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Someone to Call Her Own	By : Marika Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2088 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 1-Someone to Call Her Own
- 1
Éponine: Someone to Call Her Own
PARIS, 1832
Éponine Thénardier had just finished arranging the chairs in the dining room of the Chez Jondrette when she heard a shriek from somewhere outside. Opening the front door, she heard the shrill voice of Mme. Bacheux, who ran the boulangerie down the street.
            “Damned Gypsy! Help!”
            A teenaged boy was running down the middle of the street, a baguette in his hand. He wore woolen trousers that looked too short, a shirt that looked several sizes too big, and a peaked cap pulled so low over his eyes that she wondered how he could see where he was going. Then she heard a shrill whistle—the cognes.
“Hey,” Éponine called to him. “Over here.”
            He lurched to a stop and gave her a startled look.
“Inside,” Éponine said. “Quickly.”
The boy hesitated, like he wasn’t sure whether to trust her, then darted inside and dove beneath a table. Éponine closed the door just before two policemen came loping by. She kept her ear pressed to the wood until she could no longer hear the clomp-clomp-clomp of their boots on the cobblestones, then peeked outside.
“It’s safe,” she said. “They’re gone.”
            The boy crawled out from under the table and stood. He was about Éponine’s height, maybe a couple of centimeters shorter, and he looked a little older than he had at first: about her age, she reckoned. His was a comely face, with smooth olive skin, full lips, gently arching brows, and the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. They were much darker than her own—almost black. What a pretty girl, he’d make, Éponine thought. Then she had an epiphany and laughed.
“You are a girl!”
“Yes. And?”
            “Sorry, I meant no offense. Hey, life on the street is much safer for a girl if she can pass as a boy.”
“You have lived on the street?”
            “For six years.” Éponine added, “I haven’t forgotten where I came from.”
            “Well, thank you for helping me,” the girl said. Her accent suggested she was from somewhere in the south—Provence was Éponine’s guess.
            “Don’t mention it,” Éponine replied. “What’s your name?”
“Esme.”
“I’m Éponine.”
            Esme regarded her for a long moment. “You’re very beautiful.”
            “Why, thank you,” Éponine said, feeling her cheeks color up.
            The pair of them stood there for a few seconds without speaking, their eyes locked to each other’s. Suddenly Éponine felt like they were no longer in the dining room of the Chez Jondrette. Just where, she didn’t know. It might have been an island in the middle of the sea, or a remote mountaintop. Then a coarse voice broke the moment.
            “’Ponine!”
            “My father,” Éponine said, rolling her eyes.
            “I’d better go,” Esme said. “Thanks again.” She started for the door.
            Éponine felt a twinge of disappointment. Some connection had been made between them, one that shouldn’t be broken so soon.
            “Wait,” she called. “Are you looking for work?”
Esme turned around. “Why?”
            “’Ponine!” The voice was louder and harsher this time. “Are you deaf, girl? It’s time to open.”
            Éponine’s father, M. Thénardier, shambled down the stairs. He noticed Esme and demanded, “Who are you?”
            “Her name’s Esme,” Éponine replied.
            “Her?”
            Éponine sighed. “Yes, papa, her. She’s dressed like that because she’s on the street—like I used to do when we were out there, remember? And she’s looking for work.”
“Well she can look elsewhere.”
“Come on, papa. Business has been good lately. You yourself have said we could use an extra pair of hands around here.”
            “I’ve waited tables before,” Esme put in.
            M. Thénardier took a closer look at Esme, a slow sweep from her face to the curve of her hips in those too-small trousers, and a gleam came into his eyes.
            God, Éponine thought, disgusted. What a lecher he can be. She doubted he’d try anything, though. Her mother would have his balls if she caught him messing about.
            “Have you anything else to wear?” M. Thénardier asked.
            “No, m’sieur,” Esme said.
            Éponine spoke up. “I’ve got a dress or two that would fit her.”
“All right,” M. Thénardier said, looking to Esme. “I’ll pay you nine sous a day and you can sleep in the garret. No sampling the wares, either. And if you steal anything, you’re gone. Agreed?”
            Esme looked at Éponine. “Agreed.”
            M. Thénardier nodded once. “’Ponine, take her upstairs and let her change, then I want both of you in the kitchen. Move!”
            Éponine’s mother had been against hiring Esme. “She’s a Gypsy,” Mme. Thénardier protested. “You can’t trust her kind.”
“I decide who works here and who doesn’t,” M. Thénardier countered.
            Esme vindicated his decision. She was smart and fast and stronger than her slight frame betokened. She moved among the tables as gracefully as a dancer, never dropping a dish or spilling a drink. Freed from the cap, her hair fell to mid back, and it was as black as her eyes. Éponine was enthralled by how lovely Esme looked in the simple blue dress she’d lent her, how her unbound breasts filled the bodice, how her hips swayed beneath the skirt as she walked. Again and again she found herself stealing glances at the girl. Once, Esme sensed Éponine looking at her and returned her gaze, her eyes shining. Éponine’s cheeks began to burn and she looked away. Stop gawking at her, she admonished herself. But it wasn’t long before her eyes strayed back in Esme’s direction.
            The morning proved exceptionally busy, and the afternoon and the evening were no different. The next thing Éponine knew, it was closing time. Once the last customer was out the door, M. and Mme. Thénardier went off to bed, leaving the girls to clean the kitchen.
            “Is it always like this?” Esme asked, drying a freshly-scoured pan.
            Éponine smiled. “No, today was harder than usual. But you bore up like a soldier under fire.”
            “Thank you, mademoiselle,” Esme said in a mock-manly voice, giving her a deep bow. Éponine made a little curtsy, and they both laughed.
            “I think we can call it a night,” Éponine said, taking off her apron. She walked over to the wine rack and selected a bottle. “We deserve a little reward.”
            Esme’s eyes widened. “Should we do this? You know what your parents said about sampling the wares.”
            “They’ll never know. I’ll just replace what we drink with water, like they do.”
            Éponine took two glasses from the cupboard, and they went up to the garret, where’d there be no chance of her father barging in on them should he get up for a late night snack. In the glow of candlelight, they sat down on Esme’s pallet and Éponine poured them each a glass of wine.
            “Tell me your story,” Éponine said. “I want to know everything about you.”
            “Well, I was born near Toulon. My family belonged to a clan that traveled everywhere. I’ve no idea how many towns we went through, and not only in France, but Spain, too. I had three older brothers. My father and my brothers made copperware and baskets that my mother and I would sell in the towns. And yes, we begged and stole sometimes but only when people wouldn’t trade with us. We had to get by somehow.”
            Éponine nodded sagely. “That’s how my family got by when we were on the street. When you’re desperate, you do what you must to survive.”
            “Not many gadje understand that sort of thing.”
            “Gadje?”
            “It’s a word in our language for everybody who isn’t one of us.”
            “You have your own Gypsy language?”
            “We do. Romany, we call it, and we speak it only among our own people. To the gadje, we speak whatever language they speak.”
            “So how did you end up on your own in Paris?”
            “When I was fourteen, my father tried to make me marry a man who was ten years older than me. I couldn’t bear the thought of him touching me, much less spending my whole life with him. I begged my father not to make me do it, but he wouldn’t listen, especially since the man had already paid a bride price for me. So I ran away a few days before the wedding. That brought dishonor on my family and made me marimé, unclean. That means I’m banished. I can never go back.” Esme spoke those last sentences as simple statements of fact, with no trace of regret or self-pity.
            “Doesn’t that make you sad?” Éponine asked.
            “Of course it does. But the price of staying with them was more than I could pay.”
            Éponine was impressed. “You’re strong,” said she, “to be able to leave all you ever knew behind and set out on your own.”
            “You’re strong too, Éponine. I could tell when we met this morning. You know your own mind and you’re not afraid to speak up.” Esme took a sip of her wine and smiled at her over the rim of her glass. “I like that in a girl.”
            A disarming flutter raced through Éponine’s chest. She felt herself blushing and hoped Esme wouldn’t notice. What’s wrong with me? she thought. Quickly, she pulled herself back together. “So where did you go after you left your people?” she asked.
            “Different cities: Marseilles, Lyon. Didn’t stay long in any of them. I worked when I could find work, and when I couldn’t…” Esme shrugged.
            “Where did you learn to wait tables so well?”
            “I worked for a while in a tavern in Nantes.” Esme paused and her expression clouded over. But just as Éponine was about to ask if anything was the matter, she brightened and said, “Now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.”
            “It’s nowhere near as interesting as yours. I was born in a town called Montfermeil, where my parents owned an inn. I’ve never been anywhere except there and here, in Paris. My parents had two more kids after me, a girl and a boy, but both of them died in infancy. There was a little girl who lived with us for a while, though, and sometimes I’d pretend she and I were sisters. Her name was Cosette: looked like a little blonde angel, she did.”
            “How did she come to live with you?”
            “At first, we just took care of her during the day while her mother was at work. Her mother was a widow, or so she told us. Then one day Cosette and I were in my room playing with my dolls when my mother barged in. She grabbed Cosette by the arm, and dragged her out of the room. I sat there with my mouth hanging open until she came back and told me Cosette’s mother had lost her job and become a whore on the streets, and that I wasn’t to be her friend anymore. Later, we heard that her mother had never even been married.”
            “What happened to Cosette? Did your parents turn her out of doors?”
            “No, they decided to let her stay with us, but it was no act of charity. They worked her like a dog and treated her worse. They barely fed her, made her do all the cleaning and the washing, sent her out in the middle of the night to fetch water from the river. And they didn’t hesitate to strike her over the smallest thing. I’m ashamed to admit that after a while, I too started treating her badly. I taunted her, called her horrid names. Then one evening, some man came to the inn and told my father that Cosette’s mother had died, and he wanted to take her away with him to raise as his daughter. He gave my parents fifteen hundred francs for her.” Éponine gave a little humorless laugh. “Fifteen hundred francs that they took only days to piss away. That’s how they lost the inn. They drank or gambled away every sou they ever made.”
