Stranger to the Rain
Written for Cette.
It rained.
Cosette had never seen such rain, pouring down the windows in blurry sheets; filling the gutters; creeping in under the doors, even, until Toussaint had to put rolled-up towels up against them to keep it out. Her father would not allow them to leave the house, for it was clear that the moment the door was opened, a veritable flood would rush in and drown the lovely wood floor she was so fond of. There would have been nothing to eat, except that he was still staying in his little house in the back, and no matter how she protested, he went out and bought things and handed them through the one small window Toussaint dared to open for a moment.
Cosette watched him, standing out with his white hair plastered to his head and the rain running down his cheeks, and felt like crying. It was warm inside. She wanted him to be there with her, where it was dry and there was a fire in the fireplace, drinking cups of chocolate and laughing at the thunder. When she was small and staying at the convent and it thundered, she often ran and hid in his little house with him. Now, she leaned on the windows and wished it were the same.
Instead, she was expected to be a brave and grown-up girl, and go about the house independently, and shake her head haughtily at the thunder when Toussaint shuddered and jumped.
By the time the rain had gone down, Cosette was longing to go out in her garden again. She walked around the house impatiently, and though Toussaint frowned at her, she couldn't sit still. When her father finally knocked on the door and told them all was well, she caught him in a wild, unseemly, exuberant embrace. He smiled, smoothed down her hair fondly, and released her.
"Ah, Cosette, my child, have you been too long indoors? The garden is waiting for you. Go on."
She laughed and rushed outside. All the flowers and leaves were still wet, but she was outside again.
Later on, when they resumed their customary walks in the Luxembourg, her father pointed out that the Seine had flooded terribly, and all the gamins and gamines who previously had hidden under the bridges or in rubbish heaps near the river were chased out by the rising water. Cosette looked out her window on the way home and saw the children--well, some were children, but there were ones her age, too--wet and cold; and she felt like crying again. It wasn't fair. They ought to have warm houses and fireplaces and afghans and cups of chocolate, too.
Somewhere, in the back of her memory, she thought there'd been a time when she was without those things. She remembered rags and sore feet and aching arms, but she wasn't sure why or to what they belonged. There was something else--a frightening face, and an angry voice. But she couldn't remember it properly, and she sometimes thought she wouldn't want to. There was something to fear, in the voice and the face and the odd sensation of hunger and cold.
Yet that brought her back in a circle to the children in the streets, like angry shadows; hungry shadows; and she hid her face in her soft gloved hands.
So when a few days later, while the waters were receding rather a lot but not quite enough, she went out in her beautiful garden and found a ragged young person sleeping in a hidden corner near a break in the iron bars previously covered in vines, the first thing she did was hurry back into the house to fetch a blanket. As she was coming down the stairs, she regained a little more sense, and called to Toussaint.
"Y-y-yes, Mam'selle C-c-cosette?"
"Toussaint, might you make me some soup? It's one of those dreadful days when the only thing in the world one wants is soup, and you make that lovely thick kind with the chicken. The yellow kind with rice?"
"Oh! S-s-certainly, mam'selle."
Cosette beamed and thanked her, and ran out again to cover the person with her blanket. She studied the face, and soon realised that under the mud (perhaps it had been dirt before the rain came) it was a young woman. The young woman was rather ugly, and her hair was nasty to touch because of the grease and soot, but Cosette thought optimistically that cleaning would help. Perhaps a bath, or something. Father was always telling her that as a good Christian she must do everything she could to help others.
She shook the girl gently. "Wake up, please."
"Hnngh."
"Please?"
"Gnfff. Don' wanna wake up."
"Please do. It's awfully cold out here, and I haven't a shawl or anything, and I do think you'd be much warmer inside by the fire."
"What?" The young woman lifted her head and opened her eyes. Cosette blinked. They were oddly familiar eyes. They were pale blue and cloudy and blank, but there was something about them she recognised.
"Pardon-- What is your name?"
"My name? Oh, damn, where's this?"
"This is my garden. Only it's very cold, and we ought to go in. Toussaint is making soup."
The young woman sprang to her feet, clutching the blanket about her. "Soup? You'll feed me?"
"Of course. Come along. But first, tell me what your name is. One should always know the name of one's guest." Cosette smiled.
"I'm Eponine Jondrette."
The name, too, stirred up a little cloud of memory, like dust in her mind. Eponine, and the eyes. Cosette blinked again, shook her head, and held out her hand. "Come with me, Eponine. I hope you like chicken. Toussaint makes lovely soup, you know, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it."
Eponine followed her wordlessly, holding onto her hand in an almost clutching way, and staring about with eyes wide. From the corners of her own eyes, Cosette watched her shiver and pull the blanket closer; watched her lift her feet nervously in the dewy grass.
"Were you living under a bridge before?" Cosette finally asked. This seemed logical enough a question.
