I found the dead white tree by the cemetery and pressed myself against its bark.

What can I do? How can I stop this?

I couldn’t run to the gendarmerie because where might I find them? And they’d probably only get to the Gorbeau too late. I couldn’t call out, Help! Help! because the Patron Minette would be lurking nearby now and might kill me to make me be quiet. All I could hope for was that Valjean might walk past me; I could warn him then.

It began to sleet. It came through the leafless branches and stung my swollen cheek. It made it hard to see but I keep watching the street in case Valjean should come. I imagined him—his scarf, his hat, the graying parts of his hair …

Don’t come here, I’d tell him. Stay away.

The sleet grew worse and worse. In the cemetery, I heard noises—a twig snapping and the scuttle of a rat. I’m alone in the cold and dark, I thought. There weren’t even any stars.

But I wasn’t alone.

I smelled tobacco. Then I heard the slow, careful tread of boots on wet ground. A man’s footsteps.

I stepped out from the tree. “Who’s there?”

It was Montparnasse. He was completely in shadow but I knew it was him. I could smell the oil he put in his hair and see the red tip of his cigarette.

“Well, well …” He exhaled, blowing smoke above me. “Mademoiselle Eponine. What can you be doing on the corner of a cemetery, on such an unpleasant night?” He stepped forward so that I could see him better. “It’ll be snowing,” he went on, “before long. I’d sooner find a fireside … Wouldn’t you?”

I said nothing.

“I’m confused, Mademoiselle … you see, this is the hour for dark deeds, I think? For theft and trickery? No honest person would be out in this weather and so late … But you? A thief? Surely not. Because the last time we met, on the rue de Rivoli, you told me that you believed in love …”

He was mocking me. “You know why I’m here,” I muttered.

“Yes, I do. A rich horse is being unsaddled in Salpêtrière tonight … Babet told me.”

“Babet is close by?”

“Oh, yes. He’s hiding in the shadows too. They’re waiting for their moment to sneak into the Gorbeau.”

“You’ll sneak in too? Surely you’d never miss the chance to rob a man.”

His smile widened. “True, I never do. But I hear your room’s small and you’ve seen the size of Gueulemer … No, I’m staying outside. I’ll make sure the gentleman doesn’t escape his chains …”

“Chains?”

“Or ropes.”

“They’ll bind him?”

“It’s easier, that way.”

“To steal?”

“To take everything.” He inhaled, held the smoke in his mouth as he looked at me. “Your face …” He exhaled. His voice was softer. “What’s happened to it?”

“Someone hit me.”

“Who?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Why should it matter? What’s a wounded face to you? You hurt people all the time.”

“But,” he murmured, “I would never hurt you.”

The sleet was growing thicker now, turning to snow. It was settling on the ground. Snow seemed to make Paris look so beautiful because it covered up the dirt and it made the city look new again and I thought, Make it better. Hide my lies. Save Valjean.

Montparnasse came closer. “Snow … It must look very pretty to a girl who believes in goodness.” He dropped the cigarette on to the ground, stepped on it. “It was … endearing,” he said.

“Endearing? What was?”

“How fiery you were. When you spoke of love.”

Love. We both looked out at the falling snow. I thought of Marius, holding my hand very briefly. In the Gorbeau, I could see a few candles. I said, “Will they kill this man?”

Montparnasse was quiet for a while. “They’d rather not. A body is difficult to deal with—how will they carry it, or hide it? No, they’d prefer him to live. Perhaps they could hold him to ransom … He has a daughter, hasn’t he?” I heard him smile—the click of lips against gums. “I can’t imagine there’s a single thing that a daughter wouldn’t do to save her father’s life …”

I closed my eyes. It was never meant to be like this. It was only ever meant to be a coin or two. “Montparnasse?”

“Ma belle?”

