A Heart Full of Love? ( Eponine )

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine felt relieved that what they were starting with was something she knew for sure Marius was studying. It gave her confidence to continue on, and knowing she wouldn't have to ask for a different book made her feel a little better. Perhaps when she spoke to Marius next she could get some suggestions on what to read. She likely wouldn't understand his law books but surely there was something they could share. She smiled and looked down at the book again, nodding at Combeferre's comment. "I shall ask him then." Quietly she wondered how she would ever repay her teacher should her crazy scheme even half work. Despite his protests that he only wanted to teach her, she would find a way.

As he smiled his kind smile at her again, Eponine felt relaxed and laughed quietly. "You're an odd sort, you know that? Ask you to face down the police and the Guard and all the hounds of Hell that the monarchy can conjure up, and you go without a second thought. But ask you to speak to a crowd and your voice escapes you and you tremble at the thought." Her brown eyes glittered as she spoke, chuckling to herself. "The people in a crowd are a lot less likely to take you up on the offer of your life for your ideals. Maybe you just need practice. To try out your speeches on someone you trust to give you an honest opinion. Enjolras surely does that. He can't possibly come up with all his speeches on the spot."

Eponine's heart sank as Combeferre spoke about his father and family. She knew all too well the sting of a lost relationship with a parent, of missing the closeness and innocence of childhood. After all, she had been reluctant to even give him her last name. Her own father had disappointed her time and again until she had finally left home. However, Combeferre's situation seemed the reverse of her own. Rather than the parent disappointing the child, the child let the parent down. So that's who he felt he was betraying. His own father didn't speak to him anymore. That she could not understand. Even when they butted heads and he betrayed her trust over and over, she never held a doubt that her father loved her. She was never unwelcome at home, even if she avoided the place. Somehow, that made Combeferre's hurt seem all that much worse to her. He wanted to please his father, but not at the cost of who he truly was. And it obviously pained him. Eponine reached across the table awkwardly and squeezed his arm reassuringly. She smirked slightly when he looked up at her. "You ask me, it sounds like your father's an idiot," she said quietly, with no malice in her voice.

She looked up at him to hold his gaze, returning his smile with her hand on his arm for another moment or two. If she had been thinking about it, it might have occurred to her that she had not been so friendly or close to a man as to was to Combeferre in a very long time. Even her interactions with Marius were more teasing and jokes than true comfort and companionship. Yet there was something in the way Combeferre's eye lit up when he spoke of his books or when she complimented his teaching that managed to slip past her defenses. There was a sincerity and loyalty to him that drew her in. It was clear why they called him the guide.

And just as quickly, the moment was over. Combeferre stepped back, hurrying out of the study to bring them the tea. Eponine opened her mouth to protest, but he was already gone. She huffed and dropped her hand back into her lap, chastising herself for not speaking up sooner. And for possibly soiling Combeferre's shirt. Why couldn't she just keep her hands in her lap like she planned?

[Deleted]

Combeferre chuckled at her comment about him being odd. “It does sound absurd, doesn’t it?” He would have rare bursts of courage at the ABC meetings whenever he wanted to argue a point, able to stand up against the likes of Enjolras in a heated debate, but whenever they went out in public he fell to pieces and left all the oratory to his friend. He just was not born to be a rhetorician, he supposed. He would be more than willing to write speeches, but obviously Enjolras had no trouble with that, so he lent his skills to planning the society’s activities. He had written a few pamphlets and handed out several more. He just wasn’t one to be at the center of attention—he didn’t like it to be honest.

Her next words got him thinking. He never really had tried to practice his skills—or at least he had never made an honest effort. Perhaps if he did… “Will you listen?” he asked suddenly with a bright smile, his eyes meeting hers. “I mean—you’re quite possibly the most honest person I’ve ever spoken to, I know you wouldn’t spare my feelings.” he added with another laugh. “And I need criticism—constructive and, well, otherwise. Think of it as your way of repaying me for these lessons—since you insist on it.” he stated, a smug grin on his face. Surely she couldn’t deny him that.

He wondered why he was so open with her on his relationship with his father. They had only just begun exchanging more than a polite ‘hello’ yesterday, and here he was practically telling her his life story. Maybe it was because he trusted her. I trust her, he realized in surprise. He did. It was funny because trust was something he did not dole out easily and yet—he felt as if he had nothing to hide from her. And as he had said, she was without a doubt very honest in her opinions, which he appreciated. He did not like deception, even if it was to spare his own feelings on a matter. He had noticed that when they were talking the previous night about Enjolras’s plans for the revolution. She was not afraid to point out error where she saw it, which he appreciated. He did wish their leader would be willing to listen to her views at their meetings—if he did not, then he would simply have to relay them, anonymously if she wished. They needed someone who had faced the realities of life as a member of the lower class to give their observations—she was, after all, whom they were fighting for in the first place.

