Da Nobis Hodiem
Cosette remembered the Day for a long time. She remembered it even when Marius was dead and she was the only one left and lived alone because there was no one to live with. It was something special that only she knew about, so it was something that she didn't desperately try to remember because she was the one who had to keep it in her head for the others who were dead. Her family would not be betrayed if she forgot it.
Funny how that made her remember it more easily.
Her father had been out of town again, and she was lonely. When she woke up the morning of the Day, she felt odd and awake and kept looking all around her as though she were a cat in the tall grass hunting and trying not to be hunted. That feeling made her want to be fanciful.
She put on a chemise and slipped down the stairs with her body pressed to the banister. In the dining room, she found a small bowl of apples on the table, and captured one of those, as well as a knife from a drawer in the kitchen.
She crept into the library and curled up in an armchair to slice the apple into quite thin slivers and eat it. She still stayed alert, turning her head quickly every few moments to make sure nothing was sneaking up behind her. When she finished her apple, she licked the sticky, sweet juice from her fingers and wondered what she would do next.
What she did was slip into the garden. The garden was so overgrown that no one could see her, and it was easy to get lost, or at least pretend to, in the trees and vines and flowers. Cosette put pansies behind her ears and made herself a crown of iris, roses, and lilies. She wore her long brown hair down shamelessly. She was able, really, to do anything she pleased.
So she sat on the little stone bench and was utterly lonely.
That was when she heard the footsteps on the street. She wasn't alert any longer, but she was curious, and she slowly walked to the gate, her bare feet padding softly, and peered through at the person outside.
It was a tall young man wearing a long overcoat, in quite a hurry. His hair was sandy-coloured and tied back carefully, and she could see from where she was that his arms were full of papers. Cosette nearly laughed in disbelief. He was extraordinarily handsome and looked so out of place. As a rule, the princes from faerie stories weren't supposed to leave them.
Perhaps her moving to the gate caught his eye, but at any rate, the young man turned, and at once raised his eyebrows at her.
Cosette blushed. She realised that she must look very silly in a nightgown and flowers, and she began to untangle the wilting pansies from her hair. But the young man was still watching her.
With a little twitchy shiver that came out of nowhere, she met his eyes. She couldn't make out the colour. She couldn't really make out the expression either; all she knew was that he was looking intently at her eyes. She wondered why he was so interested.
Suddenly, he looked away, hiding a grin. She blushed again, feeling even more silly, but as she was turning to flee ashamedly, he called after her.
"A moment! What is your name?"
"Cosette," she called back, immediately thinking that she oughtn't have said. Once she was out of his sight, however, the same fancy that had caused her to wear a crown of iris made her wonder about him. She rushed back to try and look at him while he walked on.
She pulled up short. He was standing at her gate.
"M'sieur!"
"Cosette?" He cocked his head on one side. "Do you always go about like Ophelia?"
Indignantly, Cosette told him, "I'm not going about like Ophelia. I am Iseult."
"You have no girdle."
"I shall fetch one, if you'd care to wait, m'sieur."
"I would not. I haven't the time for such things." He waved his hand airily and nearly dropped his papers. "I should simply like to point out that you can't be Iseult without a girdle, so you might as well resign yourself to being Ophelia."
"You're very unkind."
"Rather, say I am practical. Say also that I like consistency to be observed. If you'd like, I'll buy you one, but at any rate, no matter how, you must have a girdle."
She frowned a little. "Please, don't."
"All right. You refuse my gift. Now which of us is unkind?" He smiled. "However, that is all of no substance. Be a proper Iseult."
"If you'd care to wait--"
"Very well, very well, I'm waiting."
So Cosette scampered back into the house, feeling like a cat again, and pounced on an ugly green shawl that Toussaint had left on a chair in the kitchen. She tied it 'round her waist and went out again to the young man. "There. I have a girdle, m'sieur."
"Good. This whole mess is now cleared up. You're Iseult. Now tell me, Cosette, if I asked you to keep these papers of mine for an hour until I came back for them, would you do that for me?"
"I might, m'sieur." She was still displeased with him for complaining about her lack of a girdle.
"If I told you it was rather important to my handsome face staying handsome, might that incline you more towards it?"
"M'sieur--"
"Supposing I apologised? Because, my dear, it would be a great help to me." He actually looked earnest, and Cosette relented. There couldn't be any harm in keeping a pile of paper for an hour.
"Yes, m'sieur."
"You're an angel, Cosette. One can always rely on a girl who knows make-believe isn't for only children," he told her, and slid the papers through the bars of the gate. As soon as he had, he disappeared. Cosette was rather surprised, but she went back into the house and sat in the library to read, with the papers in her lap.
Much later, she went into the garden and carefully pulled all the pansies from her hair, and undid her crown. The flowers were mostly dying.
"Cosette!"
"M'sieur!" She looked up sharply.
"May I have my papers now?"
"Yes, of course." Quickly she fetched them. "M'sieur, what are they?"
"They're revolutionary propaganda," he grinned. "You've aided the new Republic of France. You should be very proud. Now I must be off, to deliver them where they are due."
"Wait! M'sieur, what's your name?" she asked worriedly.
"Marcel Courfeyrac. Don't tell anyone." Courfeyrac took her hand through the gate and kissed it. "All happiness, Cosette, fair damozel." Then, looking pleased with himself and laughing, he started off.
And that was the Day.
It wasn't much, Cosette supposed, in the general scheme of things, but as she sadly ran her fingers over a print of Morris' "La Belle Iseult", she was glad she remembered it.
She wondered what happened to Courfeyrac. Perhaps he had been one of Marius' friends. Marius never talked about his friends. Perhaps he had been--
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
She was old now, and no one could call her a fair damozel.
Perhaps...
But it was her Day, and she was glad she remembered.
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