“All of this is so wrong …”

“Wrong? Says the girl who arranged every bit of it? You found this man and you gave him the letter. I tell you, I was impressed when I heard that, Eponine. Shall I tell you something? I was good-hearted once. Like you, I wanted to live an honest life. But then I was orphaned and Babet took care of me and he taught me all he knew … I owe my life to him. I think,” he said, “I was born to steal. I’m made for it—as you are.”

I shook my head. “I’m not made for it. I’m not.”

“Don’t pretend, Eponine. You’re a Thenardier! A dishonest life is all you’ve ever known.”

“We’re Jondrettes here! That’s our name!”

“You think that changes anything? Jondrette is just paint on rotten wood or”—he held out his hand—“snow on filthy streets. You’re still a Thenardier, beneath it all …”

I couldn’t answer him. He was right. I could never change my parentage or the name I was born with.

“As for your face …” He laid a single finger upon my swollen cheek. “There may be dirt and blood upon it but I know that underneath it … Well, you’re beautiful.”

I felt like crying then. I let his finger stay on me. Was he mocking me? Surely he’d seen Cosette or ladies like her, and knew what proper beauty was? Maybe he was mocking me—but it didn’t really matter. Marius had made me feel beautiful but no one had called me beautiful in my whole life. In a tiny voice I said, “I am?”

“Oh, yes. So very beautiful …” He held my face with both his hands. “We’d make a fine team, Mademoiselle …”

“A team?”

“You and I. What couldn’t be ours if we worked together? Stealing and plotting as two people, not one? I’d find diamonds for you. I’d put pearls in your ears …” He stroked me, almost tenderly. “I’d steal the queen’s gown for my own bright queen …”

I closed my eyes. I had never been touched like this, like I was precious.

When I opened my eyes again, Montparnasse was looking at me in a way I recognized. It was how Marius had looked at Cosette, in Les Jardins. His eyes were bright and his lips were parted.

He took my wrist. “Come with me.”

I followed him, because he’d called me beautiful and because I wanted Marius and because I was tired. I was so tired. He was looking at me like I’d always hoped someone would.

We went deeper into the cemetery, tripping over tree roots and broken stones. He said, “What a life we could live, you and I … What a world I could show you!”

Then he kissed me. But it was not a gentle kiss. Montparnasse pressed his lips against mine and clutched at my dress and he pushed me against a gravestone very roughly and his tongue filled my mouth so I couldn’t breathe.

I closed my eyes and pretended this was not Montparnasse.

Pretend this is Marius, whose friends cheer when he walks into a room. But I couldn’t make myself believe it. This wasn’t Marius. Marius would never, ever, ever kiss someone like this.

“Get off! No!” I squirmed and broke free. I didn’t want Montparnasse’s mouth and hands upon me anymore, and it didn’t matter that he’d called me beautiful. He didn’t make me feel beautiful at all—just unsafe and foolish, and more alone than ever.

He didn’t let me go so I kicked him.

He said, “Why, you little …”

Then I stamped on his foot and ran away. I leapt over the graves and stumbled through the snow and I kept running because I wanted to be free of him and my family and the name Thenardier.

Where was the happy life? The stars? The wayside flowers? Where was goodness? It was in other people, not in me. It was in Marius. In the man who’d bought Cosette a beautiful doll one Christmas Eve and said to my parents, I’ll take her to a better life.

*  *  *

I’ll run to the Gorbeau tenement. I’ll set Valjean free. I’ll shout for help—even if the Patron Minette are there. I’ll fight with my father if I have to.

But I didn’t get the chance because an arm caught me. It wrapped itself around my neck and pulled me to my knees and I thought, It’s Montparnasse wanting more than a kiss, so I flailed and I bit at the arm and I shouted, “Get off!” But it wasn’t Montparnasse. It was a stronger arm.

“Got you.” A man’s voice I didn’t know.

I stopped biting and looked up. I saw a neat mustache. Two beady eyes. He was baring his teeth, and not blinking. It was a face of resentment, anger, and purpose. He wore a policeman’s hat.