Can you imagine Montparnasse, Eponine and Azelma, Babet all sharing an apartment in modern day and they have a rota of who makes food on what day and who gets to control the tv and watch their favourite programme first because omg I can and if would be fucking adorable and everyone would dread Thursday nights because that’s when Parnasse would have to cook and he would be shit at cooking (In the end it would get so bad that Ep would have to order takeaways secretly to avoid hurting Mont’s feelings)

The Benefactress (Part 6)

The Benefactress

Part 6: A Lady By Any Other Name

Despite Cosette’s reassurances to the contrary, Eponinecould not quite banish Cerise’s taunts from her mind. ‘If she was in my position she wouldn’t last a day!’ she seethed silently as she was back at her desk at the Stendhals’ office, making a simple translation of a news article. She bit her lip as she glanced at her left hand; her fingers could not lie flat on the tabletop, and her palm was covered by a faded but rough scar from the bullet that had nearly taken her life at the Rue de Chanvrerie. Although she had regained some use of her hand over the past two years, she still could not quite clench her fist without considerable pain.  “I’d like to see how Cerise would manage with this,” she muttered.

As she blotted a newly written line, she heard the office door creaking open. She smirked as she threw a glance over her shoulder at her errant colleague. “Wasn’t the Germain d’Auxerrois lovely today, Stendhal?” she asked casually.

“It was crowded…..” Emile Stendhal began before trailing off as a look of horror crossed his pallid face. The translator threw down his coat and pulled up a chair, taking care not to disturb Laure, who was sleeping next to the desk. “What were you doing there?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Giving some finished work to Citizen Santerre, as your mother asked me to,” Eponine replied.

Emile’s face flushed deeply. “I forgot about that errand.”

“She doesn’t know you’re running off to see Justine Lafontaine.” The young woman sighed as Emile nodded embarrassedly. “For how long?”

“A month,” Emile looked around, evidently afraid of being overheard. “I had to translate something for her brother. She was the one who picked up the manuscript when I brought it to his office.”

Eponine nodded, remembering now that Justine’s brother worked with the diplomatic corps’ headquarters in Paris. “How have you been carrying on since then?”

“We meet on promenades. Exchanging letters would be careless.”

“I s’pose though that neither of you are entirely happy with that alone.”

“What else can I possibly do? She is from one of the most respectable families in Paris, and I am only a translator with no prospects.”

“I can tell you of something that sounded even more impossible.”

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