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Cosette, the loving wife of one Marius Pontmercy, did not notice there was something of grave importance weighing on her husband until two weeks into their marriage and for that, she was unsure she could ever forgive herself.
It was not so much that she forgot to think of her new husband, rather, it was her fixation on another. Shortly before she and Marius had gotten married, she saw a- girl. Hardly a spectre, but the image seemed to resonate with Cosette, to refuse to leave the forefront of her mind, as every thought of hers seemed to drift to the girl. She was dirty, and thin, a street urchin or woman from a house of ill-repute, obviously, but there was something so... familiar. In her eyes, perhaps. The tangled curl of her hair, the high arch of her bony cheek. How quick the careful mind is enraptured! To be certain, she saw this shadow of a girl in the way their serving maid walked, the glint of her eyes in the dusk before dawn, the unyielding tilt of her mouth in the children she passed in the street. One afternoon, as she walked through the garden, she leant down to examine her rose bushes and pricked her finger, blood rising almost instantly from the spot. As she sucked at it, a memory almost forgotten from her childhood overcame her like darkness after one blows out a candle, and she gasped to recall it.
"Hold still, girl." A dark haired girl with pale skin sits in front of Cosette, holding her finger to pull the little splinter of wood from her pale hands, which are dirty and rough from work.
"My name's Cosette."
The girl looks up at her, confused. "That doesn't matter here. They call you girl, and you answer." Her head lowers, back down to her task.
"What are you meant to be called?"
"I'm meant to be working, not helping you." The girl scoffs, tiny fingers and grubby nails testing the skin of her fingers. Cosette winces when the girl pushes her fingernail in a certain spot, and the girl makes a humming noise of comprehension.
"Why are you, then?"
"Because you cry too much." The girl says, pinching at Cosette's skin. "They won't put up with that for long, you'll see. They'll beat the tears out of you until you never make another sound."
"...thank you."
The girl makes a noise of acknowledgement, then slowly lifts her fingers, pulling a tiny splinter of wood from the pad of Cosette's finger. She smiles at Cosette, beams even, proud and triumphant.
Cosette smiles back, though her smile is more reserved, a stolen moment of happiness she isn't meant to have. "You smile like an angel."
The girl glances at her, obviously taken aback by the compliment, but her smile does not falter. "Thank you." She says quietly, getting to her feet. "You can call me Eponine, if you like."
"Eponine." Cosette says, making sure the sounds fit right on her tongue. "Eponine the angel."
Cosette dropped her little book and hurried into her husband's study, where he was bent over a book, muttering quietly as he read. She clasped his hands in a quiet frenzy, saying "My love, do you know the name Eponine? A young girl perhaps? Answer me, please, I feel my heart will burst."
"Eponine?" Marius' face grew pale, his eyes seemed to look right through her, as if she were a ghost. "How do you know that name?"
"You know of her! She was a childhood friend, please, do you know what's become of her?"
"She is dead."
"Dead?" Cosette shook her head, letting her husband's hands slip from her grip. "It can't be. How did it happen?"
"Her hand and body were pierced by a bullet on the barricades." Marius said, after a heavy intake of breath. "A bullet meant for me."
Cosette nodded, casting her eyes toward the floor. "Did you know her?"
"Not intimately." Marius said, before smiling weakly. "Though she did profess to being a little in love with me."
"Aren't we all?" Cosette smiled, pressing his hand as he smiled at her. "Let's have no more talk of that terrible barricade. We would do better to forget it."
"If only I could..." Marius trailed off, dropping his head into his arms, seized suddenly by tremours.
Cosette paled, reaching an arm out to calm him. "Husband, what troubles you?" She brought him into her arms, cradling him like one would an infant, rubbing the gentle palm of her hand along the small of his back.
Marius spoke into her collarbone, "I am so very lonely, Cosette."
"Lonely? Have you not a wife who adores you?"
He pulled himself away from her, appearing to regain his composure. "Yes, and I thank God I do, I'd have nothing in this world if not for you." He sighed, hand ghosting over the curve of her jaw with a gentle fondness. "I have attempted to keep this from you. I did not ever want to see your beautiful brow turned down with worry on my behalf."
Cosette laughed softly, the pad of her thumb tracing the length of his cheek. "It is rather late for that, my love."
"It is, isn't it?" He remained silent for a moment, then began, "I have lost nearly everyone I have ever loved, and it has weighed on me for too long."
Cosette bade him explain; she so dearly needed to understand, and Marius consented, his tears drying and voice gaining strength with every word he uttered. There had been indications of his sorrow, there are always indications, however, Cosette had failed to understand what they meant.
