Act I, Scene 4

How Strange, This Feeling That My Life's Begun at Last

Early June 1831, Paris, France

Éponine brushed the feather duster over the tall green vase, careful and hesitant. Once there was no more dust clinging to the glass, she lifted the feather duster away from the vase and moved to another heirloom.

Without warning, a door shut loudly from within the townhouse. Éponine started— she still hadn't gotten used to the way the household was run, even after a month of employment— and accidentally moved her elbow toward the direction of the vase.

It seemed the sound of glass shattering on wood echoed hugely, even rang, around the townhouse. She immediately backed away, arteries pounding and the telltale blush of shame covering her face. The parlor door opened sharply, and Mme. Toussaint stood in the doorway, looking aghast.

"What did you do?" she snapped. "That was a gift from Deacon Pierre-Louis, and you broke it!"

"I'm sorry— I didn't mean to—" Éponine stammered, attempting to redeem herself. "Let me clean it—"

"You'll break another antique heirloom. Don't touch it!"

"What is going on here?" M. Fauchelevant suddenly was at the parlor door.

Shaking, Éponine curtsied. She did not raise her eyes from the floor. "I— I'm sorry, monsieur— I—"

"She broke the vase from Deacon Pierre-Louis, monsieur!" Mme. Toussaint broke in.

"Frankly, I'm glad you did," he replied. "I've never particularly liked the vase, anyway. I kept it because it would have been impolite to refuse a gift from a friend, and Cosette told me it is fashionable. Personally, I do not think so. Then again, I don't know much about fashion."

Then, to Éponine's shock, he knelt next to Mme. Toussaint to gather the larger pieces.

At the very least, she expected to be slapped across the face, and at the very worst, fired. And here was her employer cleaning the broken glass, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Monsieur..."

M. Fauchelevant looked up. "Yes?"

She spoke quietly. "Do you wish me to gather my belongings and leave, monsieur?"

"Why ever would you say that?"

"I broke an heirloom, monsieur."

M. Fauchelevant waved a hand nonchalantly. "It was an accident, and it was an accident I'm glad happened. I see no reason to dismiss you."

Keep quiet and be grateful you still had a job ordered the part of her mind that was still a Thénardier. Another part, her conscience, would not let her rest.

"Monsieur, I do not feel I should just… brush it off. I broke something that did not belong to me, that undoubtedly was expensive, and I feel I should be punished. If not dismissed, then something, monsieur."

"I don't see why you are asking for a punishment. The fact that you are apologizing and you realize you did wrong is enough."

"All the same, monsieur—"

He held up a hand. "Mlle. Thénardier, I am going to ask you to leave the townhouse and go to the mailbox. The walk and the fresh air will do you good, and maybe will convince you to cease torturing yourself with unnecessary guilt. You may go."

An uncommon authority showed in his voice, and Éponine instantly curtsied. "Yes, monsieur."

When she stepped onto the landing outside the back door, she realized he was right. The pure air enveloped her and filled her. She breathed deeply, inhaling the clear scent, and started down the hidden pathway between the rue Plumet and the rue de Babylone towards the mailbox. When she reached the end of the pathway, she crossed to the mailbox, unlocked No. 55's slot and drew out the envelopes and papers within. There was a letter from the National Guard— that wouldn't come of anything good, she could tell— bills, taxes, and…

There was a letter for Cosette, written with thick, bold handwriting in a dark ink. To Mlle. Fauchelevant, care of M. Fauchelevant, Rue Plumet, No. 55. Curious, her hand slowly fingered the envelope flap.

Then her hand moved back so fast it was as if it had been burned.

What was she doing? She had managed to escape punished from the vase, and here she was, about to read her employer's mail. What kind of person am I becoming?

Her Thénardier nature persisted. It couldn't hurt...

All right, she told herself. Just one look, then I'll head back to the house. Before she could second-guess her decision, her fingers made quick work of the envelope. Thank goodness the flap's not sealed. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out the paper, certain someone would come behind her.

Mlle. Euphrasie Nicole Fauchelevant

is cordially invited to the Betrothal Ball of

Baron Marius Georges Arnaud Pontmercy,

hosted by M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand,

on the evening of Saturday, June 19th, 1831

at the ballroom of Le Hôtel de Soubise

No. 60, rue des Francs-Bourgeois, IIIe Arrondissement, Paris

Free of charge

Transportation to the ball is not available

Ballroom opens at nine o'clock and closes at one o'clock

Éponine suddenly heard the sound of footsteps coming to the mailbox. She hastily stuffed the invitation back into the envelope and folded the flap back to its original position. She hurried back with the letter and the rest of the mail, her thoughts tumultuous.