In a way, now he had a face to put to the idea that he was willing to die for—a face to Patria, as Enjolras called it. He wanted equality, a better life for her and all those like her—a life in which, if she so chose, she could pursue honest work and be paid accordingly. A life in which she could be educated, attend university, and become whatever she wished to become—that was what he wanted to accomplish. That’s what, if his blood was spilled on the judgment day, his sacrifice would be for.

He was mesmerized by these thoughts but even more so when she laid her hand on his arm and squeezed it. The contact surprised him but not negatively. He looked at her hand and then into her eyes, frozen to the spot. He found himself smiling and then laughing at her—very keen—insult of his father, but he was still captivated. He did not look away—he could not, even if he wanted to. The thing was, he didn’t want to look away. Unconsciously he lifted his hand and rested it atop hers—which was still on his arm—for the briefest of moments before he left the room.

He exhaled for what felt like the first time in an eternity when he entered the kitchen. He took off his glasses and lifted his eyes to the heavens. What had just happened? Why did he feel as if…as if his heart were about to burst? It was pounding so loud it’s a wonder she couldn’t hear it—of course he knew from his medical knowledge that that was simply a common symptom of being nervous, or excited—why was he either? He was simply tutoring her and yet—her mere presence brought him a joy that he had never before experienced. Why, in that short moment they'd sat in silence while she in her own way comforted him, he was seized by a breathless, giddy feeling he could describe as nothing short of delight. What in God's name? Stop daydreaming, Blaise! his mind ordered him and a blush spread across his face as he put his glasses back on, shaking his head. He prepared two cups of tea and brought the sugar and some croissants he had left over from that morning and placed everything on a tray.

He brought the tray back into the study with a bright smile and placed it on the desk. “I know you said you weren’t hungry but I made too many of these this morning. I can’t let them go to waste—and if you aren’t hungry now, you’re to take some home with you. I insist.” That was…partially true. He had made more croissants that morning because he knew that she would be coming.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

After Combeferre went to the kitchen, Eponine was left in the study with just her thoughts, looking down at her hand in her lap.  It was just a brief second, but when he had laid his hand on hers, Eponine felt a smile she could not fight light up her face.  Her normal reaction to a man touching her was anything but friendly, a defense she had developed over the years on the street.  Staring at her grimy fingers where he had touched her, she felt almost as light-headed as when Marius had taken her hand at the parade.  Almost.  She chalked it up to being hungry.  That had to be it, right?  It still didn't explain why she had taken his arm in the first place.  It was not like her to get close to someone so fast, especially a man.  She had learned a long time ago the opening herself up to a person gave them the opportunity to hurt her, a chance not many passed up.  Eponine's hardened exterior protected her from those that came into her life only to use her.

And yet, she felt relaxed and safe around Combeferre, that he wouldn't take advantage.  Perhaps it was because he was Marius's friend.  Or because he seemed genuine in his desire to help people like her.  Or maybe it was his gentle kindness and shy smile.  The instinctual defensive part of her told her to close up the gaps in her armor, before he got any closer and realized who and what she was.  Before he could hurt her, use her and abandon her.  Before her trust could be betrayed by yet another man in her life. Eponine found her fingers twisting into the frantic of her worn skirt as she waited for Combeferre to return, building up her wall again.

By the time he carried in the tray, Eponine had managed to calm her nerves again and steeled her resolve.  She sat upright in her chair, hands folded on her lap, chin lifted ever so slightly.  When the croissants were placed in front of her, she was sure her stomach would give her away.  But thankfully it remained silent as she shook her head.  "Thank you, Combeferre, but already told you.  I'm not hungry."  There was no irritation in her voice, just a matter-of-factness to it.  "And I certainly will listen to your speeches, but I believe we've already struck a bargain for these lessons."  She lifted an eyebrow at him and motioned carefully around the room.  "Even if you did trick me.  How am I supposed to hold up my end if you clean before I get here?" As her hands fell to her lap again, Eponine's gaze drifted unconsciously to the food before her. She forced herself to look away more than once, but it always found its way back to the plate. Don't do it, 'Ponine. Don't get any deeper indebted than you already are. The hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach grew, matched only by the emptiness she was beginning to feel in her heart with each quiet word she spoke.

