Thoughts
Written for Mika and Mage.
Michel peered out of the carriage, standing on his toes, with his face pressed unbecomingly flat against the window. His curls fluffed around his face, and his dark blue eyes held a decidedly curious expression. "Maman? Why are we going here? It's all very dirty around here."
Mme. Enjolras sighed and tapped his head. "Sit down. We don't mean to. One of the horses has cast a shoe."
Reluctantly, Michel sat, but didn't stop trying to look out. "'The Sergeant of Waterloo'. It's a rather badly done sign, isn't it? Will I have to get out?"
"If you don't stop chattering, I shall send you out."
The carriage pulled to a halt.
Michel sighed. For the most part, the day had been going well, too. They'd gone out for a long drive to Michel's aunt's. The roadside was quite pretty, really, and his mother had packed a lunch. He was only ten years, but he felt much older, as it was his first overnight drive anywhere. And now they were stopped, for at least half an hour, reshoeing the horse. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure, and jumped out of the carriage after his mother, as she swept tiredly into the inn, looking about her with distaste.
He left her to sort out the details. She could clearly take care of herself. Instead, he tried to look around the place with the same distinguished contempt his mother was so good at. He was straightening his back and tipping up his chin when his attention was captured by a little girl under a table in a corner.
She was rather young, perhaps eight or nine, and very skinny, with torn and very dirty clothes, and she was playing with a rock and a piece of string, but seemed to be entertaining herself all right. Michel blinked. No one was watching her, so he walked over quietly and half-knelt.
"What are you doing under there?"
"I'm not allowed to come out. Madame would be angry," she said. Her eyes were big and hungry, and Michel was rather bothered.
"Why?" he asked.
"I'm to stay out of everyone's way unless I'm wanted."
"Then you're a servant," Michel said, understanding. "What's your name? Our maid has a little girl, and her name's Marianne."
"My name's Cosette," she said softly.
"I'm Michel Enjolras. You didn't say a last name. Haven't you got a last name?"
"Not me."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't."
Michel rolled his eyes. "Everyone has a last name. You've got a last name too. You probably don't know it. Don't you have any idea?"
"No..."
"Fine. Then your last name is Drouet. If someone asks you, you'll be able to answer properly," he told her firmly.
"Michel! What are you doing? Come here!" his mother called sharply, and he turned around quickly.
"And now I shall go. Au'voir, Mademoiselle Drouet." He nodded civilly, got up, and returned to his mother's side. Behind him, Cosette whispered the name 'Drouet' over and over, trying it out, eyes wide with complete adoration. When Madame Th�nardier glanced in her direction, she ducked her head, and mouthed the name instead of saying it. She did not intend to forget, or to let it be stolen by �ponine. It was her name, which the young gentleman had given to her. Cosette Drouet.
Michel promptly forgot about her the moment they arrived at his aunt's house. His cousins were nuisances, but lively, exciting nuisances, and he had more important things to think about.
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