All it took was a flash of chestnut hair and blazing eyes. Any fear of Javert vanished, and Éponine felt as if she was falling.
She hadn't known her from sight the second Monsieur Marius pointed her out, but her moment of enlightenment followed soon enough. For less than a second, she was back at the inn of Montfermeil, the sound of wood crackling in the fireplace mixed with her father's costumers singing a bawdy song off-key faded out at the discovery of a new doll: the kitten. The Lark was huddled in a corner, barely breathing and deathly afraid of provoking the Thénardiess's wrath. Azelma laughed and pointed at the poor cat, which was desperately trying to escape the tattered skirt that was still preferable to Cosette's rags.
With a violent shake of her head, the images were gone from her mind. Éponine supposed both she and the Lark had suppressed every childhood memory, even if their reasons could not have been more different if they had actively searched for them. She remembered, vaguely and through the clouded vision of happiness long past and forgotten, that until they were about four years old, that is to say before the Thénardiers recognized their stepdaughter as a source of money and free labor, the both of them had been taken for sisters. One could have separated the two of them by a pane of glass, while a passerby would mistake it for a mirror.
She was in no way familiar with the word déjà-vû, not she, not the one who prided herself on being able to write "The cognes are here", but nevertheless she experienced an odd sensation not unlike that of malnutrition. She felt light-headed, almost like she could collapse any moment as the brick wall in front of her swayed from side to side, becoming increasingly blurred.
How Éponine wished to be on the other side of the mirror.
Instead, all she could do was pick up the pieces, knowing not even half her innocent beauty and youth was there to be regained. As 'Parnasse was fond of reminding her, she was as damaged as the rest of them. An attempt to fix something irreparably broken was a waste of time, especially nowadays that the winter was hot on their heels, and with him the biting cold and starvation.
With the air of a convict, knowing that the next day would prove to be just as harsh as the one coming to an end, she turned her back and took off into the night. By the time she reached the Café Musain she was soaked to the skin from rain. Fortunately, the unconscious student did not mind her claiming his wine bottle as her own as she slipped out of the warmth and noisy merriment once again.
Ditches were remarkably easy to find, she recalled. They were full of inviting shadows and oblivion, far away from the light of a candle at a noble lady's dinner table.
The cheap liquor left a sour taste in her mouth long after she had emptied the bottle.