[Deleted]

Combeferre could not shake the giddy feeling he had gotten at the brief contact they had had a few minutes ago. It was ridiculous, really, how thrilled he had been over a simple action. She had just been trying to ease the pain of the situation with his father. There was nothing out of sorts about that, was there? Of course it could have fascinated him because he had never looked at, let alone spoken to a woman for longer than thirty seconds, and he had never held one’s hand unless his mother counted. It was a very bold thing for him to have done, and for a moment he wondered if she had been offended. Fortunately it did not appear so.

At the time it did not occur to him how forward of a gesture he had made. What had possessed him to take her hand, even if it was just for a moment? He wanted to say it was just because he appreciated the fact that she was trying to cheer him up—and that was probably all the gesture meant to her in the first place. Why was he even still thinking about it? The fact that he was just showed how unused he was to spending time with the fairer sex. He was being so juvenile.

He certainly did not regret the gesture despite the implications it could have had. And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss, a voice at the back of his mind echoed, and he looked down and rubbed his face with a cough to hide the fact that he was blushing. What the deuce was he even thinking? Why had Shakespeare of all things come to mind when he had simply covered her hand with his own—their palms weren’t even touching for one thing! He must have been tired or something for him to be so nonsensical. Pull it together, man.

He finally looked up when she again turned down his offer of food. A disappointed frown spread across his face as he wracked his brain for a protest she might actually listen to—but then she went on the scold him for tricking her. He shook his head. “It’s always like this, I didn’t do any more cleaning than I usually do…” he trailed off and then blinked in horror as he had basically admitted that he indeed did trick her. “Eponine, I’m not doing you any favors—I’m enjoying your company far too much for it to be work, and having someone to talk to is payment enough.” he dissented with a tired but patient smile. He knew that she’d have none of that and so he shook his head and sighed. “If I made a mess next time would it make you feel better?” His idea of a mess would be two or three books not in their proper place. He saw her eyeing the food and an idea popped into his head.

The medical student shrugged. “Alright, suit yourself. You won’t mind if I take a moment to have my tea, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, he took a croissant from the plate and began to eat—slowly and deliberatively. It was mean, he knew, but it was the only way he could think of that could possibly get her to join him. He paused and stirred some sugar into his tea, humming innocently.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

As Combeferre rubbed his face and coughed, Eponine blinked at him. Was he flustered? Nervous? Had she done something? Perhaps she had been too forward in taking his arm after all. Already she could see the dark smudge of some dirt on his sleeve and frowned. What an idiot she was, thinking she could be so familiar with a man she had only just really met the day before. What had possessed her to grab his arm? He was friendly, yes, but She must never forget her station. She was a gamine, a street rat, so far below the studious son of a wealthy lawyer that she could never hope to measure up to half the worth he had. Even if she spent every waking moment of the rest of her days studying, she would never be deserving of friendly companionship and contact from the likes of Combeferre. She had let herself forget in the warmth of his smile and light laughter, but no more. She walled off her heart and let her mask of sly indifference slip back on.

Her clever smirk grew as he all but admitted to tricking her into free lessons. Oh how she wanted to scold him, to rail on about not accepting charity, but she could not bring herself to raise her voice. Even as he frowned at her, obviously disappointed in her refusal. For a moment, Eponine's stubbornness broke down in the sight of that frown, but she still knotted her fingers in her skirt rather than reach for either the plate or cup he had placed before her. "It's not that it would make me feel better, Combeferre. It's just that we had a deal," Eponine said, smirking slyly. "Yes, it would make me feel better if there was a mess. Not that you have to make a mess, just... not clean it up on your own. I thought students were supposed to be messy. And the bourgeois didn't know how to keep a house without someone helping them."

Eponine nodded to him when he asked to take tea and was surprised to see him eat so slowly and carefully that it couldn't be anything but deliberate. So he was going to try and break down her resolve. To force her to go back on her decision to refuse food over and over. Well, two could play that game. She crossed her arms and simply stared at him, her face completely neutral as he slowly stirred his tea. She almost admired his determination to feed her, his desire to help her. But more than that, she was taken aback by his method. Of all the Amis, she didn't think Combeferre would be the one to use trickery and subversion to help people like her. That just didn't seem like something the moral guide of the group would lend himself to. And yet here he was, innocently humming in front of her, stirring his tea and trying to match his stubbornness to her own. He had no idea who he was standing up to.