            “How did they come to own this place?”
            “They stole it. The proprietor—Jondrette—was an older man with no family of his own. He saw us begging in the street one day and took pity on us, gave us work, let us live here. Adopted us, you might say. My parents repaid him by convincing him to make my father his business partner, then tricking him into signing papers that said he was turning his café over to them. Later, I heard he hanged himself.” Éponine took a long pull of her wine. “But one day they’ll be repaid with the same coin. They’ll lose this place just like they lost the place in Montfermeil. It’s merely a matter of when.”
            “Why do you stay?” Esme asked. “You’re not happy here, and your parents treat you like a dog.”
            Éponine smiled. “This won’t be my life forever. Someday, I’ll go away with Marius.”
            “Marius?”
            “The man I love.”
            Éponine thought she saw something flicker through Esme’s eyes. Or maybe it was just the reflection of the candlelight.
            “Tell me about him,” Esme said.
            “He’s a law student at the University of France. He speaks English and German and he translates articles into French for the publisher of an encyclopedia to pay for his studies. He belongs to a republican society, too.”
            Esme’s eyes widened. “A republican society, you say?”
            “Yes. They call themselves the Friends of the ABC. The name’s a pun on the word abaisse, the people at the bottom rung of society. They used to meet here until they realized that my father was padding their tab. Now they go to a place called the Café Musain.”
            “And what do they do, these Friends of the ABC?”
            Éponine laughed. “Not much besides smoke, drink, and argue about politics.”
            Esme gave a small laugh back. “I see. So is your Marius handsome?”
            “Oh, yes. He’s tall and slim, with curly red hair and green eyes. And he’s got the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen on a man, with long, slim fingers like an artist’s. He treats me with respect, too, like I was one of those bourgeois girls you see in the Champs-Élysées.” Éponine paused. “He’s the only man I’ve ever met that I’ve truly wanted to be with.”
            Esme smiled. “He sounds wonderful. Do you get to see him often?”
            “Not as often as I’d like. Between his studies, his work, and the movement, he stays quite busy. And you see how my parents work me here. But I get away to see him when I can, usually on Sundays, when we don’t open until two. I meet him in the Luxembourg Gardens, and we talk for hours. He tells me all about the marvelous things he believes in: the natural rights of man, equality and justice for the poor. You should see how his eyes shine when he talks about these things.”
            “And do they shine that way when he looks at you?”
            “What do you mean?”
            “It sounds like Marius loves mankind, but does he love you?”
            Éponine hesitated. “He does, but only as a friend, and there are times when I’m afraid I may never be anything more to him than that. But then he’ll touch my hand or put an arm around my shoulder, and I think, there must be a way for us. If I can hold on a little longer, give him a little more time, one day he’ll realize that we belong together.”
            “Don’t wait for him forever,” Esme said quietly. “You may miss someone who could love you the way you deserve to be loved.”
            The warmth in Esme’s eyes and the gentle tone of her voice touched Éponine’s heart. She reached out and took hold of Esme’s hand and their fingers entwined. Suddenly, Éponine felt something sweep through her, a sensation at once both strange and familiar and so intense it scared her.
            “It’s late,” she said, letting go of Esme’s hand. “We’d best get some sleep.”
            “Good idea,” Esme replied, a faint smile on her lips. “I’m sure your parents will have plenty for us to do tomorrow.”
            Éponine giggled like a child. “Oh, I can guarantee that. Well, goodnight.” She picked up the wine bottle and hurried toward the stairs.
            A short while later, Éponine lay in her bed, staring into the darkness above her. Her mind turned to Esme and how it had felt when their hands touched. It was almost the same feeling she got when Marius touched her. How could that be? she wondered. It must have been the wine.
            Then she thought about what Esme had said just before that moment. How sweet of the girl to tell her she deserved to be loved. For a long time, she’d been convinced that the opposite was true, a notion that had been planted in her mind after her parents lost the inn. Whereas in Montfermeil they’d lavished her with affection and gifts, in Paris they pushed her away as though she were somehow to blame for their misfortune. Indeed, the loss of their affection had hurt worse than the hunger that constantly gnawed at her insides.
            During those mean years, they frequently slept under one of the bridges that spanned the Seine. Sometimes, Éponine would awaken in the middle of the night and sit on the quay wall, watching the river flow by, calm and peaceful, with the moonlight sparkling on its surface. She’d think of jumping in and becoming one with that peace, but every time she felt ready to do it, she’d start thinking about how cold the river would be, and how she would probably choke and gag as she went under, like the time she’d gulped a cup of water too fast. Then her nerve would desert her, and she’d slink away from the wall, thinking: Ah, ‘Ponine, what a sorry creature you are.
            Then she turned fourteen, and everything changed. The owner of the Chez Jondrette took them in and once again they had a roof over their heads and regular meals. Éponine’s body, grown scrawny from years of privation, began to fill out and her skin and hair regained their former luster. By fifteen, she’d taken on a woman’s curves and was attracting the attentions of boys her age and even men.
            At sixteen, she gave herself to a handsome young street tough merely for the sake of having someone’s arms around her, but apart from the pain of losing her maidenhead, she’d felt nothing. After him, there’d been a Russian émigré who took her so passionately that she feared he might devour her, and a sweet-faced glazier’s apprentice who handled her like one of the fragile panes of glass he worked with. Each of these liaisons left her unmoved. Once, desperate to feel something, anything, she’d given herself to an older man with hard grey eyes who made her kneel on the floor and pleasure him with her mouth. He’d made her feel something, all right—soiled and humiliated.
            And then came Marius. Sweet Marius. It was a rainy Tuesday evening when she first set eyes on him. Things had been slow at the café, when in walked six young men, laughing and playfully shoving each other. She’d noticed his ginger curls first, then his sea-green eyes, his high, fine cheekbones, and his lovely peak-lipped mouth. His legs were long and his hips were slim, and he moved with the supple grace of a cat. Éponine watched as he and his friends made their way to a table. As they sat down, Marius caught her staring at him and sent her a smile that set her heart ablaze.
            Marius had told her very little about his family; all Éponine knew for certain was that he’d been an only child. Both his parents had died when he was a boy, and his grandfather had raised him. From a few stray remarks, though, she gathered that he came from money and that his involvement in the republican movement had cost him his inheritance. That he should turn his back on privilege for the sake of his principles struck Éponine as nothing less than heroic. In time she’d come to see him as someone whose love could wash away all the pain and shame of her past like a fresh spring rain and renew her very spirit.
            But here was the rub: The man who’d awakened her passion had none for her. So she’d resolved to get as close to him as possible, to be his friend and his confidante—his confessor, even—in the hope that one day, he’d come to see her as more. That hope was what got her from one day to the next.
            And tomorrow, Éponine thought, would be another such day—a long one, too, if she didn’t get her rest. She turned onto her side and closed her eyes, imagining Marius’ arms around her, and soon drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.
  Within days Esme knew her duties at Chez Jondrette by heart. Even Mme. Thénardier had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she was good. Still, she kept a watchful eye on the girl, waiting for her to make the smallest mistake. Her dislike of Esme was no doubt abetted by the sidelong glances M. Thénardier continually gave her.
            Having Esme there halved the burden on Éponine, but the best part was having another girl her age to talk to. She felt like she and Esme had been friends forever, as though they’d known each other before they’d even met.
            Éponine still wasn’t sure what to make of the flushed, fluttery feelings Esme sometimes gave her, feelings uncannily similar to the ones she got when she was with Marius though surely, she told herself, they couldn’t be of the same nature. But what, then, were they?
            She recalled how, as a child, she’d been fascinated with feminine beauty. She’d spend hours gazing at pictures of beautiful princesses in her fairytale books. The first time she saw Cosette, with her small face framed by that pale, wavy hair, her pink bow of a mouth, button nose, and those enormous blue eyes, she’d flushed head to toe and giggled and her mother had scowled at her and called her a featherhead. And during those mean years on the streets of Paris she frequently sought escape from the harsh world she lived in by watching the elegant, finely-dressed young women passing by in their carriages and pretending to be one of them. Once in a while she’d see one so striking that her breath would hitch and she’d feel a stirring in her breast that she couldn’t name.
            Perhaps, Éponine thought, she was making too much of the matter. These feelings Esme inspired in her were nothing she hadn’t experienced before—a little more intense, perhaps, but nothing to trouble herself over. Besides, didn’t all females have a bent for admiring beautiful members of their own sex? Why, she’d even heard her mother make the odd, awed remark about a beautiful female (though usually she was quick to add some disparaging comment: Ah, but give her five years and she’ll be a sow!).
            Éponine was not alone in her admiration of Esme’s beauty—which proved a boon for business. Her presence at the Chez Jondrette led to a noticeable increase in the number of men who came to drink in the evening. Esme knew how to flirt just enough to keep them there, buying drinks, without whetting their appetites too much.
            Occasionally, though, someone’s appetite would get a little too whetted anyway. Saturday evening, Esme was serving a group of office clerks, among them an average-looking sort with a bit of a paunch who kept getting bolder with each drink he consumed. As she turned to walk away after bringing them a fresh round, he made a grab for her bum. Instinctively, Esme spun around and smacked his hand so hard it hit the edge of the table. He let out a yelp, sending his companions into gales of laughter.
            As Esme headed toward the kitchen, one of the man’s companions clapped him on the shoulder. “So, Alphonse, that’s some technique with the ladies you’ve got!”
