His hair was thick and dark and he was brown-eyed like me but his were darker, a sort of golden brown. They had little flecks in them as if sunshine had been stirred in. Freckles on his nose. A dimple in his left cheek as he smiled at me.
He didn’t belong in the Gorbeau tenement at all, at all.
He let go of my shoulders. “You’re crying,” he said, frowning then. “Are you all right?”
I wasn’t but I couldn’t say so. I just nodded.
“Are you sure? I can’t help you?”
I managed, “Non, Monsieur. Merci.”
He gave a second smile, slipped past me, and made his way downstairs.
I stood very still. I just looked at the space where he’d been.
* * *
That night, I couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t live in the Gorbeau. He must be a visitor. I smiled at the stars through the window and thought, Please let him visit again.
* * *
In the morning, I went to Madame Bourgon. When she opened her door, she raised an eyebrow at me. “Ah. The elder Jondrette girl. What are you bothering me for?”
“Madame, I’m seeking a person who was here yesterday, a young gentleman. I think he’s a visitor? He left a button and I’ve got to return it.”
“A button?” She wasn’t a fool. She knew that the Jondrettes would snatch a button and sell it, not give it back.
“Yes. A button. He was older than me—twenty, maybe? He wore a dark wool coat and his hair was a sort of chestnut color …”
Her mouth cracked into a gummy smile. “Aha! Him. I know the one … Pretty, isn’t he? Four.”
“Four?”
“Room Four.”
“He visits the people who live in Room Four?”
She spat a brownish phlegm, wiped her mouth with her hand. “Visits? He doesn’t visit. He rents Room Four.”
“What?” I flinched. “He lives here? In the tenement?”
“You’re surprised? You think he’s too good for this place, do you? At least he pays on time, unlike your lot. Anyway, he’s Room Four—I’m sure you could slide his button under his door …”
With that, she went.
Room Four? How long had he lived there? How come I hadn’t seen him before? I couldn’t believe it: the family called Jondrette lived in Room Five, next door.
I began to go back upstairs but then a thought struck me. I rushed back, knocked on Madame Bourgon’s door a second time.
She was annoyed. “What now?”
“His name, Madame! Do you know his name?”
She sighed, fed up. “Marius. Marius Pontmercy.”
I smiled as I left her. It’s a myth, Montparnasse had said.
No, I thought. It’s real. I knew that now.