[Deleted]

Combeferre was troubled. Why could he not stop thinking about the brief exchange they had had a few minutes ago? Of course it was the first time he had ever touched a woman’s hand before, which explained at least part of why he was so worked up over it. But that did not explain the woozy feeling kept getting whenever their eyes met, or whenever she smiled. He could not keep eye contact for too long because he was rooted to the spot whenever he did. And then he would lose his ability to speak coherently, and his face would flush for God only knew whatever reason—in other words, he ended up making a fool out of himself. Why was he losing his focus? He had never had a problem with getting distracted before now—what was wrong with him?

“I know, I know we made a deal, but then I would feel bad if I left a pigsty on purpose.” Combeferre remonstrated with a sigh. He saw her smirking and tilted his head—was she enjoying the fact that he had owned up so easily to tricking her? He chuckled about her comment about his class and shook his head. “Some us can manage, others can’t. I personally hate being cleaned up after whenever I’m at my parents’ home—n-not that I would mind you being here because I don’t, at all! I like having you here…” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “As company, not cleaning up after me!” he added quickly, his eyes widening. Oh bother. He immediately shut his mouth and looked away—why was it so difficult for him to hold a decent conversation with her without humiliating himself?

He redirected his attention to his tea and took a long sip. He sighed after he finished sipping and glanced over at her. Of course she was watching him, but her face was impassive—it at least looked as if she didn’t care. Well, she certainly was obstinate, he couldn’t deny her that. He would find it commendable if he were not so dedicated to the Hippocratic Oath. She was underfed, that much was clear to him. Even if she did eat whenever she could, she still set herself up for getting sick because of bad nutrition. Her immune system would weaken and—God, you sound like Joly. Even so, it was true—he wanted her to be healthy, this was not about charity or good deeds or whatever she thought he was doing. He finished the rest of his croissant slowly and started the next one. “Alright, so we were talking about the three divisions of rhetoric…” He paused to take another bite of his croissant and swallow. “There are also three aspects of rhetoric universal to all three divisions.” He took the book and held it with one hand, the croissant with the other. It was incredibly rude, but he knew that he couldn’t focus on his lessons whenever he was hungry, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it was the same case with her. “For of the three elements in speechmaking—speaker, subject, and the person addressed—it is the last one, the hearer, that determines the speech’s end and object.”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine laughed again as he chuckled at her, his kindness again finding the weaknesses in her defenses. Her fingers relaxed in their fervent knotting of her skirt as she shook her head, looking about the room. "Combeferre... Just from one look at your flat, I doubt it has ever, or will ever be, a pigsty. The moment I stepped in your front door, I knew you had tricked me. You didn't even have to admit it as you clearly just did." As she mentally plugged the holes his smile kept slipping through, she smiled and ran her fingers lightly along the corner of the book before her, in an effort to avoid both his kind eyes and the food he offered. Her gaze kept drifting to the croissant in his hand, despite her best efforts. She could feel her stomach grumble and feared he could hear it. As a distraction she smirked coyly at him and laughed quietly at his stuttering, little as she understood it. "My company? Best be careful, Monsieur. Having company such as mine is bound to start gossip among your neighbors. Unless of course I were just the new maid."

Eponine watched as he slid the book back over to himself, reading out a passage between bites. She knew he was doing this to her on purpose. There was no way Combeferre had so little manners as to eat in front of a guest like this. The bourgeois had their little rules and traditions they held to, as if it made them better than people like her. And yet, here was a student trying to break down her stubborn refusal by simply abandoning those strictures, all in an effort to make her eat. Had she not had a bit of bread earlier in the day, it might have even worked by now. But she was determined to make Combeferre understand, she was no damsel in distress, desperately in need of saving.

She focused her attention on what he was saying rather than the plate before her. Cocking her head to the side, she thought about it. The hearer determined a speech's end and object? That didn't make any sense to her. Again her teeth chewed lightly on her lower lip as she tried to work through it. "Wouldn't the speaker be the one who decides the object of a speech? I mean, he's the one who wrote it, right? And how is that different from the subject?" Eponine let out a frustrated sigh, sinking into the chair a little.

[Deleted]

Combeferre opened his mouth as if to object to Eponine’s observation, but decided against it and sighed in defeat. “I’m sorry.” What did he have to be sorry for? Of course he didn’t like dishonesty but he also didn’t like feeling like he was using anyone—which he most certainly would have felt if he made her clean his apartment. He did not understand why she felt the need to do this—he liked teaching, it brought him joy, and in a way she was like his test subject because he had never done this before for anyone who was not a close friend of his. He thought he heard something and was about to comment on it when she spoke again. The student blinked in confusion. “Gossip? I don’t under—oh.” His eyes widened in realization and his cheeks reddened. “I apologize in advance for any falsehoods my uncouth neighbors will spread or have spread already. I fear they have nothing better to do than to talk about other people…would you prefer we met somewhere else next time?” He had not caught on to the fact that she was implying the gossip would hurt his reputation and not hers. He saw nothing wrong with being friends—or the teaching, whatever their relationship was—with a gamine.