            “Ha!” the would-be Don Juan scoffed, rubbing his hand. “She’s probably a damned tribade.”
            Éponine was serving a table nearby, and she heard his remark. A tribade was a woman who disdained the arms of men, preferring instead to lay with other women. She’d heard of tribades, though as far as she knew, she’d never met one. People said they were “depraved,” and spoke darkly of “unnatural” things they did with one another (though exactly what such things might entail, she had no idea).
            Éponine reckoned that the spurned suitor’s remark was nothing more than sour grapes, but it set her mind to wondering. In none of their conversations had Esme ever mentioned a lover; nor had she shown interest in any man, not even some of the young handsome ones that occasionally came to the café—more than one of whom had shown interest in her.
            So what if she is a tribade? Éponine thought. She hasn’t tried to do anything “unnatural” to me. She resolved to forget the remark.
            Nonetheless, her curiosity had been piqued. Not wishing to ask Esme directly, she sought a more circumspect way to broach the subject. Later that night, as they talked in the garret, she casually asked Esme if there’d ever been a fellow in her life.
            “I haven’t met a fellow I wanted in it,” Esme replied.
            Éponine considered this; it was reasonable. “You have greater self-respect than I ever did,” she said. “I must admit, I’ve been with more than one man I cared nothing about simply because I was lonely. And you know what? It only made me feel lonelier.”
            Esme leaned close to Éponine, looking her full in the eyes. “It makes me sad to think you ever felt you needed to do such a thing.”
            “Well, now that I’ve met Marius, those days are over.” Éponine took a sip of her wine, then added, “I didn’t know there was anyone on earth like him until the night he walked into this place. Maybe your own Marius will walk in here one night.”
            “Hm. Think it might have been the charmer at my table tonight?”
            Éponine laughed. “If it was, you missed your chance.”
            Esme laughed too, lightly touching Éponine’s shoulder.
            “So,” said she. “We open later tomorrow, yes?”
            “Two o’clock. Right after the last mass at Sainte-Geneviève’s.”
            “Let’s do something together in the morning. Maybe we could go for a walk, just to get away from this place for a while. What d’you say?”
            “I’d love to, but I’m meeting Marius in the Luxembourg Gardens tomorrow.”
            Disappointment clouded Esme’s eyes, but she smiled. “Ah, you have a rendezvous with him.”
            “No, not exactly, but he’ll be expecting me. I always meet him there on Sunday mornings.” Éponine added, “Perhaps you and I might do something together another time.”
            “Perhaps.” Esme hesitated. “You know what? I’m feeling rather tired. I think I’ll turn in.”
            Éponine gazed at her a second or two. Clearly, Esme was hurt. She considered saying something to assuage her feelings, then decided that anything she said might only make her feel worse.
            “All right, then. I should turn in, too.” Éponine picked up the bottle and stood. “Sleep well.”
            Esme nodded. “You, too.”
  Sunday morning, Éponine awoke at first light, her body abuzz with excitement. She took extra time at her washbasin, then put on her best dress, a pale green one with a yellow and blue floral pattern and short, puffed sleeves. Standing in front of her mirror, she thumbed some rouge into her cheeks, put some rose-hued salve on her lips, then considered what to do with her hair. Should she braid it, curl it? Ah! She’d put it into a bun, with soft tendrils framing her face, a style Marius had once complimented her on. When she was done, she dabbed some violet-scented perfume behind her ears and between her breasts, grabbed her reticule, and out she went.
            As always, the omnibus ride to the Luxembourg Gardens seemed interminable. Éponine wished she could seize the reins from the driver and whip the horses into a full gallop. At last the gates of the Luxembourg came into view. She alighted from the omnibus as soon as it came to a stop and hastened towards the château, where Marius could usually be found.
            And there he was, seated on a balustrade on a terrace facing the octagonal basin, his head bent over a newspaper. Éponine sneaked up behind him and mussed his hair. He started and nearly fell from his perch.
            Éponine laughed. “Poor M’sieur Marius! I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
            He grinned and smoothed his hair back into place. “It’s quite all right, he said, and turned around to face her. “So, how have you been?”
            “Fine,” Éponine said, sitting down beside him. She glanced at his paper. It was yesterday’s issue of La Minerve. A headline reported the death that Friday of General Jean Maximillien Lamarque, hero of the Napoleonic Wars and champion of the common people.
            “I heard about that,” Éponine said, nodding toward the paper. “A young boy came into the café and announced it to the whole place. Grown men started crying.”
            “Lamarque was the people’s hero, their only voice in Parliament. Now that he’s gone, the monarchy’s days are numbered.”
            “How so?”
            Marius glanced furtively about then leaned toward Éponine. “The people are primed to revolt,” he said in an excited undertone. “All it’ll take is the right spark to set them off. We had a special meeting last night with representatives from the other republican societies to devise a common plan.”
            Éponine was taken aback. She’d never heard Marius speak of revolt before. In fact, she couldn’t recall anyone speaking of it when the Friends of the ABC met at the Chez Jondrette. Oh, there were one or two zealots among them, but by and large the cooler heads predominated.
            “Marius,” she said. “Are you telling me you mean to provide that spark?”
            Marius’ face flushed, like he realized that perhaps he’d said too much. “Not at all,” he replied. “We’re just going to hold a demonstration in the Place Vendôme when Lamarque’s funeral procession passes through. There will be huge crowds there. It’ll be our best opportunity yet to rally the people around the republican cause.”
            “There’ll be police and soldiers there too,” Éponine cautioned. “They’ll come down hard on any troublemakers.”
            Marius smiled and patted her shoulder. “Don’t you fret, ‘Ponine. We don’t mean to make any trouble, just speeches.” He rolled up his paper and stuck it in a pocket of his coat, then stood and offered his arm.
            “Want to take a walk?”
            Éponine’s eyes searched his. She hoped he was telling her the truth. He was a scholar, not a fighter. She doubted he’d ever even been in a fistfight. But, she reminded herself, he wasn’t stupid. She should give him credit for having common sense enough to avoid getting into anything beyond his limits. Besides, Lamarque’s funeral was still two days away; anything could happen between now and then. Her own ups and downs of fortune had taught her to appreciate the here and now, and here and now she was with the man she loved on a beautiful Sunday morning.
            “I’d love to,” she said, and took his arm.
            They strolled in the direction of the château, and Marius began talking about a book he was reading. It was called The Red and the Black, by someone named Stendhal, who’d fought with Napoléon in Russia.
            “It’s brilliant,” Marius said. “It perfectly describes how one is forced to play a role to gain social approval.”
            Marius’ eyes shone as he spoke, and Éponine recalled Esme’s words: Do they shine that way when he looks at you? She walked close at his elbow, asking an occasional question and toying with a tendril of her hair when he looked at her, hoping to draw his attention to the way she’d arranged it.
            “So, how far have you gotten with Werther?” Marius asked as they approached the statue of the gladiator. After finding out Éponine could read, he’d lent her some books to encourage her “edification,” as he’d put it. Recently, he’d given her a novel by a German named Goethe that he said was one of Napoléon’s favorite books. Éponine had found it depressing but she’d been doing her best to get through it.
            “No farther than I was last week, I’m afraid,” Éponine replied. “I haven’t had much time to devote to it, what with the way my parents work me and all.”
            “I thought you were reading at night after closing time.”
            “I was, but there’s a new girl at the café. Her name’s Esme. Since she got there, we’ve spent every night talking to one another. She’s a Gypsy, and she speaks a language called Romany.”
            “You mean Romanian,” Marius corrected.”
            “No, Romany. It’s a tongue her people speak among themselves. And they call the rest of us gadje.”
            “Really? I had no idea.”
            Éponine laughed and poked him gently in the rib. “See here! I’ve taught you something.”
            Marius grinned. “Indeed you have.”
            As they rounded the statue, Éponine noticed another couple coming towards them, a man who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty and a girl about her own age. A father and daughter, she reckoned. They were well-dressed, obviously bourgeois, but there was something odd about the man’s face. It was rough-hewn and deeply lined, the face of a peasant, not a gentleman, but with kind brown eyes. Suddenly, Éponine felt a gush of heat in the pit of her stomach. She recognized this man. His name was Fauchelevent—Ultime Fauchelevent—and he lived in the Rue Plumet. He had a young daughter, but no wife: a widower, no doubt. Four years ago, when Éponine and her parents were still on the street, her father had met a ruffian called Brujon who enlisted him to help burglarize M. Fauchelevent’s house. They had Éponine watch the place for a week to observe his comings and goings and the movements of the police in the area.
            The burglary never took place. When the two men went to Fauchelevent’s house on the appointed night, they spied a particularly feared and hated cop called Javert lurking in the shadows on the opposite side of the street. He was dressed like a workman and watching the place as though he intended to break in himself. Certain it was a trap, they quit the neighborhood quickly and never went back.
            Éponine took a breath and told herself to relax. She doubted that M. Fauchelevent had ever noticed her hanging out in his street. Even if he had, it was four years ago, and she’d been dressed as a boy, to boot. There was no way he’d recognize her now.
            Éponine had seen M. Fauchelevent’s daughter several times during her surveillance of the house, but she’d never gotten a good look at her face. It had always been partly hidden beneath a bonnet or a parasol. Out of curiosity, she looked at her as the pair of them came closer. It was striking how little she resembled her father. She was fair-skinned, blonde and blue-eyed, but he was swarthy. Her nose was small and up-turned but his was Roman. Indeed, there wasn’t a single feature that indicated they were related at all. There was, however, something familiar about the daughter, something about the shape of her eyes and the turn of her head. Then it struck Éponine like a blow to the chest.
            Cosette!
