The word 'whore' was stung in Eponine's mind like an angry, caged wasp, demolishing everything in its path. 'Whore': a word like a mark of shame, a demerit, and a bullet through her heart. But she wasn't like these women here at the docks – these harlots here, waiting for the first ship of sailors to dock. No, Lord in Heaven, no, Eponine told herself. I'm not like them! They will always be like this…this isn't my forever…
And so she proceeded to go through, in her head, the story that she always told herself in times like these – times when the pure, dark fear of…this being her forever gripped her soul like sharp, black claws. Someday, 'Ponine would get Monsieur Marius to notice her as more than just a pal. He would see her just as she sees him – perfectly lovely, divine, a happy ending wrapped up in beautiful, kind soul mate. And they would go for long strolls in the Parisian streets, but not the sort of strolls they take now, the sort that a man and woman go on during a courtship – they would link arms or hold hands and lean into each other and talk of such lovely things that Eponine could only wonder about. He would court her, she imagined, buy her pretty bouquet of French irises, and he would let her sing for him. When they'd go walking he'd steal a kiss or two, and they would both blush and giggle and maybe even flirt a little when no one noticed. In her fantasies, Marius would get down on one knee by the river after receiving her father's blessing, and they would be married. He would buy them their own little house, by that very river; hidden away by a beautiful garden of the French irises she loves so much. She would become a fine lady – an aristocrat, even – with Monsieur Marius as her husband, and they would raise their children the way that 'Ponine only wished she could have been brought up: with grace, poise, honesty and dignity…
The drunken sailors and a handful of other loud, drunken men started to stumble into the docks. Eponine knew that the prostitutes around her were poised to strike like lionesses hidden in the savannah, waiting to stalk their prey. She secretly wished that there would not be many men rolling in here tonight, and that maybe there would not be enough for her to have to work. She had begged her father not to make her come here. Just this very morning, she had gotten down on her knees and pleaded:
"Papa, please, Papa – don't make me go back to that horrible place! Please, give me mercy, please, I'll do anything! Don't you love me, Papa?"
"Oh, 'Ponine," her father looked straight at her with his crooked, dodgy cat-eyes. "I love the money that you make." And when she nearly started tearing up, he added: "oh, come now, 'Ponine – don't you know all you're good for is opening your legs? We need the money, 'Ponine – you ask me if I love you, don't you love your family? Have you any loyalty, you ungrateful girl? Have you any loyalty?" But little did he know that loyalty was what Eponine had the most of.
But little did he know that loyalty had shot her dead.