The Lark had never known love, but she sang its songs as though it were her constant companion. Some say that's why the creaky Thenardier chophouse stayed open for so long. Although most travelers who stayed there knew they were in for a rough ride of swindles, and bad wine, they couldn't help but choose the place every once in awhile. They liked to hear the young maid's windy voice blowing about the place as she sang of kindness, and hope, and a far away place that reminded them of long lost dreams.
She was a wispy little thing, small in every form of the word, with golden hair and eyes as big and blue as the sea. But she was by no means beautiful. True, she had a look of mystery about her, but the poor girl was far too skeletal to be thought of in that way. Although she was nearly sixteen, most would have thought her years younger. Not to mention the bruises. She tried to cover them with various layers of threadbare clothing, but a face is difficult to hide. Her deep turquoise eyes were, more days than not, surrounded by dark bruises that made one wince to look at.
Yet, and this was the greatest mystery of all, the young girl was brave. She worked tirelessly, and the smile never left her face. She kept a certain glow of courage about her, like sunlight, always returning. Her life was a whirlwind of misery and fear, and somehow, it seemed as if she could see the future. Things would someday change for her.
The heir could be described in one word. Disappointing. At the fancy royalist salons his remarks were always of the wrong sort. Questions like, "Well what of the Rebels side? Didn't they have a point?" and "Did you know Napoleon Bonaparte was actually above the average height? Five feet 7 inches exactly." were not acceptable in the silk-draped rooms where King Louis Philippe was sent from God, and both the Revolution and the Empire were of the devil.
He was tall, and of fair complexion, with a great pile of dark hair atop his brow. The Grandfather might have considered him a handsome lad, had he not looked so much like his scumbag of a father. He walked in an upright manner, which bespoke ingratitude and unfounded pride. He had learned to keep his opinions to himself, but the questions were unstoppable. The boys solemn face was rarely seen, as it was generally buried deep in some large, dusty book.
Monsieur Gillenormand, needing an heir, had saved the boy from his dirt-poor, Republican father, and had given him everything, but love. And yet, love, was the very thing that seemed to flow from the boy's being. To the embarrassment and shame of the entire Gillenormand estate, the young heir was always passing about Gold Louis and kind words to ragged passers by, and offering help wherever it was needed.