            Éponine had never seen the man who’d adopted Cosette; she’d already been asleep the night he came to the inn. What a quirk of fate that he was this M. Fauchelevent. All those years, Éponine thought, while she’d been starving in the street, Cosette had been living in that fine house in the Rue Plumet, wearing beautiful, expensive clothes, and leading the pampered life of a little bourgeois princess.
            Over the years, Éponine had often found herself wishing she could apologize to Cosette for the way she and her family treated her. But now, seeing her face to face, she wanted to run away. She could only imagine how much anger and resentment Cosette must harbor against the Thénardier family. What if she tried to make amends only to have Cosette spurn her apology and start railing at her, right there in front of Marius? It was a risk Éponine didn’t care to take, and an unnecessary one. Now that she knew where to find Cosette, she could always seek her out later—provided she could work up the nerve.
            Éponine stared straight ahead as the couple came abreast of her and Marius, praying Cosette wouldn’t recognize her. For a brief moment, it looked like they’d pass each other without incident. Then out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cosette’s head turn towards her, and her heart began to hammer. Cosette’s eyes widened and her cheeks went scarlet. Bracing herself, Éponine looked to Cosette to discover that she wasn’t looking at her at all, but at Marius, who was gazing back at her with a rapt expression on his face, like he was seeing some beatific vision. Cosette gave him a nervous little smile then averted her eyes as she and her father walked by.
            Marius turned his head after they passed and Éponine did likewise, even though it might afford Cosette another chance to recognize her. Father and daughter appeared absorbed in some conversation. His hand was describing small circles in the air as he spoke and she was looking at him, nodding now and then as if in agreement with whatever he was saying. Then, just as Éponine was about to look away, Cosette glanced over her shoulder at Marius. Their eyes met once more, then she turned back to her father.
            Éponine let out a long, ragged breath that she hoped Marius wouldn’t notice. Her mind seesawed between relief that Cosette hadn’t recognized her and distress over the exchange of looks that had passed between him and her former playfriend. It was like they’d had a whole conversation without speaking a single word.
            “That girl,” Marius said softly. “Did you see her?”
            “What about her?” Éponine replied, as nonchalantly as she could.
            “I’ve never seen a face like hers. I swear I’ve just beheld one of the angels of heaven.”
            Éponine had never heard Marius say anything so flowery. Under different circumstances, she might have laughed.
            “Oh, she wasn’t bad-looking, I suppose,” Éponine said. “But pure bourgeois, by the look of her—don’t you think? And I’ll bet her father’s already picked out a husband for her. You know how those people are.” She heard herself prattling on and felt like a fool. It was like a drunken squirrel had gotten hold of her tongue.
            “You’re probably right,” Marius said, as much to himself as to her.
            “So,” Éponine began, trying to change the subject. “This author you were telling me about, this Stendhal. You said he was in Russia with Napoléon?”
            Marius made no reply. He stared straight ahead for several seconds until he realized Éponine had spoken to him.
            “Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
            “I asked you about Stendhal. You said he was in Russia.”
            “Yes, he was.”
            “So, has he written anything about it?”
            “Not that I know of.” Marius sighed. “I’m sorry, Éponine, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be very good company for a while. I can’t get that girl’s face out of my mind. Do you know? I used to laugh at people who said you could fall in love at first sight. I was certain it only happened in those foolish romances fishwives read. But I think it’s just happened to me.”
            No, Marius, Éponine pleaded in her head. You mustn’t say that! She wanted to scream—at him, at Cosette, at M. Fauchelevent for bringing his daughter to the Luxembourg this morning and choosing to take, out of all the paths they could have taken, one that would bring her and Marius face to face.
            “Maybe I should go,” Éponine said.
            “If you like.”
            I don’t like, she thought. She took a deep breath and said, “Well, until next time.”
            Marius nodded absently. Éponine turned and hurried away, feeling her eyes begin to sting.
            All through the omnibus ride back home, Éponine tried to put what had happened into perspective. There was no mistaking the looks Cosette and Marius had given each other—why, you could virtually see Cupid’s arrows fly. But that didn’t necessarily mean that things would go any further. Éponine reminded herself that she’d been meeting Marius in the Luxembourg Gardens for months. She’d walked with him down nearly every lane in the place and not once, before today, had they ever run into Cosette. Obviously, the Luxembourg wasn’t a place she and her father frequented. For all Éponine knew, Marius and Cosette might never see each other again.
            But what if they did? What if Cosette persuaded her father to take her to the Luxembourg every day until she and Marius met once more? The thought made Éponine nauseous. When she got back to the Chez Jondrette, she dashed up the stairs towards her room, nearly colliding with Esme, who was on her way downstairs.
            “What’s wrong?” Esme asked.
            “Ask me what isn’t,” Éponine said. She rushed past without waiting for a reply.
            The rest of the day was a disaster. Éponine could barely concentrate on her duties. She mixed customers’ orders up or forgot them entirely. Esme covered for her as best she could until she incurred M. and Mme. Thénardier’s wrath for not attending properly to her own tables.
            Mercifully, things died down when evening came. By nine o’clock there wasn’t a soul in the place and M. Thénardier decided to close early.
            “Now will you tell me what’s eating you?” Esme asked as she and Éponine finished cleaning the kitchen.
            “It’ll require wine,” Éponine said. She put her broom away and took a fresh bottle from the rack.
            Up in the garret, they sat down on Esme’s pallet. Éponine poured them each a glass, then drank hers down in one draught and poured herself another.
            “Parbleu!” Esme said.
            “After the morning I had, I’ve a mind to drink the whole bottle.”
            Esme gave her a wry look. “Let me guess. Things didn’t go well with Marius.”
            “Exactly!” Éponine related what had happened in the Luxembourg. “I can’t lose him, Esme. I don’t know what to do.”
            “I do,” Esme said. “Forget him.”
            “What do you mean, forget him?” Éponine demanded.
            “Just that. Look, would you really want to be with somebody who gets so besotted every time he sees some little bit of fluff?”
            “Marius isn’t like that. We’ve passed lots of pretty girls on our walks together, and he’s never so much as batted an eye.”
            “That’s even worse, in its way. That tells me this one’s left her mark on him. And from what you’ve told me about Marius, he’ll search every nook and cranny of Paris until he’s found her.”
            This wasn’t what Éponine wanted to hear. If she’d been afraid her dreams were doomed, Esme was removing all doubt. She took a swig of her wine.
            “You’re a real fountain of encouragement, aren’t you?”
            “What do you want me to say?”
            “I don’t know. How about something that will help me?”
            “Help you do what? Hang onto false hope? Marius was never yours in the first place. You knew that. Let him go before you waste any more of your life chasing a will o’ the wisp.”
            Esme’s words had the ring of truth, but it was a truth Éponine wasn’t ready to face.
            “Ah, why am I talking to you?” she said. “You’ve never been in love. You don’t understand what it’s like to find someone so right, then to see him slip through your fingers.”
            “Maybe, after a fashion, I do,” Esme said. She reached over and began to gently rub Éponine’s shoulder. If the gesture was meant to console her, it wasn’t going to succeed; Éponine wanted no consoling from the girl who’d just told her to abandon her only hope for happiness.
            “Don’t there-there me,” she snapped, shoving Esme’s hand away. “I’m not a child.”
            Esme frowned. “Merde! You’re acting like one.”
            “I won’t give him up,” Éponine said, shaking her forefinger at Esme. “No matter what you or anyone else says.”
            “Then why did you ask my advice?”
            “Because I thought you were my friend.”
            Esme scoffed. “I doubt you even know what a friend is.”
            Seething, Éponine drained her glass. “This conversation is over.” She grabbed the wine bottle and stood. “Good night.”
            “Very well!” Esme dismissed her with a wave of one hand. “You want to spend the rest of your life pining for your precious Marius? Go right ahead.”
            “Good night!” Éponine repeated, then turned on her heel and stalked off.
            Down the stairs and into the kitchen she went, bursting with indignation. So Esme thought she should simply forget about Marius, eh? Just put a smile on her face and walk away! Well, she doesn’t know me, Éponine thought. I don’t give up without a fight. I’ll fight for Marius until my last breath if I have to. She took a gulp of wine straight from the bottle. “I’ll show her,” she muttered. “I’ll show the whole damned world.” She re-corked the bottle and put it back on the rack, then went upstairs to her room.
  Monday morning, Éponine awoke with a dull throbbing between her eyes. She remembered gulping down her wine the night before and thought: That’s what you get, ‘Ponine.
            Tossing the covers aside, she sat on the edge of her bed. Her thoughts turned to the events of Sunday morning and a sick, desperate feeling filled her heart. Could it be that her campaign for Marius’ affections had been brought to naught in an instant by such a freak of chance?
            No! She would not let that happen. Exactly what she could do was unclear, but she knew what not to do: she simply mustn’t reveal to Marius that she knew where to find Cosette. She needed to keep her wits about her, too. What good would it do to work herself into a lather, like she’d done last night? To be sure, Esme hadn’t helped by assuring her that, yes, catastrophe indeed loomed. But the poor girl had done nothing other than tell her what she thought; which was exactly what had been asked of her. Éponine recalled how angry she’d got at Esme and felt a twinge of regret. I really shouldn’t have treated her like that, she thought. I’ll go apologize to her at once.
            Then she heard the creak of her parents’ bedroom door, followed by her father’s heavy footsteps in the hall. Putain! she thought. She’d overslept. She was always supposed to be up before him to prepare his morning coffee, and there was hell to pay if she forgot. Éponine sprang from her bed and started getting dressed.
            Esme was sweeping the dining room floor when Éponine came downstairs. She looked up at her, then averted her eyes without saying a word. She looked hurt—and beautiful.
