The five francs lasted a while. It bought meat, cheese, a new darning needle, and tobacco for Papa’s pipe. It bought me freedom too because I could follow Marius without having to give out letters, or steal.

June bloomed all around us. In Montfermeil this had been the month of hawthorn blossom and the early roses climbing over the churchyard wall. In Paris, there were fewer flowers—just some weeds in the rue des Gobelins and roses in gents’ buttonholes. But it was enough.

That was a hot June too. Maman fanned herself in our room, saying, “There’s no air … and the smell! What’s that horrible smell?”

The heat meant that everything—rubbish, milk, human muck, the offal by the butchers’ doors—rotted far more quickly. A stench seemed to rise from the river as well. Some people walked with handkerchiefs held over their noses, or with posies in their hand.

Marius was the one good thing in my life. I wanted to talk to him again. I’d left Room Four feeling tearful and ashamed, but as the days passed, I could only think of the best parts of my time with him—his concern for me (Had someone hurt you?) and how quickly he had forgiven me for the note. One hot day, I followed him again. In the summer heat, he moved more slowly; he moved from the shade of a house to the shade of a church, or he’d pause beneath a bridge for a while. He carried a bag with him—books, I suspected. An inkwell and quill?

I followed him to the Café Musain in the place Saint-Michel, where he sat outside with his friends. They read his books and papers, drank and wrote and talked beneath the shade of a tree.

I nestled against the stones of a nearby church, the one with the clock that chimed on the hour, and watched how he drank and how he moved his hand through his hair. They talked with gestures and loud voices. I recognized some of his friends: the boy with half-moon spectacles who shouted through cupped hands. And the boy with golden curls who stood, thumped the table, and said, “Yes! That’s it!” Their passion hadn’t changed.

I watched for a long time. In the end, my legs cramped so I stood and turned to go. But then I heard my name called out: “Eponine?”

I felt my heart leap.

“Eponine, is that you?” Marius was walking toward me. He’d risen from his chair, put his bag across his shoulder, and was making his way across the square. “I thought it was you! What are you doing all the way out here? You’re a long way from the Gorbeau.”

I couldn’t say, Following you. I could barely speak at all. I just shrugged and tried to look like my heart wasn’t beating faster and my hands weren’t shaking. “Just … walking. You know I like walking.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Of course. Walking all round Paris. Well, I’m heading back home now; would you walk with me? For a while, at least?”

So we began to walk through the streets, Marius and me. We walked slowly, side by side, moving around the dirt in the streets and stepping over potholes. In my head, I told myself, Speak to him. Ask him things.

“Are you often at the Café Musain, Monsieur Marius?”

He smiled. “We’re neighbors, aren’t we? Just call me Marius—or else I will need to call you Mademoiselle Eponine, which all sounds a bit too formal, don’t you think?”

I blushed.

“Yes, I go there often,” he went on. “My friends meet there—friends from my student days. They are …” He considered which word to use. “Fiery. Full of ideas and passion. Patriotic, of course.”

“Are you?”

“Patriotic? Yes, I am. France deserves far better than all this fighting and disease and unfairness … Its people deserve more.”

“You support the man called Lamarque?”

He looked across at me, wide-eyed. “I do! You do too?”

I didn’t want to lie to him. “To be honest, I don’t know too much about politics and kings … I’ve just heard people talking of Larmarque, that’s all. I’ve never been to school. I’m not sure I’m very clever.”

He laughed. “Oh, I don’t believe that! You read books, don’t you? You were so taken with my bookcase, I remember. There are people who’ve been to university who aren’t readers of books at all, Eponine—people who say they’re clever and well-read but in fact they’re not: They’re just rich! Don’t assume you’re worth less than them. I imagine you’re smarter than most.”

I smiled. He thinks I’m smart.

We walked across the Seine. We paused on the bridge, looked at the sunlight on the water and how the sky was turning gold and pink.

“And your life, until now? Tell me about it. It sounds like a curious thing.”

It had been curious, I supposed. “Perhaps. We left our town six years ago. We were …”—should I tell him? Yes, I decided. I would always speak truthfully to him—“running from the law. My father committed a crime. So we hid.”

“For six years?” He seemed amazed.

“Yes. It was hard, that’s true. But I got to see some beautiful things—like full moons and frosty mornings …” Briefly, I thought of Gavroche. I shrugged. “It could have been worse.”

“And it could have been better too, I think. You’re generous with your words.”

Generous? I’d never been called that before. Smart and generous. I beamed. “And you? Your life?”

He looked down at the river. “What can I tell you? My parents have died. No brothers or sisters. I see my friends as my family and I love them just as much. I love my country too. I love Paris.”

He loves them. He seemed to love so much—and what did I love? I wasn’t sure that I had any friends. And I didn’t know Paris as well as he did.

As we left the bridge and wandered on, I said, “Marius? May I ask … ?”

He smiled, turned his head.

“What are your dreams?” It was a big question, I knew that, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“My dreams?”

“Yes. What you imagine when you’re alone. What you hope for, in the future?”

He kept his smile but it looked a little sadder. “I’m not sure I’ve been asked this before.” He thought awhile. “I want France to be a republic, of course. No more kings and queens …”

“But for yourself?”

He seemed bashful, suddenly. “It doesn’t suit a man to talk of love, not unless he’s a poet or an artist and can afford to have such dreams. But I was a lonely child and … well, I think I’d like a family of my own, one day. A wife to love.” He smiled. “Who knows?”

“I’d like that too. A person to love.”

“You don’t have that now?”

I couldn’t speak for a while. The sun was low, and I could feel myself trembling inside. Were we really talking like this? Him and me?

He pointed out the tiny things I had never seen before—how doves perched on the stonework of Notre-Dame and the urchins playing in the fountains near Les Invalides. It made me think of Gavroche again, but they were all too old to be him. Poor Gavroche. “See the light now, Eponine? How it’s catching the sides of the houses …”

It was gold and orange. I nodded: This was his Paris. It was real—not perfect like in romance novels. I knew that he saw the begging and dirt, the drunks and the thin, scavenging dogs, and I knew that he longed for it to end—“When Lamarque makes us a republic again … ,” he said. But then he pointed out a single weed growing through a cracked wall, like he was a bird, high up. “See that?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a beautiful thing too, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” And I did. Everything was.

He took my hand very briefly to help me over a ditch and I thought, He’s holding my hand … and we fit perfectly.

I wanted the walk to last forever but, too soon, the Gorbeau stood before us.

“Eponine,” he said, “thank you for your company. I’ve enjoyed it.”

“Me too.”

His face was glowing from a day in the sun. His lashes were so long that they seemed to brush his cheekbones when he looked down to find his key. He was a boy who loved his friends and sunlight and France and the sound of urchins playing and he wanted love, just like I did.

“Good-night,” he said, and opened his door.

After he’d gone, I looked at the number 4 and knew it was all too late now: I loved him. I could feel it inside me.

“Good-night,” I whispered.

Generous and smart …

He hadn’t called me beautiful but it didn’t matter: I’d felt it, in his company. He’d made me feel beautiful and interesting for the first time in my life.