It was not in her nature to regret. To regret something was to assume that life could have been any other way, that a different means might have brought about a different end; to contemplate such a possibility was to her an exercise in futility. One did not regret the blow of an angry hand any more than one regretted an undelivered letter; both actions had been dictated by a higher power than she. She had only been the messenger.
And a rather poor one at that, but it would all end for the better, wouldn't it? Of course it would.
No letter meant no Cosette. Without the intervention of Cosette's letter, her Marius (oh, not Cosette's Marius, but now Eponine's!) would be left without a single grain of hope worth preserving himself for, there should be nothing to keep him apart from Eponine, nothing but the yawning abyss of death.
If she could not share a life with him, she would share his death. Naturally, in the girl's feverish mind, they both would live on and love one another until the death of age parted them rather than the more immediate end that lurked just beneath the shadow of the barricade.
What Eponine had not foreseen was that the National Guard would be quite so good at their jobs while the brave men holding the barricades would be quite so ill-prepared for their own. There was something to be said, also, for the precision of the National Guards' aim. That was a skill to which she could testify to personally.
It had all flashed before her eyes - the garret where she had been a Jondrette, the inn where she had been a Thénardier, a blur of poverty and rat bites and ill fitting rags that provided neither warmth or modesty; all this swirled through her spinning head until it looked like nothing more than a muddle of muddy colors, a bruise. It might have occurred to her, had she not lost quite so much blood, that there was nothing that she would terribly mind leaving behind.
Ah! But hope was not abandoned yet, it returned anew when the slightly out of focus face of her love appeared before her. She wanted so badly to cry out, but the sound died on her lips. Surely this was a hallucination, was it not? Nothing more than her mind seeing what it wished to, as it did after too many days without food and too many nights spent dreaming about a young man who represented something better. And here he was again.
Was she dreaming, now as she felt his lips press down against her brow? It was so hard to tell, Eponine's senses were fooling her and the gunshots exploded like fireworks around her head and a moment later the world slipped out from under her.
And a rather poor one at that, but it would all end for the better, wouldn't it? Of course it would.
No letter meant no Cosette. Without the intervention of Cosette's letter, her Marius (oh, not Cosette's Marius, but now Eponine's!) would be left without a single grain of hope worth preserving himself for, there should be nothing to keep him apart from Eponine, nothing but the yawning abyss of death.
If she could not share a life with him, she would share his death. Naturally, in the girl's feverish mind, they both would live on and love one another until the death of age parted them rather than the more immediate end that lurked just beneath the shadow of the barricade.
What Eponine had not foreseen was that the National Guard would be quite so good at their jobs while the brave men holding the barricades would be quite so ill-prepared for their own. There was something to be said, also, for the precision of the National Guards' aim. That was a skill to which she could testify to personally.
It had all flashed before her eyes - the garret where she had been a Jondrette, the inn where she had been a Thénardier, a blur of poverty and rat bites and ill fitting rags that provided neither warmth or modesty; all this swirled through her spinning head until it looked like nothing more than a muddle of muddy colors, a bruise. It might have occurred to her, had she not lost quite so much blood, that there was nothing that she would terribly mind leaving behind.
Ah! But hope was not abandoned yet, it returned anew when the slightly out of focus face of her love appeared before her. She wanted so badly to cry out, but the sound died on her lips. Surely this was a hallucination, was it not? Nothing more than her mind seeing what it wished to, as it did after too many days without food and too many nights spent dreaming about a young man who represented something better. And here he was again.
Was she dreaming, now as she felt his lips press down against her brow? It was so hard to tell, Eponine's senses were fooling her and the gunshots exploded like fireworks around her head and a moment later the world slipped out from under her.