The sound of a sharp slap followed by a shouted order. A brief pause, and receding footfalls, small bare feet running.
It's not something he generally pays any mind to, really. Just more of the background noise of the inn, the same every day. He pauses only briefly, then goes back into his story, something lurid about a farmer's questionable relationship with his livestock, something to make the drunkards laugh, heighten the mood and loosen purse strings.
It's been a good night, with a large group of travelers coming from God-knows-where on their way to who-gives-a-damn, ready to put their feet up and have a good time. Thenardier is happy to lighten their burden as always. The night rolls on at a comfortable amble, the fire simmering down from a bright roar to a warm glow, drunks rolling off their stools, some even making it into actual beds, fleas and all.
He is counting his money at last, passing them through his fingers in time with the rhythm of a broom sweeping the far side of the room. He is pleased.
The Madame brings in Eponine, dark lashes against ruddy cheeks, to kiss him goodnight. He gives her a pat on the head, barely taking his eyes off his coin as the Madame takes her away to put her to bed.
Soft snoring wafts from various corners and flies buzz around the candlelight. All in all, a very fine evening indeed.
It all ends, then, with the sudden crash of broken glass. The Madame flies into the room, eyes bulging, hair flying, shrieking.
The tiger emerges and its prey freezes in shock, protesting not in the slightest when the broom in its hands is yanked free.
He doesn't pay attention to this sort of thing. He really doesn't. The blows of the broom on the child's back, the way it curls in on itself, hands wrapped over its head, sinking down to the floor like a turtle trying to climb into its shell.
He picks up another coin and pays no mind to the shouts of his wife, and makes sure not to notice the unnatural silence of the girl. He certainly doesn't see the girl being dragged up by her hair or pulled until she has no choice but to walk over glittering shards, or pushed down until they dig into the heels of her hands, or that one last shove that nearly plants her face into them, a final threat to ensure submission.
His wife smiles like a wolf as she passes on her way to her own slumber, teeth showing. He grins back at her and returns to his counting.
Half an hour passes, maybe, before he looks up. She's still there, on the floor, has barely moved. Smears of blood decorate her hands, her feet, the surrounding floor. He doesn't notice. He doesn't notice. He tells himself once more that he doesn't notice.
He notices.
Merde.
"Can't keep out of trouble, can you?"
She doesn't respond. She doesn't seem to have heard him at all, her gaze fixed firmly upon the floor, contemplating the glass she has been instructed to have cleared up before dawn or else.
He glances across the room to the dark hallway where beyond his wife and daughter sleep peacefully.
Finally, he pulls himself out of his seat, clears away his profits for the night to the safe. He hardly knows himself as he grabs a pile of nearly clean rags as he passes the cupboard.
She weighs hardly anything when he picks her up, and yet he can barely keep hold of her as she goes stiff as a board.
"I ain't gonna kill ya, luv."
He sets her on the table between two slumped-over drunks and picks up one tiny red hand.
It's slow going, removing one shard after the other out. He pushes the back of a fingernail against one, pressing it upward until it slips free, more blood oozing behind it. Another deep one, he sucks at, grasps in between his teeth, spits at the drunk to his right.
An hour or so passes, and finally two small hands and two small feet are free of glass. He wipes at them a bit with a rag until the bleeding has mostly stopped. The whole time the girl hasn't made a sound beyond the occasional breathless gasp, her eyes staring out at the room, at nothing in particular mid-distance, like a blind man.
How old is she, again? He can't remember. Been a few years. Six. Seven maybe. His Eponine is seven, aren't they supposed to be about the same age? She's half 'Ponine's size though. Not like it's any of his business. She belongs to the Madame, not him.
He hoists her up under her arms again and carries her out in front of him, legs dangling, then deposits her on the pile of scraps where she habitually sleeps.
"Well then…"
Two blue eyes suddenly look up at him, meeting his gaze for perhaps the first time. For several moments, he cannot look away, something burning behind his eyes which he cannot put a name to.
He breaks the spell, turning away with a violent jerk to join his sleeping wife down the hall, scratching a crawling itch at the back of his neck as he walks away.