Avec Le Coeur D'Oiseau

Rating: T

Disclaimer: All I'm going to say, is that Les Mis should have been slightly different. And also, this isn't going to be ENTIRELY historically accurate.

Summary: Apolline is poor and almost completely alone in the time of the Revolution. She has also just become a part of one of the most romantic and tragic love triangles in all of Paris. Will her love, Daniel, choose the daughter of a wealthy man, the lovely Mirabelle? Or will he see past the dirt and malnourished body and to the love and loyalty that is Apolline Eustache?

Chapter One
La Familie Eustache

Eustache Inn and Tavern
Rue-Saint-Marc-de-Rouen
Paris, France
November 9, 1831

Paris doesn't look quite the same from up here, Apolline decided as she felt herself hovering over the city. Above her, the sky was an angry red, tinged with brown, looking almost like dried blood. A flock of frightened birds shot past her, retreating to safety. She found herself wishing she could do the same, but she realized she had no control over her actions. So she simply floated. The buildings below her were dark and they loomed over the cobblestones like daunting adults to a small child. Shadows stretched over the Seine, darkening the water until it looked like ink, floating slowly under the bridges. Just as she was getting used to the strange weightless sensation, she found herself walking along a cold, grimy street.

As she moved forward she realized there were bodies all around her. Some of these bodies were living, crying out to her, moaning in pain, sounding demonic and eerie, so frightening that the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Those that were dead, lay still, tangled around one another, some without heads, others were missing limbs.

She wondered what had happened to these people, why there were so many of them, when a voice called her name.

"'Polline..."

She ran toward the voice further and further down the street, past the bodies and their frightening calls for help.

"'Polline, where are you?"

"I'm here!" she said, her voice sounding strange.

The voice continued as if it hadn't heard her at all, "'Polline..."

Finally she saw him, standing at the end of the street, looking around for her. His clothes hung off his tiny frame, his little feet bare and dirty. His hair was growing a little long and he had on a coat that was for an adult, falling a little past his knees. She ran toward him, looking for some kind of answer, some form of comfort to diminish her unease. This, she found odd, as she was the one usually comforting him.

"Pons!" she shouted, and he turned around.

When she reached him he took her hand and they began walking forward.

"Pons, what has happened to these people?" she asked him.

He didn't look at her, he kept his eyes ahead, unblinking and glassy, "They're dead."

"I know they are, but why Pons?"

He stopped walking, still not looking at her, "Because Father has taken your heart."

This frightened Apolline so much that she sank to her knees, trembling all over. She knew, that in the back of her mind what her brother had said did not make sense, but the rest of her mind took over and made her think she should be frightened. She wanted to cry, but she tightened her throat and blinked furiously. She wanted to ask her brother, 'Why?' but she couldn't speak.

And then Pons pointed forward, and she followed his eyes to see her Father standing there, staring at her heart.

"It's to help this family Apolline, don't be selfish," he told her.

She shook her head, unable to speak. And then he walked forward, reaching into a cavity where her heart should have been, to take out a large black rock. He held it in his hand and smiled maliciously at it. Then, quite suddenly, it was a little black bird in his palm, and it shot up and out of the city.

"How dare you?!" her father shouted. "You selfish little tramp!" but she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or the bird, because she was watching it fly away, until it was shot down, falling into the Seine, sinking under the surface of the ink.

Apolline didn't remember waking up. One moment she was asleep, dreaming, frightened, and the next she was awake, rigid, shaking, in bed beside her sister, Helene, on their mat. She inched a little closer to the younger girl, hoping to find some warmth under the scrap of blanket they shared. She closed her eyes next, trying to fall back asleep. Things would be warmer in the morning, warmer and brighter. But she felt uncomfortable and restless, so she opened her eyes again and listened to the light snoring of her older brother, Gaspard, who was laying on the other side of her parents' bed with Pons.

It was all six of them in the room, her parents and their children. They could only spare one room for themselves in the whole of their inn, the rest were for guests. For guests with money.

Downstairs all the other guests had finally gone to bed, she had fallen asleep listening to them yelling and laughing, talking of politics and life, loud and raucous. Her parents had been with them then, her father, Monsieur Eustache, sitting with them, offering more food and wine, Madame Eustache fulfilling their requests. But now everyone was silent in their state of dream, all except Apolline.

She thought of her dream, of her father reaching into her chest to take out her heart. He was in the very same room as she, the thought made her shiver, he would sell his own daughter's heart if it meant any sort of wealth for himself. But that was just the sort of man Monsieur Jean Eustache was. Born of a French father and a Hungarian gypsy mother, he was tan and tall, with dark hair and cold, gleaming eyes, like a rat's, the color of coal. At a young age his parents had influenced him to steal and use trickery to get what he needed, as they had been too poor to provide for themselves or their son. This trait had been carried with him throughout his whole life, influencing his children now.

His wife, Madame Emilie Eustache had been a great beauty, as far as poor, dejected French girls were concerned. With a sharp, angular face, piercing blue eyes, and long, golden hair, she had been the product of a prostitute-turned-mistress and the man who kept her from dying of hunger by paying for her house and food and clothing. Her father had known of her, but ignored her, her mother had spoiled her with compliments and praise, until she died of consumption when Emilie was thirteen. When this had happened, Emilie's father had stopped paying for her mother's small home and he put his own daughter on the street, ashamed of her in some small way. So she had spent her days working for a seamstress, who allowed her to sleep in the back room during the night, until she met Jean Eustache, who immediately set to win her heart because she was so beautiful.

They had gotten married and had four children, but now Madame Eustache's hair was graying, her skin was no longer smooth and creamy, but spotted and slightly sagging. She had gained a tremendous amount of weight and her elbow locked and ached whenever she had to carry heavy dishes or pitchers, which happened to be every night, when serving her guests.

The relationship between the Eustache parents and their children was a strange one. Madame Eustache loved her daughters and cared for them tremendously, but sometimes she just didn't have the time to look after them or pay attention to them. And she certainly had no time for her sons, the older one was there for work and the younger one was just in the way. But Monsieur Eustache was indifferent to all his children, unless he needed them for something.

But surely he wouldn't sell his own daughter's heart, you may think. But he most certainly would, if the chance came along.

Currently, though, Apolline was watching the light of the rising sun slant through the window.

She stood up and crept over to the window, peering outside. Over the rooftops of the buildings on their street she could see the pink and orange sky ablaze above them. She felt her heart lift and she sighed, feeling as if the day would be wonderful. But, something about the chill that crept around her made her doubt herself, for that was always the way of a gamine.