I climbed walls and waded through streams and crossed fields by moonlight, and if an owl hooted, Papa shouted, “Get down! It’s the gendarmerie!” He said he could smell their rifles. When the wind blew, he thought he could hear their footsteps as they came closer and closer …

Azelma complained. “Papa, this is silly. I’m cold and I hate sleeping in ditches and they’re probably not even looking for us anymore …”

He grabbed her. “Silly? They’ll put shackles on me, if they find me! They’ll hang me or take me to the guillotine—and you too!”

She flinched. “Me? Why me? I didn’t kill the bishop!”

“No, but you were there! You helped me, and you were seen! Oh yes, they’ve a set of shackles for you too …”

No one complained after that. Azelma stole her own knife and kept it sharp. She clenched her fists and narrowed her eyes and, like Papa, she believed every shadow had a gendarme in it.

*  *  *

That’s how we lived. We were filthy and tired and hungry.

We stole, like always. I reached into henhouses for eggs and kennels for bones, and I climbed trees for fruit. As for Azelma, she became as bold and cunning as a rat, smelling out coins like a rat smells out meat. She moved like a rat too—very quickly, along the bottom of walls. She cut off her hair (“It gets in the way”) and knotted her skirts so she could run faster, and she came back at dawn with all sorts of treasures—milk in a pail and a silver hand mirror and a pair of men’s shoes for Papa. Once she brought a goose.

“A goose!” Gavroche squawked, just like the goose did before Azelma snapped its neck. We gobbled up that roasted bird like we’d never eaten before.

We were hungrier than ever. But I reckon it wasn’t just the running that did it. We were changing shape, Azelma and me. Our hips were getting bigger and our bodies filled out. Maman saw this, said, “My babies … My two baby girls. You’ll be women soon.”

*  *  *

Not long afterward, I found that silver hand mirror. We were sleeping in a barn and I felt a hard, cold something underneath the straw. I reached down and there it was. I thought, Why hasn’t Maman sold it? I knew it must be worth a lot. I lifted it up and turned it over.

The girl who looked back at me had twigs in her hair and chapped lips. There was dirt on her cheek that wouldn’t come off with a licked finger, so it must have been there a long time. Was she sad? She looked it.

I hadn’t thought of Cosette for ages but I did now. Even when she’d been grubby and thin, she was pretty. Now her face would be pink and clean and lovely. She’d have perfect teeth and all that sun-colored hair …

I will never be beautiful. Not like she was. My heart’s pebble knocked against its walls.

I put the mirror down.

Through the barn door, I could see the stars.

“Will things be better in Paris?” I asked them. And they shone so brightly at me that I felt they were saying, Yes, they will, Eponine. Yes. You’ll see.