            M. Thénardier was seated at one of the tables, smoking his pipe. “So, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” he said.
            “I-I’m sorry. I—”
            “No excuses. Get to work!”
            That morning was one of the worst of Éponine’s life, and it wasn’t the demands of the customers, or even her parents’ constant hectoring. It was the cool reserve with which Esme treated her, avoiding her eyes and speaking to her only when necessary. Éponine was desperate to make things right between them, but there was barely a chance to breathe much less take Esme aside so they could talk.
            Towards late morning, however, things tapered off. M. Thénardier sequestered himself in his office to work on the books, and Mme. Thénardier went into the kitchen to start preparing a soup for the lunchtime trade. Finally, Éponine had a few minutes to spare. She looked to the front of the room, where Esme was cleaning a table, and thought: Here goes. But before she could take a step in Esme’s direction, her mother burst into the dining room.
            “‘Ponine! We’re out of leeks. Why didn’t you tell me we were out of leeks?”
            Éponine turned to her mother. “Me? You and papa are the ones who keep track of the stores.”
            “Never mind. Go to the greengrocer’s at once and buy some.” She handed Éponine a fifteen-sou piece. “Off with you!”
            Éponine looked back at Esme, who was serving some customers who’d just walked in. “Damn,” she muttered, and left.
            Half an hour later, Éponine returned to find the café in confusion. Her parents were scurrying from table to table as patrons clamored for service.
            Mme. Thénardier stalked toward her. “Where the hell have you been?”
            “There was a queue, and everybody wanted to haggle with the clerk.”
            “Never mind,” M. Thénardier intervened. He snatched the leeks from Éponine’s hand and said, “Get busy.”
            Éponine glanced around the room. “Where’s Esme?”
            “We fired the little Gypsy hussy,” Mme. Thénardier said. “She was stealing wine.”
            “We found a half empty bottle on the rack,” M. Thénardier put in.
            Éponine’s mouth fell open. Merde! she thought. The damned bottle—she’d been so angry last night that she forgotten to top it off with water.
            “No,” she said. “Esme didn’t do it. I did. If you’re going to punish anyone, punish me.”
            An irritated man turned around in his chair. “Excuse me! Can you settle your family squabble later? I want my meal.”
            “So do I,” called another man. Other voices joined his.
            Putting on his most contrite face, M. Thénardier addressed the room. “Mesdames et Messieurs, I’m deeply sorry for the inconveniences you’ve suffered. But now that my daughter is here, you’ll all have your meals in no time.” He glared at Éponine over his shoulder. “Get back to work. Now!”
            “No,” Éponine said. “I’m going to find Esme and tell her it was all a misunderstanding, and she can have her job back.” She turned to go.
            “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Her father grabbed her arm and spun her around.
            Éponine jerked free from his grip, her eyes blazing with defiance.
            “You revolt me. The pair of you. You don’t give a damn about anybody but yourselves. All you do is steal and cheat and lie.”
            “Shut up,” M. Thénardier warned. “Shut up!”
            “The only reason why you have this place is because you stole it from someone who did us a kindness.”
            M. Thénardier stepped toward Éponine and backhanded her across the face. She stumbled backwards and fell on her side as a collective gasp rose from the patrons of the café.
            Éponine tasted blood, salty and metallic, inside her mouth. She looked up at her father, who was glaring down at her like some fearsome gargoyle. Strangely, though, the sight didn’t frighten her. The only thing she felt was a sheer hatred that was downright invigorating. Calmly, she got to her feet and looked him full in the eye.
            “Well?” said he. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He seemed taken aback by her composure.
            Éponine stared him a second or two longer, and then, with all the force she could muster, spat squarely in his face.
            “What the hell!” M. Thénardier sputtered. He raised his hand to strike her again, but she’d already bolted out of the door.
            Éponine ran.
            She ran faster than she had since the last time she’d had to flee from the cognes. She zigzagged through streets and side alleys until she came to the Boulevard de l’Hôpital, where she stopped momentarily and darted a look over her shoulder to see if her father was pursuing her. He was nowhere in sight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t suddenly come charging around a corner or pop out of an alley like a malevolent specter. She resumed running and didn’t stop again until she’d crossed the Pont d’Austerlitz. At last, feeling reasonably assured of her safety, she sat down on a bench to catch her breath.
            There’d be no going home again after what she’d done. Ever. Her father would beat her to a pulp if he got his hands on her. She was back on the street, with nothing to her name but the clothes she was wearing and the change from the fifteen-sou piece that was still in the pocket of her blouse. Yet she felt oddly liberated. Even the street was better than the joyless existence that passed for life under her parents’ roof, enduring the thousand indignities they dished out to her each day. Her anger had been simmering for years; it was bound to boil over sooner or later. Esme’s firing had merely brought the moment on sooner.
            A firing that was entirely your fault, Éponine reminded herself. Remorse filled her heart. She thought of looking for Esme, but where to begin? There were a dozen different directions the girl might have gone in. And even if I found her, Éponine thought, would she want to talk to me after the grief I caused her? Suddenly she missed Esme terribly. Maybe we’ll meet again someday, Éponine thought. I’ll beg her forgiveness and hopefully she’ll have it in her heart to grant it to me.
            The sense of liberation she’d been feeling only minutes before turned into loneliness. She needed to see Marius. Just seeing his face and hearing the sound of his voice would lift her spirits. It was only a little past midday; he should still be at lunch. She knew he liked to eat at a small café called Le Tabac in the Place de la Sorbonne. If she hurried, she could get there before his lunch break was over. She sprang up from the bench and set off.
            But Marius wasn’t at Le Tabac. Had she missed him? Stepping back outside, Éponine ran into one of his friends, a fellow student called Laigle, who told her that Marius hadn’t been in class that morning.
            “I hope he hasn’t taken sick,” Laigle said. “Tomorrow’s the day we—” He stopped. “We’ve got important matters to attend to tomorrow.”
            “I’ll go by his apartment to see if he’s all right,” Éponine offered.
            “That’d be great. Leave word at the Café Musain if you find anything out, will you?”
            Laigle said he had to go meet someone and they exchanged good-byes. Éponine hurried off, thinking about the “important matters” he’d referred to. He had to have meant the demonstration the Friends of the ABC planned for General Lamarque’s funeral tomorrow. But why had he been so secretive about it? Éponine recalled how Marius had glanced furtively about in the Luxembourg before telling her about the plans for Lamarque’s funeral, his talk of revolt, the “common plan” the republican societies had devised, and the look that had crossed his face when she’d started to question him about it. Pardieu, she thought. Had he in fact gotten himself involved in a plot to overthrow the monarchy? And what if the authorities had already gotten wind of it and Marius had been locked up at La Force?
            Stop! Éponine ordered herself. She was jumping to wild conclusions. There was no reason to fear the worst. Not yet, at least.
            Arriving at Marius’ house, Éponine ran up the stairs to his apartment and knocked at the door. No one answered. She knocked again, louder, and called his name. Still no answer. Don’t panic, she told herself, and descended the stairs to look for the portress, an old woman who minded everybody’s business.
            “M. Pontmercy left early this morning,” the portress said. “Dressed in his best clothes, he was. Told me he was going to the Luxembourg Gardens.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Who dresses up to wander about a park?”
            “He’s gone to look for Cosette!” Éponine blurted
            “What?” the portress asked, puzzled.
            “Nothing. I-I have already taken too much of your time. Adieu, madame.”
            Éponine hastened away, her fear that Marius was behind bars replaced by a fear that he might have found the object of his infatuation.
            For the next four hours Éponine walked up and down every path in the Luxembourg. She checked all of Marius’ favorite spots, then retraced her steps and checked them again. He was nowhere to be found.
            Wearily, she settled herself on a bench near the nursery garden. Her legs felt like chunks of wood and there was a fierce gnawing in her stomach. I haven’t eaten all day, she realized. So preoccupied had she been with finding Marius that the thought of food hadn’t even occurred to her. Closing her eyes to rest them, Éponine saw an image of Cosette and Marius holding hands and gazing blissfully into each other’s eyes. She tried to push the image out of her head but the harder she tried, the more it intruded.
            Éponine opened her eyes to see an old man approaching on the path. She recognized him as he came closer. His name was Théophile Mabeuf, and he was an acquaintance of Marius’. M. Mabeuf was a retired surveyor and a widower with little to do but wander about the public spaces of Paris. He knew every park and garden in the city, and he loved to talk about them in detail to anyone who’d listen. He had a knack for showing up on Sunday mornings during those few precious hours she had to spend with Marius. Marius enjoyed talking to him, while Éponine endured him, hoping he’d go before she had to. And right now, the last thing she needed was to hear a rambling discourse on some obscure plot of ground. She lowered her head, hoping M. Mabeuf wouldn’t recognize her. But he already had.
            “Éponine,” M. Mabeuf said. “I’m surprised to see you here today.”
            She gave him a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Oh, good afternoon, M. Mabeuf. I, em, got off work early, so I thought I’d come and see if Marius was here.”
            “He was,” M. Mabeuf said, sitting down next to her.
            Éponine sat bolt upright. “He was? When?”
            “About an hour ago. He was looking for a girl he’d seen here yesterday, strolling with her father. A pretty little blonde thing, he said. I knew the one he meant. I told him I’d just seen the pair of them at the Lark’s Meadow. It’s a field way out on the Boulevard de la Santé between the Glacière and the little river of the Gobelins. Have you ever been there? It’s a fascinating spot, almost wild—”
            “Yes, I’m sure it must be lovely. So did Marius go to this place—this Lark’s Meadow?”
            “He did.” M. Mabeuf chuckled. “When I told him I’d seen his mystery girl there, he thanked me as though I’d handed him a thousand franc note and then dashed away.”
