hat back, but now he was not so sure. His newfound status as a fugitive, in company of a police inspector’s child no less, would make something like this difficult. If the Thénardier children ever found their way back into the town, no one would be able to give them any information about his whereabouts if they were even inclined to do so, which was rather unlikely.
“Would you like another bowl?” Cosette’s singing voice pulled Montparnasse out of his thoughts. She was holding his bowl — he had not noticed how she had taken it out of his hand — and was looking at him expectantly. It was a good question. Montparnasse knew that he was far from back to his original strength and eating more would likely help him improve his physical state, but the oatmeal he had just eaten still laid heavily in his stomach and he doubted another bowl of it for breakfast would accomplish nothing but make him retch up everything he had in his stomach. He smiled.
“No, thank you. Maybe later. I do not think I could handle even more at the moment.”
“Mmh. You’re probably right.” Cosette pulled the bowl closer to her body. “You should probably drink something.”
“Right.” Montparnasse clawed his fingers into the chair and attempted to get up.
“No! Don’t worry, I will get all of us something to drink. You should just wait here.” Cosette made a calming gesture, as if she was gently pushing Montparnasse back into the chair without actually touching him. He could barely suppress the breathless sigh which escaped him as he let himself fall back into the old cushions. He had not expected his body to have taken such a beating. How had he not noticed it sooner. It was as if his body was screaming with a thousand soundless voices and he could do nothing but listen and wait for them to grow quiet once more.
After Cosette gently wrapped his hands around a clay mug filled with cold water, it was as if he was swallowing ice in its liquid form. He was inside, safe, and Jehan was with him. It was a strange thought, unsettling, turning rounds before sitting down and jumping up moments later, but it did not leave; everything would turn out well in the end.
***
A few days later, Montparnasse learned that the water in the house did not feel like liquid ice without reason. When the burning ache in his body had subdued somewhat and he could move around as he used to again, he was set on helping anyway he could. Both he and Jehan deeply appreciated the opportunity to stay in the house, to live there for the time being, especially as it had begun to snow and it would only be so much more dangerous to travel until the weather had cleared up somewhat and they still did not know where to go or what to do. Cosette had taken him to the back of the kitchen, where a tall barrel stood. She took a hammer and an ice pickle hanging next to it on the wall and began hacking away huge chunks of ice in earnest. Quickly, a few beads of sweat appeared on her brow, despite the frigid weather. She packed the ice inside a clay carafe and handed the tools to Montparnasse.
“We still need a lot more if we want to prepare dinner.”
Without hesitation, Montparnasse began to put all his force behind every hit to the ice. It was cold, and he was freezing, yet sweat began to cling to his clothes after only a few movements. This was grueling. He could not imagine having do to it every winter, several times each day, for as many years as Cosette and Valjean had been living in this reclusive house, all alone.
The dinner that evening was the greatest meal Montparnasse had ever eaten.
As it turned out, Valjean and Cosette had not always lived in the small, secluded cottage. It was only after she had left a school led by nuns where Valjean had been employed as a gardener that they had decided it would be easier and safer for both of them to leave the city, which had led them to their idyllic though demanding life in the wild. At least that was how Montparnasse would describe it. There was no store nearby, they cultivated their own vegetables and fruits and every two weeks, they would have to make the trip to the nearest village to sell some wool Cosette had made or some other things so they could afford meat or anything else they might need, depending on the season. This was the reason why they had a horse and a small carriage to carry everything.
Since Montparnasse and Jehan stayed with them, only Valjean had gone, leaving them in Cosette’s care and under her supervision. This did not mean they spent their days doing nothing, but it was regular work and peaceful enough to chatter and learn about their respective histories. Jehan knew many stories, both fictional and self-lived, or so they claimed. But as it turned out, Cosette was the one with the biggest mystery, or, if one were to ask Montparnasse later on, the most surprising one.
“Well, I cannot believe I used to do this kind of work when I was a child. I had to carry entire buckets of water through the forest for the family that was taking care of me, or sweep the floors of their inn. I wonder what became of them. They had three children, or rather two, they were thankfully very cherished, but could be quite mean if they wanted to. Madame Thénardier was pregnant when Papa came to get me. That was the night he bought me the doll, the one you can see on the mantle.”
While Montparnasse’s head was turning around to follow the direction Cosette was pointing at, the wheels in his mind where already turning and running hot from friction. Suddenly, everything fit together perfectly, but it seemed far too unlikely for his conclusion to be true.
“Cosette, what was the family’s name you just said?”, he asked. He had to make sure, after all.
“Thénardier, if I recall correctly. Why?”
“Your name does not happen to be Euphrasie or something of the like, does it?”
Cosette froze in her movement and turned around to face Montparnasse completely. Jehan was quickly looking from one other the other, clearly lacking knowledge about the topic of discussion.
“How do you know that?”, Cosette asked.
“I- I might answer some of your questions about how they are. One of the reasons why we are on the run has to do with the Thénardiers, the parents, at least.”
Cosette sat down, looking at Montparnasse expectantly. She did not say anything and waited instead, waited for him to tell the story in his own way and rhythm. Jehan sat next to her, a curious look on his face. And so Montparnasse told everything, or at least most of it.
He told the story of how he had met the small family after leaving Paris, the two parents and their three children, about Gavroche who likely was the child Cosette had not gotten to know, Azelma, and of course Éponine, who could have been her older brother had they stayed together. He told about how they had changed, what Éponine had told Montparnasse about Cosette and her time with the Thénardiers, about the fight and falling out between Éponine and Thénardier, between the children and the parents, about the two brothers the three elder siblings were now looking for. He told the story of Thénardiers treason, how he stabbed Montparnasse in the back and accused him of crimes he didn’t commit.
Montparnasse did not tell everything. There were some things he could omit, some things Cosette did not need to know, at least not yet. Maybe one day, if they kept in contact long enough. Through looks alone, Montparnasse hoped he achieved to tell Jehan about his intentions. They did not say a word or interrupted him in any other way, so even if they had not understood his message, they must have read the room well enough to understand which additional input was not necessary.
Cosette listened, patiently, only asking follow-up questions once or twice. When Montparnasse was done, she leaned back and said nothing for a long time.
“So many things change. It’s been so long, I didn’t even realize. Azelma and Éponine… Well, I’m glad they managed to find their own way, or so it seems.” Cosette smiled, sadness pulling the corners of her lips upwards. “I wish I could speak to them once more. There is so many things I don’t know about this time. I never read these letters Éponine told you about, do you know that? I wish I could ask- him about them.”
She locked eyes with Montparnasse, back straight and muscled tensed. Her hands were rolled into fists, bunching up the fabric of her apron.
“I know you way to the future is uncertain, but if you were to meet them again- or even just one of them… could to tell them about me? And ask them to come visit me here if possible?”
Cosette seemed sober, serious. There was more history behind her gaze than she had told Montparnasse, more knowledge and thought about the relationship from two people who only knew each other from childhood and the fixed image this had left them than he could ever guess.
Me, writing the last chapter on a fic: yeah actually I really fucked up the characterization on this one, fuck, looking back this is not at all how I wanted this to end
I have decided I am not patient enough to finish writing this fic without any validation so I will post the first chapter next friday and kick my ass to finish this goddamn mess of a story