The first was during their wedding, and it was so small she could not be faulted for failing to dwell on its occurance. As they danced together, and he spun her around in a practiced motion, he wept. His smile retained residence on his blushing cheek but his eyes welled with tears- she had previously thought he wept from joy. Marius corrected her judgement, telling her of Courfeyrac, his most intimate friend and the man who had given him charity and friendship when he needed it most. He had instructed Marius on the manner of many dances and social courtesies, and as such Marius found it near impossible to separate the action from the man.
The second was his aversion to visiting or walking past the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the way his eyes shifted and his hands tensed until the had passed it, never once suggesting their walks approach it. His friends had fallen there, struck by bullets and laid out on the streets in pools of dark blood, young men cut down, betrayed by their countrymen and their own idealism.
He had attempted to forget them, to immerse himself fully into a domestic life and the responsibilities of his profession, though it seemed the utterance of a single name was enough to open a floodgate of memories, a tidal wave of grief and remembrance that enveloped Marius.
He told her first of Courfeyrac, and it brought Cosette joy to laugh with him, to see the smile that was so often absent from his pale visage appear again, like the dawn of the winter sun after an endless night. He described to her the way the man walked, the way he spoke and smiled and wore his hats, the women he loved and the friends he devoted his life to. Courfeyrac was warmth, and gentle companionship, a saving grace for Marius and a friend to all he encountered.
Marius spoke of the fan maker, the statue with the harsh beauty of a roaring flame, the hypochondriac, the unlucky fellow, and their mistress. He talked at length about the guide, the cynic, the fighter, the poet. The way they walked, the manner in which they spoke, their debates and the light in their eyes as they spoke of philosophy and revolution. Cosette could see them all so clearly in his words, the easy way Joly would smile, the hard edge of Enjolras' jaw, the dangerous and calculating glint in Combeferre's eyes.
They talked long into the night, Marius telling story after story to Cosette's eager ears. Her sheltered life with her father had been a loving one, but did not allow much space for friendship, for the easy companionship that came from knowing someone so completely that it felt as if you shared a common soul. There were tears in his eyes that he did not acknowledge, and she ignored them out of kindness, allowing him a small measure of privacy. He did not remember much from the battle, but he knew with a certainty that his friends were all dead, ripped away from them by a belief in a better future, and Cosette could not imagine the pain he must have felt.
When it came too late to continue, they retired to bed, and Cosette held him to her in the darkness, resting her head in his collarbone and stroking his hair as if to calm him, happy that this barrier that stood between them since their wedding day was finally being broken down.
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If Cosette had expected for things to improve between the two of them after Marius relieved himself of the burden of suppressing painful memories, she was gravely disappointed.
Marius began to start at every loud noise he heard, looking around wildly and defensively, as if pursued by some unknown aggressor. Hardly a night went by when he wasn't awoken by some distant memory re-emerging as a nightmare, and he shut himself into his study at all hours of the day, speaking to her and the servants only when it was necessary.
When she approached him about his silent erraticism, he apologized profusely for any wrongs she felt he had done her.
"I see them everywhere." Marius said, eyes red from lack of sleep. "You have the precise curl and colour of Enjolras' hair, did you know? And Grantaire's eyes... I cannot step into that damned garden without seeing the flowers Jehan would press into his pages, I see Combeferre in the library, consumed by another subject, another book. Bossuet in my law books, Gavroche in the children on the street."
"Oh." Cosette said simply, lacking the proper words. Instead she reached out for his hands, stroking the undersides of his palms gently with the soft pads of her fingers.
"Every time I think of them they feel further away."
"That is good!" Cosette said, and Marius seemed to recoil at her words. "You are hurting, my love, but it will pass. These things require time but you will move past-"
"You don't understand." Marius interrupted simply, then shook his head. "How could you? I- I am terrified that I will forget them. Every passing day serves only to take me further away from my friends- I have been attempting to inscribe everything I can remember, but every day it becomes more and more difficult. I have forgotten most of their first names. I do not remember if I ever even knew them. Is that not terrible? With the exception of Prouvaire it is like they were never given proper names at all."
"Husband..."
"I am losing them, Cosette. And I don't know how to stop."
Cosette nodded, deciding on a course of action as she rose to her feet. "I might know of a way to help you."