            Éponine stood up. “As I must as well. Good afternoon to you, m’sieur. And thank you so very much.” She hurried off before the old man could reply.
            Her mind was reeling as she made her way through the streets. How had she missed Marius? They must have kept passing each other on opposite sides of the Luxembourg. If only she’d stayed in one spot and watched for him instead of walking in circles like a fool! But there was no use in if-onlying. All she could do now was get to the Lark’s Meadow as quickly as possible and hope that Marius was still there—and that he was alone.
            At last, Éponine came upon a broad green meadow. This had to be the place. Casting her eyes about, she saw a young man with a familiar tumble of red curls sitting on a parapet, gazing pensively at the River des Gobelins. “Thank God!” Éponine said aloud, relieved not only to have found Marius, but to have found him on his own. She ran to him, her heart thumping.
            “Éponine?” Marius said, turning a surprised face to her. “What are you doing here?”
            “Looking for you.” She sat down next to him and took a breath. “I’ve been everywhere—Le Tabac, your apartment building, the Luxembourg Gardens. I was beginning to think something dreadful had happened to you.”
            “Well, as you see, I’ve met with no harm. How did you know to look for me here?”
            “I saw your friend M. Mabeuf in the Luxembourg, and he told me you’d come here.” Éponine paused: “He said you were looking for the girl we saw yesterday.”
            Marius gave her a wan smile. “Ah, yes. The Lark.”
            “Beg pardon?”
            “For want of knowing her name, I dubbed her ‘the Lark.’ It just came to me last night. When M. Mabeuf told me he’d just seen her at a place called the Lark’s Meadow, I took it as a sign from above. I practically ran all the way here, hoping I wasn’t too late. And indeed, the girl he saw was still here. Only it wasn’t my Lark.” He sighed and shook his head.
            Éponine had never seen him so disheartened. Knowing that she was keeping from him something that could lift his spirits filled her with guilt and shame.
            “Marius,” she said, her head lowered to avoid looking him in the eye. “Maybe you ought to forget her. You know nothing about her, not even her name. Besides, you might never even see her again.”
            He looked away across the meadow. “I just might not,” he said quietly.
            They sat in silence a moment, gazing at the horizon. The daylight was fading and dense grey clouds were beginning to gather. There’ll be rain later, Éponine thought. I’ll need to find shelter for the night. She thought about Esme, wondering where she might lay her head tonight, and although she’d long ago come to doubt the existence of God—at least the one most people believed in—she nonetheless offered a silent prayer, asking whoever might be there to watch over Esme and, if possible, to bring them back together someday.
            “So,” Marius said, bringing her back to the present moment. “How is it that you’ve been out and about on a Monday? Did you have the day off?”
            “I’ve got every day off from now on.” Éponine told him what had happened at the café, about Esme getting fired and the row she’d had with her father.
            “Have you someplace to go?” Marius asked when she’d finished.
            “No, but I’ll be all right. I’ll go to some church and beg for a place to sleep tonight.”
            “No, you won’t. I know a small hotel near the Luxembourg. The accommodations are, well, modest, but they’re clean.”
            “Marius, I can’t afford a hotel. I haven’t but a few sous.”
            “Who said you’d have to pay for it?”
            “No, Marius, I can’t let you do that. You can barely meet your own needs, much less take on somebody else’s.”
            “I can.” He looked away, as though about to reveal a shameful secret. “My grandfather sends me a stipend every month. I’ve told him I don’t want it, but he sends it anyway. So I always use it to help someone in need, and who better to help than a friend? And as soon I’m able I’ll speak with the proprietor of the Café Musain. Perhaps he’ll have a job for you.”
            Éponine hesitated. She felt grateful, yet slightly offended. She wanted to be the object of his affection, not his charity. But in all honesty, she hadn’t been looking forward to having to hunt for food and shelter tonight. This was no time to be proud, she told herself.
            “Thank you, Marius,” she said at last. “I’ll pay you back.”
            “Don’t. When you’re able, help someone else in need instead.” He got up and held out a hand to her. “Let’s go, while it’s still light out.”
            Marius kept the conversation light and desultory as they walked to the hotel, doing his best, Éponine assumed, to keep his thoughts from straying to Cosette. She reciprocated with lighthearted banter of her own while trying to stifle her guilt about withholding what she knew from him, telling herself that she wasn’t exactly lying to him, just not telling him something. One fine day, he was bound to decide that his quest for his Lark was a fool’s errand. He’d forget her and start getting on with his life. All she had to do was keep her secret—and hope his and Cosette’s paths didn’t cross again until that day came.
            Night was falling by the time they got to the hotel; the lamplighter was making his rounds. The clouds Éponine had noticed earlier now blanketed the sky, and the sweet, pungent smell of imminent rain hung in the air.
            Marius insisted on paying for a week’s lodging in advance, then the landlady of the hotel showed them to the room. She lit a copper lamp on the nightstand, then turned to Marius.
            “Will there be anything else?” she asked, glancing inquisitively from him to Éponine and back.
            “No. Thank you, madame,” Marius said. Sussing what she was thinking, he added: “I’ll be on my way shortly.”
            The landlady nodded and left. Marius took two silver coins from the pocket of his coat and pressed them into Éponine’s palm.
            “This should take care of your needs until I come back.”
            “When will that be?”
            “I can’t say for certain.”
            “Maybe we could meet somewhere tomorrow after your demonstration at Lamarque’s funeral.”
            Marius hesitated, a faint frown on his face, his eyes gazing inward as though he were struggling with what to say. At length he raised his forefinger to his lips and stepped into the corridor. He glanced about as though to see if someone might be eavesdropping, then he came back into the room and quietly closed the door.
            “There’s something I must confess to you. I lied about our plans for Lamarque’s funeral. I didn’t want you to worry about me so I told you we were only going to make speeches. But I’ve felt bad about it ever since. You deserve to know the truth, especially if…well, if something should happen to me.” Marius’ expression was grave, with no trace of his usual exuberance.
            Éponine felt a chill race down her spine. “What is the truth, then?”
            “We’re taking up arms. It’s to be a concerted action by all the republican societies. Some of us will commandeer Lamarque’s funeral cortege in the Place Vendôme and re-direct it to the Place de la Bastille to incite the crowds. The rest of us will man barricades in the eastern and central districts of the city. Ours will be in the Rue de la Chanvrerie.”
            Éponine was alarmed, not alone by the words she was hearing, but by the way Marius looked at that moment: wan and weary, like a frail ghost of himself.
            “Marius,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”
            “Oh but I do. I’ve made a commitment to the cause and to my brothers and I intend to honor it. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to meet my Lark, or even learn her name before heading off to the barricade. But I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.”
            Éponine took hold of his arm. “Let me come with you. My father fought at Waterloo. He taught me how to shoot a rifle when I was a little girl. I’ll fight right alongside you.”
            Marius shook his head firmly. “Out of the question. Stay here at the hotel, where you’ll be safe. I’ll be back as soon as we have control of the city.” He put his hands on Éponine’s shoulders and gave her an unconvincing smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Then he turned and was gone.
            Éponine sat down on the bed, her mind reeling from Marius’ revelation. She thought of her father’s stories of battle—the smoke and the heat, the shriek of flying bullets and the cries of dying men. A cold, sick feeling filled her stomach.
            That could be the last I ever see of him, she thought. She’d been so afraid of losing him to Cosette—well she just might lose him anyway! Couldn’t she at least grant him what might very well be his last wish? Leaping to her feet, Éponine darted from the room and ran down the stairs, almost tripping over the hem of her skirt. She spotted Marius as he was about to turn a corner into a side street.
            “Marius!” she cried, running up behind him.
            He wheeled about, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
            “I know who the Lark is.”
            Marius’ eyes widened. “You do?”
            “Yes.” Éponine took a deep breath. “Once, when we were living on the street, my father made me watch a house he was planning to break into. A wealthy man and a girl my own age lived there. Your Lark is that girl.”
            Marius frowned. “Why did you not tell me this sooner?”
            “Because I…I didn’t recognize her when we saw her in the Luxembourg,” Éponine lied. “I hadn’t seen her since she was a child. But I knew there was something familiar about her father. It was just now that I remembered who he was, and then the rest came to me.”
            Marius seemed to buy her explanation. His face lit up.
            “Could you still find her house?”
            “Yes.” Éponine swallowed hard. “Come, I’ll take you there.”
            The Fauchelevent house sat well-back from the street, behind a high stone wall with an iron gate. The wall hid everything but the roof from sight, but a garden with myriad unpruned trees and overgrown flowerbeds was visible through the bars of the gate. The place was dark except for the light of the lanterns atop the gateposts.
            “This is it,” Éponine said in a hushed tone. “This is her house.”
            Marius’ face was flushed with joy. He turned to Éponine.
            “Dear ’Ponine, you’re such a good friend. How can I ever thank you enough for bringing me here?”
            Éponine forced a smile. “Seeing you happy is thanks enough.”
            There was a rustling noise in the garden and both of them turned as someone emerged from the tangle of trees. Catching a glimpse of pale hair in the lantern light, Éponine knew at once who it was. Instinctively, she jumped back into the shadow of the wall, but Marius remained at the gate, transfixed. Seeing him, Cosette gave a start. For a moment, it seemed she might run away in fright.
            Maybe she’ll reject him, Éponine thought desperately. M’sieur, I do not know you, she imagined Cosette saying. Go away, or I shall scream for help. Crushed, Marius would turn to her. She’d take him in her arms and comfort him and he’d realize at last that the two of them were meant to be together.
