It is cold. But what else is new? She would rather be cold than hungry, and hopefully, in this manner, she will get some money for food. If she simply stands here looking pitiful, trembling barefoot in the snow, somebody will take pity on her and feed her.
A door across the way flies open, and a man stumbles out. He appears to be in a drunken haze.
Excellent, she thinks. I can pick his pocket easier than anything; it's better than standin' around waiting for one of these bourgeois pigs to start to feel charitable.
She crosses the street and falls into step behind him. Gently, she slips her hand into his pocket and closes it around something- a wallet. Excellent. She begins to withdraw her hand when-
"OW!"
The man's hand has clamped down firmly on her wrist. It is quite painful, in all honesty. She tries to jump away, but he does not let go. He pries the wallet from her fingers and puts it into an inner pocket, still holding her wrist. He begins to pull her along with him.
Suddenly, he doesn't seem so drunk. She reflects that this was probably not a smart thing to do.
He loosens his grip on her wrist when he feels her trembling, and looks at her face, a calculating look about his eyes.
"What's your name, girl?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and relatively gentle, for one who was a second ago about to crush the bones in her wrist. She gives a start, still trying to pull away, hiccoughing. "You're called"- here, he gives a melodramatic sob in imitation of the sounds escaping from the girl's throat- "are you? What an interesting name."
She doesn't say anything, just looks at him blankly, still shivering.
He pulls her into a doorway and mutters something. She can only make out a few words: "Enjolras," "damn him," and "conscience." He removes his wallet from his inner coat pocket. Her eyes brighten until she sees him stow the wallet in a pocket in his trousers. She narrows her eyes at this.
He removes his coat and slings it over one arm before removing his shoes and socks. She wonders if she should run. But she is too cold to run.
She watches wordlessly as he takes both socks and makes them into little cloth wads before shoving them into his shoes, where the toes would go. He then takes one of her bleeding, frozen feet, gently easing it into the shoe and then repeating the operation with the other foot. He then puts his long overcoat over her shoulders. She says nothing. The coat drapes on the ground behind her and smells of alcohol.
"I don't have any money for you," he says before walking away. She watches from the doorway.
It appears that there is a hole in this man's pants; the wallet falls from them when he is no more than five paces from her. She silently makes a dive for it. He does not notice.
The man was lying.