After the Fire's Out
Written for Mage.
He was tired. And that Marius knew for sure. He was awfully, dreadfully tired, probably because he'd never gone to sleep last night while he was working, and he didn't want to deliver this new translation to M. Berger; he wanted to go to sleep--in the gutter, anywhere--oh, he was tired...! He felt half-asleep already.
He was, perhaps, not even half-awake. He was thinking of her again, the girl he'd lost, the girl he'd not seen in ages... Here he trailed off, because he'd just paused on a street corner and was falling asleep against the wall of whatever building he was standing by. His eyes hurt, but he pulled himself up dismally after a moment. If there was anything to be eaten to-night, he must deliver the manuscript; and besides, his personal pride demanded he get it in on time. Just then, however, he felt a soft movement somewhere close.
"Hello there, Monsieur," said a voice quite near him, and he startled a tiny bit.
"Ja?" he murmured, forgetting to speak in French.
Then suddenly he was reeling, his head spinning--he'd been struck, and he only realised that the owner of the voice had done it when he saw the person's tight, thin, scared face, and felt the person snatch the manuscript away. He pulled himself upright off the ground, awake now--but he hadn't gotten up quick enough, and all of last night's work was gone. Marius groaned.
But there was nothing to be done. He couldn't get it back, as it had probably been taken to be burned anyway. Someone, at least, might have luck in keeping warm to-night.
As for him, what would he do? He didn't want to go home and he couldn't go to M. Berger's now... So he made his way to the Gardens, feeling slightly more alive now that he'd gotten such a shock. Really, though, he didn't feel that much more alive. Nothing could possibly induce him to pay attention to it, unless, perhaps, it was her.
But she was not there. She had left long ago.
He would make his excuses and his explanations to-morrow. Perhaps M. Berger would understand. Perhaps something would turn up unexpectedly and save his life. Perhaps it would, to-morrow...
Marius curled up on one of the benches in the Garden, and promptly fell asleep.
When he awoke, it seemed rather late, and he shivered a bit. How he wished his coat was thicker! It got so cold at night, and he wanted to be home. The little apartment in the Gorbeau tenement was cold, too, but at least there were walls.
He got up slowly, feeling achy from sleeping on the bench, and looked about nervously. There was, as far as he could see, no one else there, and he at once began to hurry home. Usually he knew the way very well, as he'd been there a hundred times, but to-day, somehow--perhaps because he was so disoriented from sleeping all day--he discovered he had lost himself.
It was getting dark, and he kept mumbling to himself as he turned corners and found they led him into dead-ended alleys.
Then, of a sudden, he turned another corner and saw a little, glowing light at the end of the street. He advanced quietly.
There, in the street, was a small fire, made of a pile of broken bits of wood and string and straw, and a few precious rags. Around it sat a young girl with soot on her face and a child beside her. Marius could not tell whether the child was male or female. But what really drew his attention most was the fact that on the top of the fire lay his manuscript, burning feebly--but certainly burning. The street children were huddled close, with their hands at the very edge of the fire, and Marius felt suddenly very sorry for them and for himself.
Wasn't the world full of this? Perhaps Enjolras meant something.
He crept over and sat by the fire. The girl looked up at him, and he recognised the thin, frightened face.
"You needn't worry," he whispered. "I'm cold, too."
She nodded.
"I've lost my way home."
"Us too. 'Long time ago."
"Do you know where the Gorbeau tenement is?"
Another nod.
"Will you show me?"
"After the fire's out."
"All right." Marius moved a tiny bit closer to the warmth, and put out his hands as the children were doing. The fire was not a good one, and he poked it in a few places, trying to stir it up. Mostly it was wet enough that this was all right to do, but after a moment, of course, he burned himself, and sat back, holding his hand.
The girl looked at him with dark eyes, and ordered simply, "Suck on it."
So he obeyed, putting his burnt finger carefully in his mouth. When he looked up, he saw she had already gone back to the task of warming herself and the child, and was ignoring him. The child, he noted, was not smiling, but there was something about the way it moved its hands and tilted its head to look at the small flames that made him think it was slightly happy.
Perhaps Enjolras meant something. Should he forget his job with M. Berger and devote himself to trying to help them? The trouble was that Enjolras actually had money, whereas he had nothing. Then that was the question, perhaps.
Should he eat or should they? Should he die or should they?
Marius did not know which to choose.
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