            But then she saw Cosette’s face light up in a radiant smile, saw her reach through the bars of the gate and take hold of Marius’ hands. They began to talk, so softly that Éponine couldn’t catch what they were saying to each other. But she didn’t need to; the looks on their faces said it all. Suddenly she couldn’t take it anymore. She spun around and began running blindly down the street. The rain that had been threatening all evening started to fall; first a trickle, then a torrent. In less than a minute she was skin-soaked. Out of the Rue Plumet she ran, across the Boulevard des Invalides, and into a winding little lane. Her foot struck a loose cobblestone and she fell forward onto her hands and knees. She stayed like that for a moment, staring at the pavement as the rain lashed down. Then she sat up, covered her face with her hands, and wept.
            Éponine heard footsteps splashing on the wet pavement and looked up. Through the sheets of rain she perceived somebody running towards her. A man. Did he mean to rob her? Rape her? She teetered for an instant on the edge of just letting him do what he wished. Maybe he’d do her the favor of killing her. But then an innate will to fight took over.
            “Come no closer, fils de pute!” she shouted. “Or I swear I’ll rip your face off.”
“Éponine! It’s me!”
            Her heart leapt. It can’t it be, she thought.
            But it was.
            “Éponine!” Esme said, crouching down next to her. “What on earth! Are you all right?”
            Esme seemed to have become more beautiful since that morning. Tentatively, Éponine reached out and touched her arm, as though afraid she’d prove a mere hallucination.
            “My God, Esme. I was afraid I’d never see you again.”
            “I was afraid I’d never see you again. What are you doing out here in the rain?”
            “I’ve left home. Oh Esme, I’m so sorry for the way I treated you last night. And it was my fault you got fired. I forgot to put water in the wine bottle. I tried to tell my parents, but they wouldn’t listen—”
            Esme took hold of Éponine’s hands. “It’s all right,” she said.
            “You’re not angry with me?”
            “Look. We both lost our tempers last night and said some things we shouldn’t have said. I’m ready to put it behind us if you are. And as for me getting sacked, it would have happened sooner or later. Your mother had been looking for a way to get rid of me since I got there. Now let’s get out of this rain.”
            She helped Éponine up and led her through a narrow side-alley to the back door a darkened house.
            “Whose house is this?” Éponine asked.
            “Don’t know. It’s been abandoned. Fairly recently, I’d guess.”
            Esme opened the door just wide enough for them to slip inside and they stepped into a kitchen dimly illuminated by an argand lamp.
            Glancing about, Éponine observed that the kitchen was still well-stocked with crockery and pans. A loaf of bread lay on a platter on the table and next to it a bowl of apples. Bundles of sticks were stacked neatly on the hearth.
            “Are you sure this place is abandoned?” she asked.
            “Certain of it. From the look of things, whoever lived her had to get out quickly. They grabbed some clothes out of their armoires and left everything else. I suspect they got word that someone was coming for them—the cognes, maybe, or debt collectors.”
            “Is it safe to stay here?”
            “For tonight, probably, but I wouldn’t want to chance staying any longer. Say, I’ve got something for you.”
            Esme knelt down and untied a cloth bundle that was sitting by the fireplace. She took out the dress Éponine had lent her.
            “I tried to give it to your mother but she wouldn’t take it. She said she’d never be able to wash the Gypsy out of it.”
            “Parbleu, I’d have strangled her with it.”
            Esme smiled. “I’ve heard worse.” She handed Éponine the dress. “I’m going to light a fire. There’s a boudoir just down the hall where you can change. Off with you now, before you catch your death.”
            The boudoir was illuminated by a shaft of light from a street lamp. Éponine changed then sat down on the bed and began patting her hair dry with a small linen towel the room’s former occupant had left behind.
            How incredible, she thought, that out of all the streets in Paris, she’d chanced to run down the very one that would lead her back to Esme. It was too incredible to have been mere chance. Perhaps someone really had heard the prayer she’d offered in the Lark’s Meadow. Then her thoughts turned back to Marius and her spirits sank once more.
            She told herself to brace up. What was the good in pining away for someone she could never have? It was time to forget him, just like Esme had told her. Tomorrow would be a new day—not only for her but for all of France if the revolt succeeded.
            But what would that new day likely bring her? Another job as a serving girl in another café, a life of loneliness and drudgery little different from the one she’d led under her parents’ roof? Only this time without the hope that had sustained her through each wretched day—the hope that she’d one day lie in Marius’ arms. It’d be better, she thought, to take a bullet at the barricade and die by his side than to go on living in misery. If only he’d let her come with him!
            But did she really need his permission? Straightaway, Éponine knew what she had to do. Tossing the towel aside, she got up and hastened back to the kitchen.
            Esme was sitting on the floor by the hearth. In front of her was a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit, a bottle of brandy, and two glasses. Her clothes hung on hooks on the wall behind her. She was wrapped in a blanket from which one bare shoulder peeked. With her black hair falling loosely about her shoulders and her smooth skin glowing in the firelight, she looked so beautiful she almost took Éponine’s breath away.
            Esme looked up and smiled. “There you are. Feeling better?”
            “Em, yes,” Éponine said. Collecting herself, she sat down opposite Esme.
            “Hungry?” Esme asked.
            So distraught had Éponine been over Marius, she’d forgotten how hungry she was until now. “I am,” she said.
            Esme gestured towards the plate. “Well, feel free.” She poured them each a glass of brandy and Éponine noticed the label on the bottle.
            “Armagnac,” she said. “These people like the same kind of brandy my parents do.”
            “Oh, I didn’t find it here,” Esme said, handing Éponine a glass. “I grabbed it off your parents’ rack.”
            “What?”
            “They stiffed me out of my wage when they sacked me—for the wine I stole, they said. So I figured I might as well have something to show for my time there. I started a little fire in a waste pail then grabbed a bottle from their rack and stuffed it into my bundle whilst they were busy putting it out.”
            “Brilliant!” Éponine said, raising her glass. “To my dear mère and père. May they rot in hell.”
            Esme clinked her glass against Éponine’s and they ate and drank without talking for a few minutes. To her surprise, Éponine found herself feeling almost happy, and it wasn’t the effects of the brandy either. It was being with Esme again, seeing her lovely face and hearing warm timbre of her voice. She offered a silent thanks to whatever gods might be for bringing them together again.
            “So why were you crying tonight?” Esme asked.
            Éponine wanted to cry again. She took a drink of her brandy and proceeded to tell Esme all that had happened after she’d bolted from the café—how she’d hunted for Marius all day, finally finding him in the Lark’s Meadow, waiting like a lost dog in the hope of seeing Cosette, and what he’d revealed that had prompted her, in a moment of either selflessness or stupidity (right now, she wasn’t sure which), to take him to Cosette. It was only as she related what had transpired in the Rue Plumet that her eyes welled up.
            “You were right, Esme,” Éponine said when she finished. “I was a fool to think Marius would ever be mine. Just like you said, I was chasing a will o’ the wisp.” She swiped at her eye with the back of her hand.
            Esme leaned toward her and touched her arm. “Don’t be hard on yourself. It’s in the past. The only thing that matters is what you’re going to do now.”
            “I’ve already decided,” Éponine said, setting her glass down. “I’ll need your clothes. I have ten francs plus some sous that I’ll give you for them. And you can have my dresses, too.”
            Esme gave her a puzzled look. “Why do you want my clothes?”
            “So I can disguise myself as a man and sneak onto Marius’ barricade. I’ll blend in with the others and not reveal who I am until the fighting starts and it’s too late for him to send me away.”
            “But why do you want to go to the barricade?” Esme persisted.
            “To be with Marius. To fight right alongside him. To guard his back and shield him with own body if I have to.”
            “You could be killed.”
            “I hope to be killed. I have nothing left to live for anymore.”
            “No!” Esme took Éponine by the shoulders. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you sacrifice your life for someone who doesn’t love you.”
            Éponine bristled. “What do you mean you won’t let me? What I do with my own life is none of your business.”
            “Oh yes it is.” Esme leaned close and looked into her eyes. “Because I love you.”
            Éponine was taken aback. She stared at Esme as though she hadn’t comprehended the words she’d just heard.
            “I love you, Éponine,” Esme said. Gently, she took hold of Éponine’s face and leaned closer until Éponine could feel the softness of her breath. Her heart began to race, her palms went damp, her spine stiffened. What is happening? she thought. Then Esme closed her eyes, tilted her head to one side and leaned closer and closer until their mouths met.
            The feel of Esme’s lips on hers sent quivers through the length of Éponine’s body. Never had she imagined that lips could be so soft, so warm, so instantly intoxicating. She felt as though she were being taken up into a soft, pink cloud, and all she had to do was lie back and let it carry her off to some enchanted land. But then a strange fear gripped her and she pulled away.
“No, Esme, we mustn’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong for two girls to be together this way. It’s…it’s depraved.”
            “No, it isn’t.” Esme said softly. “It’s beautiful.”
            She ran her hands back through Éponine’s hair and down to the nape of her neck, then came toward her again, her mouth slightly open. Suddenly Éponine’s resistance crumbled. Deliberately blocking the alarms sounding in her head, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the softness of Esme’s lips.
            At once she was floating on that cloud again, being carried away into ecstasy as their mouths explored one another’s—sucking lips, brushing tongues. Esme’s mouth was so soft, so wet, so sweet. Éponine drank her down like an elixir for all the pain life had handed her.
            Esme shed her blanket and Éponine saw her breasts, firm and full, with large nipples the color of chocolate. Flushed with an urgent need to feel them against hers, she raised herself onto her knees and began to take off her dress.
            “Let me,” Esme whispered. Slowly, she pulled the dress up and over Éponine’s head then down her arms. Freed from its constraints, Éponine tossed her head back and shook her hair then pulled Esme close. And when their breasts met, the feeling was so intense she could barely breathe.
