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She adores him disdainfully. Her thoughts are out of order – as they constantly are – what she means is, she loves him, but in an overarching manner which would make any girl sick. He is what she must settle for. Yet, she wants so much more; she wants to be like those attractively clean women holding and stroking the arm of their loved one as they parade through the Luxembourg. Those women never smile at her, the petty, filthy child adorned in rags that barely cover her. She envies them, wishes the man who she both loves and hates would treat her more like a lady. But these are ridiculous fantasies, especially when her social class blockades her from being anything more than a street whore.
Éponine forces herself to stop. She is somewhat in denial of reality and frightened of her own thoughts. Many a night she can recall lying awake, curled on her pitiful mattress, swimming in a severe bout of self-loathing, no better than if she were drowning. Perhaps some type of religion would ease her suffering, but she cannot read very well and the Bible often reminds her of a brick. What a demented soul, to have no more knowledge than what older men would choose to instill upon you. It is as if she is trudging through darkness, a single blurry beam of light trying to provide guidance. Does this light do her justice? We will allow the reader to make their own decision.
Now, the man who occupies her thoughts sits across the room, his broad back facing her. He has relieved himself of his jacket and his cravat is loosened. His dark hair appears silken in the sunlight – she wants to run her fingers through it – but simply stares as he does so instead. She stands from chaise lounge she has been propped up on and carefully strides over to his side.
He is writing; he ignores her presence.
"Montparnasse," she calls, her voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.
He glances up, this man who is scarcely more than a boy, his eyes clear, blue, speckled with green and brown, smoldering. "What is it, 'Ponine," he snaps. His voice is just as smooth as his hair, not too deep, the voice of a young man.
She shivers when he speaks and is unable to hold his gaze. "What're you doing?" She asks nervously. "You've been writing for hours."
He tosses his head back towards the paper, irritated. "Leave, then." He talks to her in a degrading manner, as if he is somehow not a part of the same social class. "Why're you still here anyway?" And yet, under his harsh exterior, he sometimes gives off the impression that he actually misses her when she is not around. Meanness is often just caring's older sibling.
Éponine shrinks under his words. If he were still a gamin, she would slap him. But no, slapping is not used in this context between them. "You said you'd walk me home, 'Parnasse. You said you wanted to talk to my father."
"Well, I got busy," he answers with an angered sigh. "And I've just forgotten what I meant to write. You've got two legs – go on."
She gazes at him, unable to pull her eyes away from his angelic appearance. He may behave like a wretched being, but he certainly does not look like one. She focuses on his cherry red lips, how they are damp and slightly parted, contrasting against his alabaster skin. She brushes her tongue over her own lips as she remembers where exactly his have been before.
He has been watching her stare at him. "What?"
Éponine blinks; there she goes again, disconnecting herself from reality. She shakes her head. "Nothin'," she mumbles and turns to go.
He goes back to work, and she hears him crumpling the paper furiously as she closes the apartment door.
Éponine returns to the Thenardier den a while later, to the home that is barely habitable. It is always disturbingly loud, absorbed in ruckus, destined for treachery. But to her, this mess is all she has known since birth.
She hardly knows Montparnasse, despite their closeness. He is not actually a friend, and she is disturbed by the term 'lover.' He is an assassin; she does not deny the fact – which makes their relationship ever the more complicated. He is a friend of her father's, a member of their Patron-Minette, an immoral man. But who was moral in their makeshift family? Certainly not she, for the numerous times she had accompanied their gang. In that sense, she felt as if she and Montparnasse were unluckily brought together from convenience.
Yet, he knows all about her; he knows a disastrous amount. She was embarrassed that she had put so much of herself out on the line. She possessed knowledge of the street, just not the knowledge to discern deceitfulness. What did she know about the young man? He had to be at least two or three summers older than she. He knew how to read and write, because he had forced himself to learn. Education is the bar which lifts the stone of poverty. He was a gamin and has no memory whatsoever of his parents. Éponine can imagine him, as a small child, scampering through the streets, rosy cheeks marred with dirt, perhaps even blood. She feels no pity, seeing the man he has become today.
A man who has taken what would have been normal human emotions and warped them into a devious need to manipulate. Beneath the surface he is cold, calculating, and what particularly frightens her is her inability to know if there is anything beyond that. Not that he is stoic, but that she can never distinguish if what feeling he does display is sincere. Some might call this guarded, and obviously those people have never dealt with someone like Montparnasse. He is the type of person to use yourself against you.
Then you would ask why Éponine insists on bothering with him.
Well, there is the matter of social class, but more importantly, the basic need for congenial contact. He is a criminal to society; he is relatable to Éponine. She will never fit into the upper classes of society she dreams so fondly of. Neither can he, although he may try. Why attempt to push your way through a group that will only keep shuffling you out? Perhaps they genuinely care for one another, but most likely are clinging to familiarity. He relishes her company because he can be himself. She yearns for his presence because he will always be her equivalent to a prince charming. Still, they will never realize the reason for the attraction between them; a downfall of many relationships. If only they had paused to ask themselves, "Now why do I adore you?" Relationships can never be lived unconsciously.
And Montparnasse has had many relationships. Any human being attuned to nature would realize that men are not meant for commitment. Éponine had observed him over the years, watched as he developed a charming manner of manipulation. He brought home droves of women – no, sometimes he would go to their homes, and sometimes they would not go home at all. She started to outrageously think of him as a male prostitute, much to her own amusement. Except that he did not get paid and actually enjoyed his work. Her mama corrected her upon hearing this, adding the term 'ladies' man' to her young vocabulary. Either way, Montparnasse was using his beauty to get what he wanted. A sly smirk and a few drinks were his arsenal of weapons. Sometimes, he only needed to employ a couple choice phrases, and a girl would be wrapped around his arm as if he had the same genius diction as Voltaire. Obviously, when she was older, Éponine became prey multiple times.
Oddly enough, despite his grotesque womanizing, he constantly returned to her. We use the word 'returned' here quite loosely, as Montparnasse has always asserted that he 'belongs' to no one. But after every encounter, Éponine would see him the very next day, joyous and looking brand new. He brushed the women from his conscience as fast as he had encouraged them into bed. Éponine would be pleased with his visits; she even might have started to expect them. She just forgot that the same procedure he used with other women could easily be used on her as well. He certainly did not hold her in some lush, special cavity of his heart – a room reserved just for her in his inn. Or did he? Éponine did not think like this, however, she was just sated whenever he came around. She believed he always visited her because she was not like those other women, and maybe, he was essentially attracted to her for that. Was she just delusional? Was she onto something? Was this really what she believed? We will allow the reader to make the decision once again, for the writer cannot ever be right – cannot agree with everyone – but only present an account which will stir new thoughts in the reader.
As Éponine settled into her bed that night, pulling the tacky blanket around herself, she looked through a minute hole in the wall. She could barely see the outside, only a black patch of sky and the top of a dreary street lamp were visible. Even though she told herself not to dwell on Montparnasse, her thoughts drifted to the fashionable young man, who could have been so much more, if only he had been granted to a higher class. Then she remembered the same could be said about her. Maybe – because she was not pretty, or intelligent, or anything she fancied about him. Éponine was so busy idolizing someone who was definitely morally worse off than she, that she forgot how to look inward at herself.
So why focus on these two souls? Why dream up a fictional account in an attempt to fill in between the lines? Less creative people will see it as a waste of time. Less accepting people will say no one can create an idea that is accurate. Either way, both will nitpick, preferring to occupy themselves by disassembling a writer's theory rather than just appreciating the endeavor to entertain a reader. But, back to the question. We respond, "Why not?"