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The next day, Cosette called in her gardeners with specific instruction to clear the garden of unnecessary plants. Marius sent them away immediately, asserting that some things he would rather do himself, and began breaking the soil, tearing the stems and roots of unwanted plants, flowers and weeds out of the ground with a sort of fervor she had not seen in him before. They planted flowers in remembrance, and Marius held that it was recquired the flowers be native to France; Cosette was happy to comply. They planted two rosebushes around the statue at the edge of their modest garden ('for Joly and Combeferre,' Marius had said, 'they are said to have medicinal uses, and I know Combeferre was fond of the smell), and lilies along the pathway (white with red spots for Gavroche, Feuilly and Eponine, orange for Bahorel, Bossuet and Musichetta). Blue cornflowers they planted in almost every empty spot they found, for Jehan and his love for the melancholy color. He saved a space for two irises, side-by-side ('for Grantaire, and his Enjolras,' Marius had smiled, with the ghost of a laugh on his lips. 'who I'm certain would not appreciate the gesture') near their bench at the end of the bathway. At the heart of their garden, a little circle of earth that used to contain a dying rosebush, he planted red poppies, for Courfeyrac.
The day following, Marius did not lock himself away in his study, but sat in the garden with a bittersweet smile.
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A week passed without incident. Marius did not sleep easy, but he slept longer, and he allowed Cosette to hold him, no longer flinching at the slightest touch. She could convince him to eat, small portions of course, but she considered it a success. She tread lightly on the subject of the Friends of the ABC, as they were called, for it could either result in an afternoon of pleasant memories or tears. She heard the servants whispering about him, as they are wont to do, and scolded them as delicately as they could, speaking of her husband's longing for his friends as if it was a mental affliction, and the touch of mockery in their eyes was replaced by pity. She was unsure which she preferred.
One day, Cosette returned from her walk around their quiet neighbourhood, expecting to find Marius along the flowers again, speaking in a low voice to them as he often did, sharing his memories with a receptive audience. Upon finding it empty she entered the house and found her husband in their dining room, reaching for a glass vase (a wedding present from a woman whose name she could not recall). Not wishing to startle him, she rapped her knuckles against the doorframe.
"Ah, Courfeyrac, I trust you have remembered the bread this time?" He said, turning to grin at her, his face looking more youthful than Cosette had seen since the first time they met. The illusion of youth and joy was swept aside so quickly Cosette could hardly believe it had ever existed at all, his lips parting in shock and recognition as he saw her standing before him. The vase slipped from his fingers and shattered onto the floor.
As Cosette stood, horrified and unsure what to do, in the doorway, she watched Marius fall to his knees in front of her, a look of abject horror and grief on his face. Trembling arms rose to his head and he pulled at his hair, breath coming out in torn, ragged gasps. Then he began screaming.
It was rough and guttural and wholly terrifying to Cosette, who stood rigid, scared and confused. Her husband kneeled in broken glass, near-roaring in agony, before he began to beat at the floor, breaking his skin on shards of glass.
She fled the house and sought refuge in the garden, ignoring the way the way the dirt scuffed up her dress, bringing her knees close to her chest and weeping as it began to rain, the water soaking into her dress and underthings as she shook herself. From her distance from the house, the sound of breaking glass and overturned chairs was almost imperceptible. Almost. Cosette sang to herself through her tears, covering her ears and trying to forget his pain. She wondered if she was strong enough for Marius. She wondered if she'd ever be.
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As her body stopped trembling with fear and began shaking from the cold, she walked quietly back inside to find Marius sitting on their bed, his knuckles bandaged and a grim expression on his face.
"I am sorry to have frightened you." He said, eyes flicking up to her and widening in surprise when he saw her clothing. "You're soaked through!"
"It is raining."
Marius stood abruptly, aghast. "You should not have gone outside! This is my doing, I forced you out, I am so sorry-"
Cosette pressed a finger to his lips. "What was the damage?"
Marius flushed, biting his lower lip. "Three goblets, a leg of a stool, two bowls, and seven of the dinner plates with the blue lining."
"That is a good thing." Cosette smiled, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth. "Those plates were almost sinfully ugly."
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"I don't see why my eyes need be covered, I feel as if I'm marching to my execution-"
"Patience is a virtue, my love."
Marius laughed, hands searching the air in front of him as Cosette pushed him in the direction of the upstairs drawing room. "One I do not possess, wife."
"Husband, do be quiet." Cosette stopped him in the middle of the room, which had been cleared of its contents and replaced with new ones, praying once again that this had been a good idea. She reached up to the back of his head and untied the knot with careful fingers. "Please do not be angry."
"Angry?" Marius said, hands reaching up to catch the cloth as it fell from his eyes. "What could you possibly do to anger m..." He trailed off, eyes finding the walls of their previously undecorated drawing room.
Cosette had covered the walls with six separate paintings, all by the same artist. Five paintings, framed professionally and hung on the walls, and Marius seemed as if struck by lightning, rigid and breathless, as he took in the sight before him.