“Well, what’s wrong with me telling them the truth? There’s nothing wrong with you wanting to learn and my wanting to teach you.” He knew how people of his class thought—they would view his pupil as someone who had only the potential to become a maid if even that, which frankly made him angry. “You are my guest and if they say anything out of line they will have to answer to me.” he answered seriously, folding his hands on the desk. “You have every right to be in this building as their guests do. That’s the problem with our society—equality is nonexistent. I’m sorry, that was going to turn into a speech…” He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “It just frustrates me how puerile not only my neighbors, but my fellow bourgeois are. I wish I could win them over to our side but I have a feeling that’s a lost cause.” The only way the revolution would succeed was if the common people rose up against the government. The bourgeois had no reason to aid in their quest.

He watched her and was flabbergasted at her impeccable concentration. Even he would have had trouble if he was even remotely hungry—and never in his life had his stomach ever been empty. “Tell me, are you an angel, or a goddess that you don’t ever have to eat or drink?" he asked, wide-eyed, but then shook his head apologetically. "I’m sorry—I don’t mean to push you or offend you, honestly, I just…I slaved over it all day a-and I thought you’d like it…” he murmured sadly. “I mean, my friends say that I’m a fairly good cook but that’s fine, you don’t have to, of course…” His pride wasn’t really that wounded. Maybe a little—but his main reason in saying this was to make her feel remorseful. He was distracted from his mission when she asked a very good question. “That is an excellent point you raise, Eponine—one would think the speaker has the sole liberty of choosing the purpose of the speech. It’s true that he—or she—does have significant freedom in deciding what the speech is meant to achieve, however this freedom is limited by his audience. For example, Aristotle uses the examples of the three types of rhetoric. If I’m addressing—well a judge, the purpose of my speech isn’t exactly to instruct him as I would for simply an observer. An example of me talking to an observer would be if I gave a lecture to a class of medical students. My job isn’t necessarily to convince them of something about past or future events, as with a judge or assembly respectively. Does that make sense?” he asked.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine shook her head, staring at Combeferre in mild disbelief. He was apologizing to her for anything his neighbors might say about her? Was he that in the dark about who she was? Did he really think she had a good name to damage? That was kind of the point, she didn't. If she did, it wouldn't be a problem with her coming to his flat. Good God, was he blushing? "Why are you sorry? Trust me. Anything your neighbors say... I've been called far worse." She watched him as he launched into a speech about how his neighbors were illustrating exactly what was wrong with their society, how she had just as much right to be there as anyone else, echoing her own thoughts on her trip to his flat. She allowed herself a small smile, never looking up to meet his eyes for fear that they might crack the walls she'd built up again. So often she'd heard their fancy speeches and pretty words about equality for everyone. She could recite their phrases by heart, but she never let herself think about what it meant to her. Something as simple as getting reading lessons from a tutor, without fear of the police being called or the door being slammed in her face. It was a nice picture.

If his speech about equality surprised her, his next words would have floored her, had she not already been sitting. An angel? A goddess? No one had even implied she was either in her life. Even in childhood she was her parents' precious little girl, their princess. Angels and goddesses were beautiful, with their milky white skin and golden hair that formed perfect halos around their perfect faces. Cosette was an angel, even Marius had called her one. But Combeferre had asked her which she was. Her eyes shot up to meet his gaze across the desk and already she could feel her cheeks heating, a light blush spreading across them. How does a girl respond to that? She knew what most pretty little things would do, cover their dainty mouths and giggle lightly. Perhaps swat him softly with a gloved hand. But Eponine was too dumbstruck to form up a thought. Her mouth fell open a little as she tried to think of how to answer him.

