Cosette

Ou, la petite fille et son piano

Ses Yeux

“Again, mon amour.”

Obediently, her fingers find the keys as pretty blue eyes read the notes.

She plays it well, she plays it beautifully, and for a moment, the woman simply listens to the elegant notes, drinking it in like a fine wine.

Until-

“Cosette.”

Her fingers tremble on the ivory.

“You played a C. You know that the note is a G.”

Every move the girl makes is beautiful, every move the girl makes is elegant, and thus, even the tear that trickles down her ivory cheek is perfect as a diamond, in shape and in form.

“I- please, forgive me. I was not looking at the keys, I merely-“

The woman gazes at her with languid eyes.

“Ma chérie, you know what I must do. Your eyes must be corrected.”

Every gesture she makes, every word she says is only filled with love. Gently, she leans forward and kisses Cosette’s cheek, removing the tear.

“It is only for your own good, mon ange,” she whispers.

Ses Mains

“Again, mon cher.”

Elegantly, her fingers find the keys as pretty blue eyes read the notes.

Her blue eyes are even prettier than before. Made by the finest glass blower in all of Paris, they gaze mechanically at the music.

She plays it well, she plays it beautifully, and for a moment, the woman basks in the music. There is surely no human better.

But even so-

“Cosette.”

Fingers freeze on ivory.

Softly.

“Not an F. A G. A G, Cosette. You played the wrong note.”

A beautiful, perfect shuddering sob breaks through Cosette’s words.

“Please, je suis désole ! I, my hands were shaking-“

The tender gaze of a lover is conferred upon her.

“Mon ange, you know what I must do. Your hands must be corrected.”

If Cosette had thought that it might help, perhaps she would have begged.

Lovingly, the woman strokes away strands of golden hair from Cosette’s china-white face.

“I do this for you, not me.”

Son Cœur

“Again, mon ange.”

Diligently, her fingers find the keys as pretty glass eyes read the notes.

Her fingers are perfect now. Made by the very best carpenter in all of Paris, they jerkily press the keys in a mechanical way.

She plays it finely, she plays it wonderfully, and for a time, the woman simply lets the music wash over her. Surely Cosette is without parallel.

But, still-

“Cosette.”

The music halts.

“Not an E, Cosette. A D. That note is wrong.”

Perfect white teeth bite down on a red lower lip in fear.

“No! I- I am sorry! I was over-excited, it shall not happen again-“

The woman smiles tenderly.

“Mon amour, you know what I must do. Your heart was pounding so fast, you were too excited.”

Cosette freezes in horror.

“Your heart must be corrected.”

Cosette

“Again, mon fille.”

But really, she does not need to say it. For now, wooden fingers painted white will never stop finding the keys, and glassy blue eyes will never stop reading the notes. A clockwork heart runs at a perfect rhythm, and all the other soft, human parts of a little girl have been exchanged for china, glass, wood and clockwork. And a pretty little girl is no more.

Once, flesh and blood fingers caressed the ivory as tenderly as a person might caress a lover, and once, pretty blue eyes were filled with the joy, the ecstasy of the music.

There is no joy now.

There is no ecstasy now.

But Cosette, the clockwork doll, plays on perfectly, never missing a note. Finally, she comes to the end.

A radiant smile crosses the woman’s face.

“Ah, Cosette, Mon amour! C’est bel- it is perfect. I knew you should play it perfectly.”

Still with the radiant smile, she tenderly kisses Cosette’s cheek (cold, hard, china.)

Of course, Cosette makes no reply.

Clockwork dolls do not talk.

A delicate whisper.

“You only needed to be corrected.”

La petite fille joue du piano.

Toujours.

--- Fin---

Um…

Well, frankly, all I can say is wow. I didn’t know this kind of stuff was lurking about in my head. This piece seems quite surreal to me, and I think it’s safe to say I’ve never written anything quite like it. And… never… may again quite frankly, because it creeps me out more than a little to know this was knocking about in my brain. I came up with this idea in Chemistry today, and as it seemed quite original, I decided I might as well write it. For some reason it feels as though at some point, I’m going to be asked what piece Cosette was actually playing. Honestly… I don’t know. I really don’t. The only thing that I can tell you is that I stumbled across a website . It’s the website of a book written about Lewis Carroll, and although I haven’t read the book, the opening page plays a truly fascinating piece of piano music in the background. That was the inspiration for this piece, and it might be what Cosette is playing. Unfortunately, I don’t know the name of the piece, or the artist, so… unless you go to the site, you’re not going to find out what it sounds like. Sorry.

For Anyone Who Had Trouble With The French:Ou, la petite fille et son piano

Or, the little girl and her piano.

Mon amour

Is there honestly someone who needs me to translate this?

Mon ange

My angel

Je suis désole.

I am sorry.

C’est bel

It is beautiful.

La petite fille joue du piano. Toujours.

The little girl plays the piano. Forever.