"How..." Marius began to turn, staring at the walls and his voice barely a whisper as he said, "How did you find these?"
"A girl, Floreal, perhaps?" Cosette smiled weakly, hopefully. "She was selling these two." She indicated the least complete of the set. "I paid her four times her asking price, a trifle really, but I could see she could barely part with them. I told her that you knew the artist, spoke with her at length of them, and purchased the other ones with the promise that she could visit them if she chose."
"They are..."
"Grantaire's." Cosette whispered. "What he did not burn, sell, or lose. Save a painting of Floreal she could not bring herself to part with. She gave me her word to bring it with her when she came to see the others." He remained silent, staring ahead with a dumbstruck expression, and Cosette felt the need to fill the silence. "I've been searching for weeks; I started with the Musain, and spoke to any friends he had." Any who were still alive, she did not feel the need to add. She glanced up towards Marius. "Please, say something."
A tear fell down his cheek, trailing a slow line. "I did not think I'd ever see them again."
"The paintings?"
"My friends." Marius smiled, taking slow steps towards a painting of a long table around which a group of men were sitting, walking as though the painting might be frightened away with the slightest movement. "He has captured them perfectly, I don't know how- when did he have the time..." He turned around, holding out his hand to her. She walked towards him, her smile mirroring his own, and he beamed at her as he gestured to the painting. "Look, he's got that knowing smile Combeferre always had, and Joly's grin- the scar above Bahorel's eyebrow, you can almost feel Bossuet tapping his fingers on the table."
Cosette laughed, softly. "Is the one frowning Enjolras? He does have my hair."
"Yes, though he only scowled like that when Grantaire contradicted him." He paused. "Or when I mentioned Napoleon. His smile- it made men change religions and women fan themselves. Not that he ever noticed, he only had eyes for patria."
"The land mass?"
"His faithful mistress." Marius smiled, fingers reaching up to ghost over the painted edges. "He has painted my speckled cheeks, and the shadows under Feuilly's eyes. The detail..." He glanced towards the left wall, brow furrowing in confusion. "I do not recognize that one."
It was a painting of a blonde girl with large blue eyes, a knowing smile and a gentle curve to her lips. Cosette held out her hand to him, which held a small scrap of paper, the words of which she had memorized, having read them so often.
Marius paled as he read, slowly. "For Marius Pontmercy..."
"To be delivered on the event of his marriage to the phantom girl he has described so frequently, in such detail, I feel I am in danger of falling in love with her as well. Signed, R." Cosette finished for him. "You did not tell him my ears were slightly crooked, my love."
Marius looked up, past her, to the painting, eyes reflecting a tangle of emotions Cosette could not tell if he was happy or sorrowful. She concluded it must be a mixture of the two as she leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek.
"Thank you." He exhaled, a smile breaking through his shocked features. "By God, thank you. You have no idea what this means to me."
Cosette beamed up at him, her heart swelling to see the wonder in her husband's eyes. "I would do it again a thousand times over to see you smile like that, Monsieur Pontmercy."
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as he laughed into her shoulder, then pulled away to press a kiss to her mouth, cheeks and forehead. Grinning, he turned from her to glance between the paintings. There were two larger than the rest, of every one of Marius' friends, some facing away, some looking directly ahead. There was, of course, the rendition of Cosette, and then two others of small scenes. The first was of a man with glasses leaning over a large map (Combeferre, assumedly), next to the blond revolutionary she knew to be Enjolras, and Courfeyrac, smiling at both of them. It showed such love and companionship that Cosette almost felt as if she were intruding upon some precious moment she had no right to. In the other scene, a smiling woman was pressing a kiss to a flushing man's (Joly, perhaps?) cheek, as a bald man (Bossuet, of course) with cheeks just as red threw his head back in a laugh. Next to the three of them were a man beant over a leather-bound book, and a man looking exhausted, but content. The last was the least finished, a painting she had enountered the most difficulty pursuading Floreal to let her purchase. It was undoubtedly Grantaire, the scrub of hairs on his jaw and the hollow edge to his eyes. An attempt at a self-portrait that had been abandoned.
As he turned back to her, Marius let out a shaky breath. "These are- just- breathtaking. Would you mind, could I-"
She nodded before he could finish, knowing he could not find the words to ask for the privacy he so needed. "I'll be in the garden, or perhaps helping to prepare dinner. Shall I call you when it's ready?"
"If you would."
With an easy smile, Cosette walked quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving her husband to surround himself in the memories of his friends. He needed to be alone, that much was obvious, to weep and to laugh and to come to terms with the reality of his situation.
Which was, of course, that he might have lost the friends he loved so dearly, but they'd never truly leave him.