And then he kept talking. And just like that, the heat in her cheeks increased, though not from embarrassment. A fire ignited behind her eyes as she clenched her teeth, her fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt tightly. He was trying to make her feel guilty, to manipulate her. He was just like every other person out there on the street, no matter how much he pretended he wasn't. She had begun to let him in, forgotten that people just can't be trusted, and she had gotten burned for her trouble. His mouth was still moving, but she couldn't hear him past the warning voice in her head. You see? For all his talk of equality and honesty, he's still just as manipulative as your father. Or 'Parnasse. Only he wields guilt as his weapon. Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms through her skirt as she stared intensely at him. When he finally looked up from the book, her eyes were boring a hole deep into his. She was vaguely aware that he had asked her a question, but her temper had risen far beyond the boiling point and she could not stop her mouth. "You should have stuck to compliments, Monsieur. I'm so terribly sorry that I'm a burden to you. After all, I'm only a common gamine. I can't possibly be expected to know how to behave myself in such a fine place as yours. I apologize that you slaved away as you say. I'm sure you are a fine cook, but I neither want nor require your croissants or your pity!" Somewhere in her anger she had stood up and drawn herself up to her full height, her fists balled at her sides, knuckles white. She was breathing heavily, her ribs straining against her corset. With an elaborate mockery of a bow she continued, her voice strained and even and cold. "I'm sorry for having caused you any inconvenience. I promise I won't be any trouble again." Without another word, she turned on her heel and started for the door, one purposeful stride after the other. She wouldn't run, but neither would she let him see the angry tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

[Deleted]

 
“Because it’s not right.” Combeferre insisted exasperatedly when asked why he was sorry. “You have a perfectly valid reason to be here and they have no right to question it and insult your virtue. So I am sorry—deeply sorry—on their behalves.” Injustice in any form irked even angered him and this was no exception. After Eponine said that she had been called worse, Combeferre shook his head. “Well, that’s not right, either. No one deserves to be treated in such a manner.” he stated, gazing across the desk at her. She was an intelligent, strong-willed, beautiful young woman—Beautiful? He blushed, surprised that he had even so much has thought that. Then he wondered—why was he so embarrassed about thinking it? It was the truth, was it not? And he recognized beauty, even when passing bourgeois girls on the streets—he just didn’t acknowledge it.

He also didn’t realize that he had acknowledged what he thought until he saw that she was blushing. He raised an eyebrow in confusion and then he realized exactly what he had said—or asked, rather. He was not embarrassed for basically calling her beautiful, but he was concerned that he had been too forward. The fact that she was blushing and staring agape at him confirmed this suspicion. “Er—I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud, which I tend to do q-quite frequently…” he stuttered. That was untrue. Why was he having trouble with it now?

Maybe it was because of her eyes and the fact that he couldn’t stare too long into them without blushing. Her eyes were striking, perhaps the most—No, no, that’s actually one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen. All he saw now was raw anger. His eyes widened as she stood suddenly, and he was further astonished at the words that accompanied her expression. He could find nothing to say in response—he had honestly meant no harm in saying what he had. His attempt to make her feel guilty was dishonest and wrong, and he deeply regretted it now. He had never meant to insult her, he had only worried for her health. But you pushed her, and that was your mistake… And then, all of the sudden, her back was turned to him and she was leaving. He bolted to his feet and took his glasses off.

“Eponine!” he shouted desperately, pushing in his chair and running after her. “Wait! Please!” He gently took her arm in an attempt to stop her. Then, fearing she would balk at the contact, he released her arm and let his hand fall to his side. “I am so, so sorry.” he murmured softly. “It was a foolish, inconsiderate, asinine thing for me to do.” His fists had curled at his sides and his voice rose marginally, reflecting the frustration he felt with himself. “I never would—I never could—see you as a burden,” he continued emphatically, “And I am terribly sorry for leading you to think that.” Whatever uneasiness that had paralyzed him before had vanished when he was struck with the realization that his words and actions had hurt her. “I do not pity you, Eponine. I would never—I will never—deliberately hurt you. I try…I try to live my life by one simple rule, to treat others as I would wish to be treated, to see them as my equals. In my attempt to uphold this rule I didn’t think about what you wanted, and for that I am sorry. I want this to be a place where we can be on equal footing—you and I—and I am truly sorry for leading you to think otherwise. I won’t stop you from leaving but I beg you to stay. You’re a wonderful, clever, very inquisitive student, never a 'common gamine' as you say—and I feel honored to have taught you what little I have, and I must thank you for granting me that honor. But if you choose to stay I must ask you to tell me if I say or do anything that hurts or offends you, because that would never be my intention. I know I have no right to ask, but I beg you to forgive me.” He fell silent at the end of his impassioned plea, staring at the floor and expecting her to either outright ignore him and leave or rebuke him and then leave. And he was convinced that he would deserve either outcome.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine was nearly to the door, just few more steps and she could run back to her own world where she belonged before the tears fell, when she felt a hand on her arm. It froze her in her flight, her fists still at her sides, and she closed her eyes, praying that would hold back the tears a little longer. She would not cry in front of him, not if she could help it. No matter how close she got, she would not let the tears fall. Crying was weakness. Crying was something only little girls did, or the delicate mademoiselles under lacy parasols, who couldn't handle any bit of excitement or emotion without sniveling or fainting. They were weak, they disgusted her. She was so much stronger than them. No, she would not cry in front of him.