When Eponine stepped into the townhouse, Cosette was sitting by the window, doing needlework. Éponine never could understand how Cosette had the patience to devote such time to sewing, but Cosette could spent hours upon hours drawing a silver needle and vivid-colored thread through a silken piece of material, creating exquisite pieces of embroidery.

"I have the mail M. Fauchelevant requested, mademoiselle," Éponine said as she handed Cosette the post. Cosette smiled and thanked her as she sorted through the dispatch. Then she arrived at the letter from the Hôtel de Soubise.

"An invitation to a betrothal ball!" Cosette exclaimed. "I haven't been to a gathering since the wedding of my friend Marie. How I would love to attend."

"If you don't mind my asking, mademoiselle— why would you not go?" Éponine asked cautiously.

"Oh, Papa has some silly aversion to parties. He's never liked that I attend them."

"An aversion to what, ma chère?" M. Fauchelevant said as he entered. "Oh, good, the post has arrived." He tactfully did not glance in Éponine's direction as he spoke.

Cosette then did something Éponine had never known her to do, even when they were children— she hid the invitation, concealing it in the folds of her skirt. Then she handed the rest of the mail to her father. M. Fauchelevant began going through the stack of letters, and, glancing in Cosette's direction, spoke offhandedly. "What's that, Cosette?"

A delicate blush tinted Cosette's pale skin. "Nothing, papa," she lied. Éponine picked up the feather duster once more, trying not to listen as the conversation continued. "It— it's nothing, really."

"Yet you look as if you are concealing something."

"I—" Cosette seemed to concede and handed her father the letter. "It's an invitation, papa," she said quietly.

"I can see that," M. Fauchelevant muttered. Even though Éponine was carefully facing away from him, she could tell by his tone he was not pleased with the information. Then Éponine heard the sound of the paper being hastily shoved back into the envelope, and M. Fauchelevant's voice grew sharp. "You're not going."

"Why ever not? It's just a party, papa!"

"You heard me, Cosette!"

"I'm not a child anymore! You can't just ground me or send me to my room with no supper like you would a child!"

"You're not an adult either!" His voice was growing dangerous.

Either Cosette did not notice, or she did not care, for she continued. "You can't stop me from going!" Éponine turned slowly, and barely saw M. Fauchelevant throwing the invitation into the fire.

A look of shock covered Cosette's face. She seemed on the verge of tears, for some unknown reason. Abruptly, she turned her heel and stormed out of the room. They all could hear her rapid footsteps on the stairs and the hard, meaningful slam of her bedroom door.

Éponine climbed the staircase to Cosette's bedchamber, carefully balancing a tea tray in her hand. From what she had learned from her time as a servant in the Fauchelevant household, the bourgeois, she found, often found calm with a cup of tea. Why, she did not know; the poor and the working class, for one, never had enough time to rest long enough to make a pot of tea. But that was the bourgeois for you.

When she hesitantly knocked on Cosette's door, she heard a muffled voice telling her to enter, which she obeyed.

Cosette was sitting on the chaise lounge when Éponine entered. Her eyes were rimmed with red, yet she still sat primly and with good posture, even in grief. Grief was the only word Éponine could describe Cosette's countenance, for that would explain the pile of damp handkerchiefs.

"I was told to bring you a cup of tea, mademoiselle," Éponine said as she set the tray down on a side table. She curtsied and turned to leave.

"Éponine, wait." A delicate, pale hand was on Éponine's arm, preventing her from leaving. "What do you think about the invitation?"

"It's not really my place to say."

"But surely you must have an opinion. Wouldn't you want to attend?"

Éponine swiftly made a decision— perhaps added by her Thénardier nature— "Will you dismiss me if I answer your question?"

"Of course not."

Just to be safe, Éponine backed away slightly to be closer to the door. She curtsied for good measure and spoke quietly, looking down. "I— I would like to attend, mademoiselle. Of course, it wouldn't be possible, but I would like to. Does that answer your question?"

"Oui." Cosette had a small smile on her lips, as if she had come to a decision. "I would like you to accompany me to the ball."

Éponine's dark eyes widened in shock. "I can't, mademoiselle! Your father would fire me if I did!"