Eponine nodded. "A bit. When da' didn't want me at the place, and not 'Parnasse neither."
"Is 'Parnasse your brother?"
"Nah. I'm his whore." She laughed a little, and then paused abruptly, as though she thought she shouldn't have said such a thing to Cosette. "Beg pardon, mam'selle."
"No." For a moment, Cosette wondered if she should be shocked. She wasn't, though; she only felt sad. She had gone with her father before when he went to give a little money or food to some family that had petitioned to him. She understood that sort of thing. It wasn't fair, and it made her want to cry and somehow fix everything in the world with her love--because if you loved something enough, the love should be so big and heartbreaking that God would see it and help the something you were loving--but it didn't shock her.
Suddenly she hugged Eponine, despite the mud that was getting all over her pretty yellow dress, despite Eponine's squawk of protest, despite the hands that curled around her waist after a few moments and hugged her back. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "It isn't fair."
"It's all right, mam'selle."
"Oh--" Cosette rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand quickly. "Do come in. It'll be much warmer."
Once they were inside and Eponine was seated at the long wood table in the kitchen, and had been supplied with some bread until Toussaint's soup was finished, Cosette got a wet cloth from the room with the bath. While Eponine ate at a rate which Cosette thought surely couldn't be healthy, she washed the mud and dirt from Eponine's face, going around her eyes and nose and hungrily chewing mouth. Finally, she stepped back to view her handiwork.
"There! You look splendid. Then, once you've eaten, I'll have Toussaint fetch you a bath and when you're clean, you can have one of my dresses to wear."
Eponine's eyes widened in wonder, and Cosette, who had been sighing a little regretfully to herself over the loss of a dress, instantly became remorseful. Of course, she'd probably never had a nice dress before! Cosette ought to be ashamed of herself. And she was.
"Really? A dress like you're wearing? Oh--I've got dirt all over it, ain't I?--oh! Truly?"
"Of course."
They talked colours for nearly half an hour. Cosette had never had another girl to talk with before, because of course at the convent it would have been horribly vain to want a pretty dress, and impossible to own one, since all they wore were the soft habits the convent gave them. Eponine, though, said she'd had nice dresses, a very, very long time ago--or so she thought. At least, she remembered silky stuffs and lace and having her hair done pretty.
Cosette said she thought Eponine would be lovely in dark blue or light green, as it would match her hair (if her hair was indeed red under the muck--Cosette was making a guess). Eponine blushed. That was the sort of thing they said and did for thirty minutes, laughing a little and Eponine looking much less impressed with the house than she had before.
Then Toussaint brought over a pot of thick chickeny soup, which she'd been making all the while they were talking, and spooned it into bowls for them. Cosette thanked her earnestly. Eponine didn't bother thanking her at all; she just took her soup spoon and began eating hungrily. Cosette smiled.
"It's good, isn't it?"
"Yes, mam'selle! It's good!"
"Careful you don't burn your tongue."
"Too late."
Cosette laughed softly, feeling tears in her eyes again because it was so wonderful to see Eponine eating and know how much she was enjoying it. It just wasn't fair. She ought to be able to be eat all she'd like any time she wanted to, and not have to wait for moments like this. At least, though, she was having food now. There was a slightly silly, rather blissful expression on her face as she ate, and Cosette thought for a moment that it almost made up for her father standing in the rain.
"Eponine--"
"Mmph?"
"Eponine, how old are you?"
"Don't know."
"Oh. No, I suppose not..."
"Look, why're you so bothered? I make it all right. You don't have to worry."
"I don't worry. I just feel... guilty."
"How come?" Eponine cocked her head and looked at Cosette curiously.
"I just do. Oh! Are you finished, Eponine?"
She looked down again at her bowl, which was scraped clean. "S'pose so."
"Come with me, then. I'll ask Toussaint to heat us the water for your bath, and we'll go up." Cosette stood, and Eponine jumped up too, her face going rather excited again. Evidently, it was almost as much as novelty as food, having a bath.
Several minutes later, halfway up the stairs, Cosette suddenly paused. "Eponine--I promise I'll take care of you."
"I can take care of myself," said Eponine nonchalantly, but she didn't protest when she was again hugged, Cosette's soft arms wrapped around her tightly. It was a warm hug, a fond one, and Cosette would stand behind her promise as much as Eponine let her. Finally, she was let go, and they continued up, now talking a bit excitedly about what Eponine would wear once she was clean.
As they neared the top of the stairs, Cosette thought of her father, still alone by himself in his little house; and of Eponine, and what she would look like once she was clean, and of mud-stained dresses and chicken soup and the unfairness of everything and all the other poor children who were still outside in the cold and how there was so much love and need for them inside her that she felt her heart hurt, but how she would take care of Eponine as much as she could because she'd promised, and perhaps one person, even one, would make a difference--
"I'll love you, Eponine."
"If you want to."
--and outside it began to rain again.
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