Her eyes were closed, but not squinted or shut tight. Those lovely stain-glass windows to her soul were just lightly closed, as if she were in no distress at all, felt no hardship, no pain. As if that quick, fire-and-brimstone death at the hands of an armed French officer had only made her drift off into a peaceful reprieve, and had not left her on the cold cobblestone, congealed in a puddle of her on blood. The girl's brown hair was loose, lamely rolling down her shoulders in a forever-latent cascade of unkempt, brunette locks, soft beauty only interrupted by patches of the now-dried, red matter that once flowed through her veins and gave her life. The source of the blood was the wound in her abdomen – the poor girl now lied on the street with her once comrades-in-arms, stripped naked from the waist up, her blood-stained, dirt-caked petticoat and under slip provided her at least half of her the modesty she deserved. Exposed to the chill of the wind and whatever passersby who may look over and see her was the girl's abdomen and chest, her breasts, shoulders, and arms completely bare. Because of this disclosure, the mouth of the girl's hemorrhaging was clear: it was the bullet through her chest – moreover, her heart – that killed her. The other bullet holes, wounds and slashes were made either during a battle in which she had not fallen, or were received – however, unnoticed – by her already lifeless corpse.
The beauty known formally as the lark was down on her knees. Here she knelt beside the deceased, her blue eyes tracing over each of their frozen faces like a musician studies a classical score, then playing it on their instruments of choice in a sequence that is, too, of their choosing – in the lark's case, taking in the body with her eyes first, then her mind, then her heart – and finally reaching it's crescendo when she finds the place that holds their cause of death; the part of them that was wounded the most, the part that surely did them in. It is then when the beauty must avert her eyes, for she cannot bear to think of such a horrid death that the brave ones faced.
It is the girl's body that troubles her the most.
The blonde gypsy-bred remembers her now, from her childhood – from their childhood, as that cheeky, wanton child in the little blue hat whom she blindly envied so, for she had a mother and father who loved her. Or, so she thought. In reality, it is the presently living girl who had the mother who loved her – really, truly loved her, more than anything in this world, so much so she would easily die for her – and was blessed with a saint as a father. And it was the presently dead girl who had the mother who loved only lust, a father who loved only greed. Could either of them see, the lark wondered, the shadow of a girl who lied there now on the cobblestones? She was emaciated and blood-clad, and the lark wondered if anyone saw her at all – that is, before she departed this world. And as her blue eyes draw over the body of the girl before her, the once beggar's name is hot on her lips, memories of her dancing through the cortex of her mind. They all seem ghastly, haunting, almost frightening now – all these thoughts of her, all these feelings for her – they are like broken glass in the lark's fair hands, like a kaleidoscope-hued view of phantasmagoria, like a little lifetime pirouetting through a glass menagerie, like a lark's song in a diamond silence.
It is then when she touches her, reaches her pale hand out and caresses the dead girl's limp body. She frames her dirty, bloody, gaunt face, then moves down to her shoulder and arm – it is strange, the lark thinks, for a girl so small and sickly-looking, to have her strong, labor-build muscles. Next, she pauses on the girl's neck, surprisingly shocked that it is not the least bit warm. Her breasts, too, are astonishingly cold, although the lark well knew that the girl was indeed dead, and that her body would be cold – but she did not expect her to be this cold, this unnatural, terrifying cold. She nearly touches the girl's wounds, cannot bring herself to do such a thing, and stops. It is then when she speaks.
"It's…it's Cosette, Eponine," she whimpers. "I thought you ought to know that it was me here with you. Marius spoke of such gruesome things, yet speared me the details, trying to shield me from the horridness. But I had to find out, you see – I had to see it for myself…" the lark breaks off, shutters, and starts again: "I don't very well know why, but I had to see it. I had to see you. You saved him. And for that I will be eternally grateful."
She kisses the dead girl's forehead, and holds her body in her arms, pressing herself against her, as if to provide the girl with the warmth and comfort that her body so clearly needs.
"My father used to sing a song to me when I was young – it's why I've been called 'lark' – it used to comfort me when I was saddened or afraid. I'll sing it to you, too, Eponine – I do think it will help you now. You are so brave. Though your body yields all reason to be in pain, your eyes show none of them. They are closed so softly, you look as if you were asleep. I will rock you then, and comfort you, and perhaps then we will both sleep through the night."
It was then when the lark sang in her heavenly tone; sang the song that bears her name.
"Alouette, gentille Alouette
Alouette je te plumerai
Alouette, gentille Alouette
Alouette je te plumerai
Je te plumerai la tête
Je te plumerai la tête
Et la tête, et la tête
Alouette, Alouette
O-o-o-o-oh
Alouette, gentille Alouette
Alouette je te plumerai…"