"No, you wouldn't be fired, because I will cover for you. Oh, Éponine, do say yes. We'd have a delightful time. And you said yourself you would like to go."

"I did, but I didn't mean it like that! I can't—"

Cosette got up from the chaise lounge and stood at her full height— which, in reality, was not very much, as Éponine stood a good two inches taller. Cosette seemed aware of the fact, but she stood as straight as she could and looked Éponine directly in the eye. "As your employer, you will accompany me to the ball. I insist."

Éponine stared unblinking back at Cosette, mica looking intently at sapphire. She realized this was the first instance she had seen of Cosette's secreted strength. Cosette had never once displayed it in their childhood— then again, she had good reason not to, as she would have been beaten for resisting an order— but even as they were both approaching adulthood, she had concealed strength in favor of a mild-mannered, getting-along-with-one-and-all manner. I never would have guessed…

But Cosette would not back down, Éponine knew, not on this. For some unknown reason, the ball was exceptionally important to Cosette. Éponine knew there was no other alternative than to obey.

"Yes, mademoiselle."

Cosette smiled genuinely. "Oh, thank you, Éponine! And you'll enjoy it, I know you will. Oh, this will be brilliant!"

"Mademoiselle…" Éponine was beginning to realize how many things could go wrong with this plan. "I don't own anything that would be formal enough for the ball, and I don't have the money to buy a dress. And on the invitation, it said there was no transportation—"

Éponine instantly stopped talking, silently cursing her tongue. You're not supposed to have read the invitation, remember?

But Cosette, thankfully, did not notice Éponine's slip of the tongue. "If all else fails, we can always hail a fiacre. And I'll have a dress made for you, don't worry. I need a new dress myself. We should go to the tailor's as soon as we can to make sure the dresses will be ready in time for the nineteenth. And we may have to buy you a new pair of dress shoes. I'm not sure any of my shoes would fit you." Éponine blushed, reminded once of how different they were— Cosette, small, delicate and everything a well-bred lady should be; Éponine was tall, gangly and the farthest possible thing from a lady as one could get— but did not comment.

Then something else occurred to her. "Mademoiselle, about the invitation…"

"Yes?"

"Well… M. Fauchelevant did burn the invitation. How are we to find the location of the ball?"

Another of the day's many blushes crept onto Cosette's features, and the blonde spoke quietly, embarrassed. "I memorized it." Éponine chose, once again, not to remark, though it seemed slightly odd Cosette would commit the address to memory after seeing it once.

A few days later, Éponine found herself being forced to Le Ruban loqueteux, which, according to Cosette, was a high-quality couturier on the Champs-Élysées. Cosette would not listen to Éponine's objections, no matter how she protested. So Éponine was made to put on dresses of fine quality, yes, but dresses filled with sharp pins, absurd ribbons, and ties constantly being pulled to the absolute maximum without breaking. The tailors clearly did not want to make a dress for a servant, and Éponine wanted to be anywhere but there; at least they had some small, mutual sentiment.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the tailors declared Éponine's dress to be mostly complete— though the final details would be finished afterward— and Cosette called her to a full-length mirror.

Éponine had not seen her reflection in years, and initially was shocked. She remembered her mother telling her of how she had been beautiful when she was a child. Now, apparently, that youthful beauty had fled.

There were some good things about her appearance, she concluded. She was slowly— though not completely— losing the malnourished, almost skeletal look, and a healthy pallor was beginning to return to her skin. Her hair was in good condition, clean and healthy, though it was longer than she had remembered.

But that did not add anything to beauty. Her eyes were not that beautiful shade of beryl or emerald that men seemed to favor so often; her eyes were brown, plain, dull, brown. Her hair was in the same state as her eyes: long, certainly, but not especially richly colored or soft. Her skin was not the desired pale color, but nearly an olive tone, tanned from so many days in the French summer sun.

The dress the tailors had made for her was a dark azure, cut in the fashionable style of the day. The sleeves were horribly puffed, but, at Éponine's request, they were the smallest size possible to reduce certain humiliation; at the moment, they hardly extended around her shoulders.

She looked at her mirror-self in the glass, seeing Cosette in the background, and suppressed a sigh. She dreaded the prospect of spending a long, awkward evening in the company of dry businessmen and women who did not have enough brains to speak of anything but the weather and one's health. And she would have to stay the entire evening, being quietly ignored or letting her tongue get herself in trouble, again.

There was no backing out.