As his hand fell away, her arm remained tense, but she still did not turn to face him. She braced herself, half expecting his hand to strike a sharp blow. It was the usual response she got from men when she left her temper loose on them. Her fists tightened, her body coiling up and ready to retaliate. But the slap never came. In fact he never made contact with her again. Just started talking, fast and and adamant and clearer than he had since their lesson started. Through her anger, Eponine was sure she heard a hint of fear and sincere regret and pain in Combeferre's voice. She wanted to believe him, that they were equals, that he was sorry, that he would never hurt her. She wanted to stay and learn, to enjoy his company some more. But she didn't trust him or her own emotions. She still felt the sting of tears in her eyes that she was fighting back. His words were comforting. Maybe he didn't see her as street gamine, unable to care for herself and in need of rescuing, but as an equal to himself. Maybe it was an honor for him to teach her, to have her in his home.

But they were just words and words meant nothing. Not to Eponine and those like her. Words whispered while actions screamed. And since their lesson had begun, Combeferre had deceived and tricked and guilted her. There were two things keeping her from bolting out the door the second he released her arm. One was the catch in Combeferre's voice as he begged, pleaded for her forgiveness. She had only heard the pain in a person's speech like that a few times before, usually when they were speaking about a deep buried pain. The other was that even though he had deceived her, it was in an effort to help her. He wanted her to eat and he couldn't possibly understand why she refused, why she made it a point to never owe anyone anything. She opened her eyes as his speech finished, but remained with her back to him. She couldn't bring herself to face him or his gentle eyes and smile would break through again. And she needed her resolve to get through this. "Combeferre," she began, cursing the wavering of her voice, wishing she could have kept the tears out of it. "You say we are equals, that we are to have equal footing. You pay for your schooling and your food, do you not? But you refuse to allow me to do the same. You tricked me into agreeing to lessons for no cost at all, and you cannot see why that upsets me. You have so much to learn about people like me. We may not have much, but that makes what we do have all that much more precious. Forgiveness is not something we easily give. Trust even less so." She swallowed back the lump in her throat before she continued, praying she could make it through her thoughts before breaking down. "And second chances are so rare, they may as well be mythical." She fell silent, giving him a moment to absorb all she had told him. Her body was slowly beginning to relax as she picked her way through his apology and tried to reason with him. "So don't mess this one up, because there won't be another."

Eponine could already hear the voice of her traitorous paranoia rising in the back of her mind, warning her that this was a mistake. It told her that she was an idiot for giving him a second chance, that he would just break her trust yet again and leave her in the gutter where he found her. She tried her best to ignore it, but found it harder and harder to do. She felt a couple tears break loose at its harsh words and cursed it and herself for allowing it to happen. Knowing now she could not stay, she took a shaky breath. "I will be back tomorrow afternoon, just after 4. And I will expect our original arrangement to still be in place. I will clean your flat in exchange for these lessons. And I promise to tell you if you upset me again."

[Deleted]

He predicted that she would keep walking and slam the door in his face, since her back was still to him. The only person he would be angry with—was angry with—was himself. This was completely his fault to begin with—if he had not been so thoughtless, so naïve, then this would have never happened, and they would still be at his desk talking about Aristotle and philosophy. Discussing the subject had always been a favorite activity of his regardless of whom he discussed it with, but this—she—was different. And the prospect of losing that, of losing her, genuinely scared him. She was not and never would be common to him, regardless of what others of his class thought. In fact she was quite the opposite—she was very bright, as he had told her, and not only that, but she had seemed to care about his dilemma with his parents, despite the fact that before today they were acquaintances at best.

The silence was beginning to get to him and he took a step backward, mentally preparing himself for her departure. Would things go back to normal at the next meeting? Would they pass each other as before—except this time without the occasional, courteous ‘hello’? He couldn’t do that—nor did he want to hurt her any more than he already had. What if she stopped showing up at the Musain period? Then he would never see her again. At this thought he began to despair even further. Even if she never spoke to him again, he could at least deal with seeing her every once in a while. He would nod or if he was bold enough he would greet her, but knowing how he had insulted her, she would probably shun him. Even so, at least he would know that she was well.