            Esme kissed Éponine’s mouth and her ear, then pressed her cheek against Éponine’s and held her for a long moment, murmuring something in her Romany tongue, breathing each exotic word softly upon her skin. Then she gently pushed Éponine down onto the floor. She placed her bundle beneath Éponine’s head to cushion it, then leaned over her, letting her long black hair sweep Éponine’s breasts, sending shivers of pleasure through her chest and her belly. She kissed Éponine’s lips, her chin, and her neck, then trailed her mouth down Éponine’s chest and kissed her breasts, circling the nipples with her tongue and sucking on them as they went hard.
            Éponine was aching inside, overwhelmed by the taste and the smell and the feel of the girl atop her, the softness of her skin, and the heat of her body. She burned with a need to know Esme completely. She kissed Esme’s mouth—deep, long, and hard—then ran her fingertips through her silky hair, over her shoulders and down her back to the smooth contours of her bottom. She rubbed the backs of Esme’s arms and stroked Esme’s calf with her foot. She cupped Esme’s breasts and felt the press of Esme’s erect nipples against her palms and the thudding of her heart. All at once their bodies seemed to merge. Esme’s breath became Éponine’s breath, the beating of Esme’s heart became the beating of her heart, and Esme’s heat became her heat.
            Esme started to kiss her way down the front of Éponine’s body from her breasts to her belly, then lower. She pushed Éponine’s legs further apart and kissed the insides of her thighs. Éponine gasped as Esme’s tongue slipped inside her and began to explore. She shivered as it found her most sensitive spot then started alternately circling and stroking it. The pleasure was so exquisite it verged on pain. Éponine wasn’t floating anymore; she was flying, reaching heights no man—not even the most skillful of them—had ever brought her to before.
            She felt a warm tingling between her thighs that grew and spread through her belly. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip as the tingling became hotter, fiercer, more intense until it swept through her veins like a sweet fire, making her whole body tremble and tearing a cry from her throat.
            Éponine stretched out languorously, catching her breath as the tremors subsided. Never had she felt so fully and vibrantly alive. Esme drew herself up next to her and gathered her into her arms. Éponine wound her arms about Esme’s shoulders and crossed her leg over the top of Esme’s thigh and they lay that way for a long, quiet moment, basking in the warmth of their joined bodies.
            Suddenly Éponine understood everything that had perplexed her since the day Esme came into her life—the tingles and the flutters she got whenever she looked at her, the sensation that had swept through her body the first time their hands touched.
            Immediately, Éponine was filled with an overpowering desire to pleasure Esme. Turning her onto her back, she took her mouth in a long, deep kiss, then kissed her neck and her breasts and ran her hand down Esme’s stomach to her sex. She slipped her fingers into the soft, moist tissue and started to touch her in the way she knew how to touch herself.
            Esme shuddered and began moaning softly, pleasurably. Emboldened, Éponine pressed her fingers deeper, harder, moved them faster. Esme raised her hips and started thrusting them against Éponine’s hand, gasping for every breath. Suddenly her body went rigid. A spasm shook her and a tumbled “oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!” burst from her mouth. She gave a final thrust of her hips then lay back and sighed contentedly.
            “Éponine,” she whispered. “How wonderful you are.”
            “I’ve never felt wonderful until just now, with you. For the first time in my life I think I understand why people call it making love.”
            Esme turned onto her side and took Éponine into her arms. “I do love you, Éponine. I fell in love with you the day we met. And it’s all right if you don’t feel the same way about me. I know you still love Marius.”
            “I do, Esme. I think some part of me always will. Yet at the same time I feel something very deep and strong for you, something that I too felt the day we met. Until then no one but Marius had ever lit a fire inside me, and I didn’t think anyone else ever would. Then you came along and lit one too. I didn’t know what had happened that day, only that I couldn’t let you go. That was why I talked my father into hiring you. The next thing I knew, I was feeling the same kind of tingles when I looked at you that I’d feel when I looked at him. It scared me. I told myself it couldn’t be the same thing, but there’s no denying it anymore. But does this mean I’m in love with both of you? I don’t know. Maybe I don’t really know what love is—maybe I never knew. But I know this. What we shared tonight was beautiful, just like you said it could be, and I find myself wishing this moment could last forever.”
            Esme stroked Éponine’s cheek. “It can if you want it to.”
            “Right now, there’s nothing I want more.”
            Éponine raised her lips to Esme’s and they kissed then snuggled closer together. If heaven exists, she thought, it must feel very much like this.
            “We’ll need to quit Paris tomorrow,” Esme said. “First thing, before any trouble starts.”
            Éponine was jolted back to earth. Marius would be taking his place on the barricade tomorrow.
            Esme seemed to read her mind. “What’s wrong? Is it Marius?”
            “It is, Esme. I don’t think I can leave the city right now, when he’s about to head off to the barricade. Couldn’t we wait a day or two, just until I can find out whether or not he’s all right? We wouldn’t have to stay here, either. He got me a hotel room. It’s paid for through the week. We can stay there until things calm down.”
            Esme shook her head. “Maybe you could stay there, Éponine, but I can’t. I’m a Gypsy, remember? There’s not a hotel in all of Paris where they’d let me stay.”
            “Then we’ll find someplace else to shelter. Between the two of us I’m sure—”
            Esme let out her breath in a frustrated rush. “Éponine! I wouldn’t be safe anywhere we sheltered.”
            For the first time, Éponine saw fear in Esme’s eyes. She reached up and began to stroke Esme’s hair, as if she were soothing a child.
            “Everything will be all right. I lived through the July Revolution, when they overthrew the Bourbons. All we had to do was close up the café and keep off the streets for a few days. We were fine.”
            “I lived through that revolution too,” Esme said quietly. She swallowed, then went on, speaking in a deliberate, almost matter-of-fact, manner though Éponine could tell she was striving to keep her voice from breaking.
            “I was in Nantes when news of the fighting in Paris came. Riots broke out in the market square and spread so fast the police were overwhelmed. The mobs vented their spleen on everybody they held a grudge against, including us Gypsies. They attacked us wherever they found us. Some of us they beat and kicked senseless, others they stabbed to death or hanged from trees. Four men dragged me out of the tavern where I worked, hitting me with fists and clubs, and started ripping off my clothes. I managed to break free and run away. I hid out in the loft of a stable until the next day, when royalist troops took the city back. But were we Gypsies safe then? No. The soldiers rounded up everyone they suspected of being an insurgent, including us. They refused to believe we’d had nothing to do with the uprising. They carted us off to the city jail, where they locked all the women in a single cell that was full of rats and lice. For the next three nights the jailers took us out one by one and raped us. When news came from Paris of the rebel victory they simply released us as though nothing had happened.”
            Éponine was aghast. “Oh, Esme.” She felt heartsick and ashamed about all the times she’d pitied herself for the turns her life had taken when Esme had suffered something so much worse. She pulled Esme closer and touched her lips to her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
            “It’s all right,” Esme said. “I survived. But I’m not so sure I would should it happen to me a second time. That’s why I have to get out of the city while there’s still time. If you can’t come with me, I’ll understand.”
            Looking at Esme, Éponine thought of the day she’d given her refuge in her parents’ café, about her feeling that they already knew each other, and how she’d been unable to let her go. She thought about her sorrow when she thought she might never see Esme again and her joy at their reunion tonight. And tonight Esme had given her a taste of something she’d thought only Marius would ever be able to give her: what it was like to lie in the arms of someone she wanted who wanted her too. And she did want Esme, for her beautiful soul as well as for her beautiful body. And just as she couldn’t let Esme go the day they met, she couldn’t let her go now.
            “No,” said Éponine. “I’ll come with you.”
            Esme touched Éponine’s cheek. “Are you certain?”
            “I am.” She covered Esme’s hand with hers. “I can’t say it isn’t hard for me to leave, knowing I might never see Marius again, might never even know if he’s alive or dead. But it’s time for me to let him go, and to do that, I must let him go completely. Only promise me you’ll never let me go.”
            “Count on it,” Esme said. She raised her mouth to Éponine’s and they kissed then snuggled into each other’s warmth.
            “We must sleep now,” Esme said. “We’ll leave at first light.”
            “Where will we go?”
            “Wherever the road takes us.”
            “How will we live?”
            “However we can.” Esme winked. “You and I both know how to survive.”
            They kissed again and bade one another other good-night then turned onto their sides, Esme hugging Éponine from behind. Éponine could feel the softness of Esme’s breasts against her back and Esme’s breath, gentle and slow, on the nape of her neck. Never before had she felt such bliss. She’d found someone to call her own. And what did it matter that they were both of the same sex? If being with Esme made her depraved, then she’d be depraved.
            Her thoughts turned to Marius and again she offered a silent prayer, asking whatever gods might be to watch over him. And unless it was just her imagination, she seemed to get an answer: not a voice from the sky, simply a strong feeling that someone—an angel, perhaps, or merely one of Marius’ comrades—would be with him tomorrow at the barricade, looking out for him, and no matter what else happened, he’d be all right.
            Filled now with a sense of peace, Éponine listened to the slow crackling of the last of the fire and the rhythm of Esme’s breathing as she fell asleep. Soon her own breathing began to match Esme’s and her mind began to drift. Then she was lying on the bank of river, but it wasn’t the Seine, and above her head was the bough of a willow tree, not a bridge. The light of the moon was shimmering on the river’s surface and a warm breeze was wafting a sweet-spicy scent, like the fragrance of some exotic flower she didn’t know the name of. And then she was in the river but the water was warm and soothing, and instead of sinking, she floated on its surface, letting the current carry her away. She didn’t know where it was taking her, only that it was someplace wonderful.
THE END
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Someone to Call Her Own