I couldn’t knock on his door—because what would I say? What would he think of my torn skirts and my knotted hair?

I’ll wait, I thought. I’ll just wait and hope I might see him again. But this was impossible to do: I was sent out to thieve every day. If I stayed behind, Maman would yell, “What are you doing? Get out! Find things! Shoo!” or Papa would raise his fist and call me a lazy beast … At night, even though I listened very hard for the sound of his key in the door of Room Four, I never did. There were too many other noises—barking dogs and crying babies and slamming doors. Papa’s snores. Maman’s curses about our poor thieving. I’d think, I hope he can’t hear her through the walls.

*  *  *

Slowly, the dirtied snow melted away. In its place I saw the first small shoots of green. “My hands aren’t numb anymore … ,” said Azelma one day, amazed. She’d returned from her wanderings with coins and tobacco and a bottle of gin for Maman. “How nice it’s spring now …”

February, then March. April came.

I just imagined him. He isn’t real. Stupid Eponine …

But I knew he was real. Every time I went up or down stairs I’d practice what I might say to him—a little comment on the weather or a belated Happy New Year—and each time I heard someone else’s footsteps I’d think, This time …

I did see him in the end, but it wasn’t on the stairs.

It was early in the morning. Sun came through our grimy window so I dressed and crept out of the tenement before anyone else was awake. I found a water trough meant for horses. It was freshly filled and the water was clear, ungreened. I plunged my hands into it and washed myself—face, feet, between my legs and under my arms. I also washed my hair and threw it back so that it sent a spray of water out and a passing woman shouted, “Hey! Stop that! I’m soaked now!”

But it felt good to get the winter’s dirt off me. I wandered back home wondering how long it would take for my hair to dry in the weak sunshine. For once I wasn’t thinking about him.

Then, at the crossroads by the tenement, I looked up. My heart leapt. It’s him! It had been months since I’d seen him, but I still recognized his coat and his thick hair, and I didn’t care that my dress was sticking to me. I’m going to follow him, I thought. I’ll see where he goes and what he does … I knew how I looked—scruffy, with scabs on my knees; I knew he wouldn’t want to know me at all. But at least by watching him, I could get to know him.

He walked through the streets of Salpêtrière and I followed. My heart was racing but I was smiling too because I was happy just to see him again.

I made notes, in my head. He is tall—taller than me, but not so tall that he had to duck under doorways. His shoulders are broad—like he’d worked hard in his youth and still had the strength. His skin is unlined. I thought I heard him humming as he went.

He walked steadily, like he had a purpose. I thought maybe he was going to the rue de Rivoli, but he didn’t go across the river. He walked east, away from the city. I’d never gone this way before and I saw that the street became earthy and some hedges appeared. It was a strange place, neither city nor countryside—it was called Austerlitz.

What’s he doing out here?

We’d been walking for perhaps an hour when he stopped. I slipped into the shadow of a hazelnut tree.

There was a cottage. It was a small, ramshackle place and yet its garden was overgrowing with spring flowers. It had a pear tree and a lavender bush. There were flowers of such a deep, soft red that I wanted to reach out and touch them. Marius was smiling, looking at it all.

It had been ages since I’d seen a garden. I thought, It’s like Montfermeil with its wayside flowers.

Then he opened the gate and walked through it, calling out, “Monsieur Mabeuf? Are you there?” I imagined him calling my name like that one day—Eponine! Where are you? I liked thinking it.

*  *  *

Marius came to this cottage a lot. On this first occasion, when my hair was still wet from the drinking trough, he stayed with the man called Mabeuf for an hour or more. Mabeuf was old—whiskery and hunched. His uncle? A relative? I didn’t know. But they strolled slowly through the garden like friends, and I saw Mabeuf pointing at the flowers and the blossoms in his trees. Later they shook hands and I followed Marius home.

Now I knew he woke early, I began to do the same. While Maman and Papa and Azelma were still snoring, I crept out to follow him … And I was a fine follower. After all, I knew how to be quiet and stealthy. I could creep like a mouse so he’d never know I was there.

Once he bought a flask of milk from the dairy on rue Moustaffe and took it to Austerlitz as a gift. Another time, I moved the branches of the hazelnut tree aside and watched them sitting in the sunshine side by side, looking happy. And no matter what the weather was, they always trod around the garden. Marius would smell the dark red flowers or touch the lavender.

He didn’t even really know I existed, and yet I already knew what his footsteps sounded like and what his shadow looked like as it passed beneath our door, and I knew how he tilted his head up when he looked at something beautiful—a flying bird or the French flag blowing in the wind. I followed him into the city sometimes, and if he stopped to listen to a speaker in the crowd—fiery talk of God, or the king, or a brave soul who cried, “Get rid of the guillotine! It is bloody and unjust!”—I’d watch him. He bit his bottom lip when he was thinking. A little crease appeared between his eyes.

I learned that he liked Les Halles with its vendors crying out, “Monsieur, Monsieur! Fresh figs from Toulouse! Or, “Honey from Avignon! Monsieur!” It was here that I saw a lady spill her figs to the floor. Marius knelt and helped her, picking them up one by one.

He’s kind. He listens to people, and he thinks about things.

I liked everything I learned about him.

One day, he made his way along the rue de la Chanvrerie. It led to the place Saint-Michel. I gasped because he knew the Café Musain! Of all the cafés in Paris he chose this one, the one where I’d pressed my nose against the glass in the winter months. That man with the blond curls and those men who’d raised their glasses in a toast—To Lamarque! Vive la république!—must’ve been his friends because they cheered as he entered the café. Through the window I saw him in there, drinking. His cheeks were flushed with warmth.

*  *  *

My list grew longer and longer.

He’s got nice friends. He looks up at cathedrals as he walks past them. People cheer when he walks into a room. He’s kind to an old man in Austerlitz. When he passes a stray dog, he always pats it. He’s got dimples. When he’s very tired, he rubs his knuckles into the corners of his eyes.

If I were his, I’d take his hands and say, Rest. I’ll take care of you.

Spring turned into summer. Paris had never looked more beautiful. I thought, Speak to him, Eponine. So I was brave, and I did.