But then she spoke, and he was unable to think about anything other than her words. He heard the pain in her voice and he involuntarily took a step forward, raising his hand but thinking better of making physical contact again. He knew she would become even angrier if he attempted to comfort her—he didn’t even know why he wanted to. Because I’ve done this, because I’m a bloody fool. His guilt grew exponentially when she likened his tutoring her with his going to university, and he felt nothing but shame at his actions. He had belittled her without even meaning to—he was a hypocrite. He wanted equality for all men and women but he was treating her as if she was somehow less of a person than he was. What have I done? He braced himself for the inevitable reproach, for her to walk out the door and his life, and for the inexplicable emptiness he would feel as a result. But it never came—at least not in the way he expected it. “I won’t.” he swore unfalteringly. “You’ve…you’ve given me much to think about, and I am certain that you have much to teach me as well.”

He nodded—and then realized that her back was still turned—and instead added, “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise. Goodbye, Eponine.”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, forcing the tears back from her eyes. Every fiber of her being told her to just leave and be done with it. She had to leave before she did something truly foolish. But the way he spoke to her, the words he said, made her stop, her hand on his door. She shook her head, still not turning to face Combeferre. "Not goodbye. Goodbye is final. Never say goodbye unless you mean it." Eponine hated goodbye. It sounded so definite, conclusive. It left no openings for later. She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the landing slowly, forcing herself to take only a couple steps. Once just outside his door, she stood taller, squaring shoulders as she looked down the steps. Her voice wavered only slightly. "I will see you tomorrow."

Eponine didn't wait for his reply, but took a couple deliberate steps down the stairs, breathing deeply. She would not run from him, from the way he had made her feel. Her heart was in her throat as she rounded the switchback in the stairs. She kept her eyes on the steps in front of her rather than look up at the door she had just left, sure he would still be there, that he would see the tears swimming in her eyes and slipping down her cheeks. Only once she was convinced she was out of sigh of his door did she begin running down the steps, her footfalls echoing off the walls. Without slowing she burst out onto the street, urging herself onward to Rue Saint-Denis.

Most of her flight flew by without a thought, and before she knew it she was back in her alley, huddled on top of the blankets that made her bed. Her eyes still stung, but she pushed the tears back down. Eponine settled against the wall, taking a wavering breath, building up her hardened exterior again. If she was to return to Combeferre's flat tomorrow, she would need to be sure he couldn't get past her shell again.

[Deleted]

Combeferre studied the dark leather of his shoes, feeling more chagrined by his actions by the minute. For one so knowledgeable, he really was incredibly stupid. What had possessed him to say that, to do that? I just wanted to help… He had seen what malnourishment and starvation did to people whenever he volunteered at the hospital. He didn’t want to same to happen to her. He had not meant to insinuate that she needed to be cared for—obviously she was capable enough, he did not doubt that. Is compassion a sin? He had been dishonest, yes, but only because he wanted to help her. The being dishonest and pushing her when she already declined his help was wrong, and he regretted it deeply, but he only did it because he cared about her.

He was surprised at her reaction to his goodbye. He had thought nothing of it—he had not meant it as a sign of finality. Of course he would see her tomorrow—of course he wanted to see her tomorrow. But the fact that she had bristled at it…did that mean she wanted to see him too? “I’m sorry…I never—I didn’t mean it like that. I suppose I never thought about it that way—tomorrow then. Until tomorrow. I…I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Eponine.” Was that too bold? He meant it honestly and honorably—he had enjoyed their lesson and he did view it as an honor teaching her. And he valued her companionship and friendship.

He would never find out what she thought because just like that she was gone. He sighed and closed the door before walking back to his study, sinking into his chair. Very nicely done, Blaise, he thought to himself bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose. How could he possibly be so foolish, so ignorant, so naïve as to think she would not be offended by his underhanded attempts to help? He had not meant to offend her, but neither had he really thought about the consequences of his actions. He was beyond lucky that she had even agreed to return the next day. He would not make the mistake he had made today. He would be perfectly considerate, and he would not press her to eat. And I must make at least a small mess… He stood up and took a few books off of his shelf at random, stacking them on his desk and then knocking them over. He threw a few of his papers in the air, scattering them about the room. Was that good enough? He stood back and surveyed the room—it was perfectly neat aside from the disorganized pile of books and a few sheets of paper at random places on the floor. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. He would have to think about this further—hopefully he would be ready by their next lesson.