Lisette

Chapter 5 ~ Despatched into Life with a Kick

The following day, having regained confidence somewhat in going out in public again, I decided to try going out on my own. Enjolras had lectures to attend, and so had left me to my own devices. The amount I owed him was adding up, though he insisted that there was no need for me to pay him back, and so I made it my mission to go around the drapers and linen shops, and see if there were any who would employ me again as a seamstress, sewing off the peg shirts and chemises. I took a sample of my work with me, as well as wearing the apron I had finished last night. It took half a dozen attempts, but at last I found a place that would give me work. They still gave me stares because of my face, but I was able to take away the initial piece work, to bring back tomorrow, finished, for the payment of 10 sous. If I were fast, and neat, they would consider continuing to give me work, with the chance of at least a franc a day in wages.

On my way back, I thought about what Enjolras had said about talking to and drawing the poorest and most downtrodden. With the lamplight in the Musain in the evenings, it would likely be possible to combine the two forms of work - if, that is, the pictures and stories were printed. Lost in thought, I half tripped over a small boy who had darted out in front of me. He must have been about nine or ten, wearing a woman's chemise and a man's pair of trousers, rolled up so that he wouldn't trip over them, and tied at the waist with string. He was thin, pale, and slightly sickly looking, but nevertheless seemed lively and boisterous.

I had my notebook with me. Perhaps this was an opportunity to try my hand at an interview and sketch. I had a few coins, and could afford to give him a couple of sous - now I had some degree of work, I could begin to repay Enjolras.

Before I could address him, the boy stopped and stared at me.

"Here, how did you get such a big scratch on your face?"

"That's hardly a polite way to start a conversation," I retorted.

"I was just asking! I like to know things. And I've seen you around these past few days. Haven't noticed you before that, though."

"Well, I wasn't so recognisable before... I'm not new to Paris, though, if that's what you mean." I paused, and then held out my hand. "I think we've got off on the wrong foot. Lets do proper introductions. I'm Élise."

He took my hand, and shook it. "Gavroche."

"Are you busy at the moment?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

"Well then, perhaps you could help me?"

I led him over to the fountain in the middle of the square, and sat down. He stayed upright, fidgeting, like a cat, or a sparrow, wary of coming too close. He often stood first on one foot, and then the other, warming the foot that was off the ground on his leg, in an effort to relieve the effects of the cold cobblestones on his bare feet.

"A friend has asked me to collect some of the stories and to draw pictures of some of the poorest people living in Paris," I explained. "I wonder if I could begin by talking to you, and perhaps drawing your picture?"

"I've never had my picture drawn before," he grinned.

As I drew, we talked, and I learned more about him. He was "probably" eight - he wasn't entirely sure of his age, or when his birthday was. I should have known he'd be younger than he looked - most street kids ended up prematurely aged. He wasn't an orphan - he had both mother and father still living, but his father never thought of him, and his mother did not love him. They had despatched him into life with a kick.

Still, he found his own amusements. He sang, and played, found fun with other urchins of his own age, stole a little here and there, and was free. He seemed oblivious to the cost of all of this - no hearth or home, no regular source of food, and no family love. Nevertheless, as he explained, sometimes, every two or three months, he would go and see his parents. They lived in a garret room in a tumbledown house by the name of the Gorbeau tenement, or 50-52.