**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables or its characters, blah, blah,
blah, etc. It's all Hugo's doings, and I don't take one ounce of the
credit. But please enjoy this story anyway.
UPDATE 3/13/04: Good point, AmZ. I have changed that little detail.
***Prologue, Part One: Sometimes She Cried***
No one could see her in the hiding place--no one--because not a soul dared to venture out into the dark alleys of Paris at such a late hour, especially not in the seedy areas like these. But more importantly, no one heard her weeping next to the discarded wooden crates outside the Corinthe, and she liked it that way.
She never wanted anyone to see her cry because tears were for the weak of heart and the weak of mind, and such fools could not survive on the streets. Crying did not restore life to the corpses of the countless beggars who died of illness and famine, nor did it earn her a sou to buy bread with; crying did not bring the love of Marius into her life. But crying felt so very good when the tears ached behind her eyes and tightened up her throat.
Nighttime was the only time to shed those burdens, to relieve the stress and tension of the day by curling up against the crumbling old brick wall and letting the brackish streams of pain drizzle down her cheeks. She only wished her mother were there to sing her a lullaby and pat her shoulder, telling her that everything would be alright.
"Hush, Eponine," she would say soothingly, hugging her daughter close and waving away all her woes. "That silly boy is a fool not to recognize what a treasure you are."
Yes, how wonderful to have such kind reassurance. But sadly, Eponine's mother knew not of her love for Marius, and Eponine had no intention of telling her about such a thing. Saying it only made the pain more real. At least if she never admitted the sorrowful truth, she could cling to the false hope that someday the two of them might be together. But even that did not ease her mind at present.
Thus, she cried alone, amongst the filth and despair, and did so only when she was sure no one could hear her. She took great pains to stay as quiet as possible; the only sounds she made were a few forlorn sobs mixed with silent tears, and even they were not loud enough to be identified. To pass by that deserted alley and hear her melancholy weeping, one would most likely assume it was merely one of the innumerable stray cats yowling in the stillness of the city. It was an easy mistake.
But most of the time, no one heard her at all.
UPDATE 3/13/04: Good point, AmZ. I have changed that little detail.
***Prologue, Part One: Sometimes She Cried***
No one could see her in the hiding place--no one--because not a soul dared to venture out into the dark alleys of Paris at such a late hour, especially not in the seedy areas like these. But more importantly, no one heard her weeping next to the discarded wooden crates outside the Corinthe, and she liked it that way.
She never wanted anyone to see her cry because tears were for the weak of heart and the weak of mind, and such fools could not survive on the streets. Crying did not restore life to the corpses of the countless beggars who died of illness and famine, nor did it earn her a sou to buy bread with; crying did not bring the love of Marius into her life. But crying felt so very good when the tears ached behind her eyes and tightened up her throat.
Nighttime was the only time to shed those burdens, to relieve the stress and tension of the day by curling up against the crumbling old brick wall and letting the brackish streams of pain drizzle down her cheeks. She only wished her mother were there to sing her a lullaby and pat her shoulder, telling her that everything would be alright.
"Hush, Eponine," she would say soothingly, hugging her daughter close and waving away all her woes. "That silly boy is a fool not to recognize what a treasure you are."
Yes, how wonderful to have such kind reassurance. But sadly, Eponine's mother knew not of her love for Marius, and Eponine had no intention of telling her about such a thing. Saying it only made the pain more real. At least if she never admitted the sorrowful truth, she could cling to the false hope that someday the two of them might be together. But even that did not ease her mind at present.
Thus, she cried alone, amongst the filth and despair, and did so only when she was sure no one could hear her. She took great pains to stay as quiet as possible; the only sounds she made were a few forlorn sobs mixed with silent tears, and even they were not loud enough to be identified. To pass by that deserted alley and hear her melancholy weeping, one would most likely assume it was merely one of the innumerable stray cats yowling in the stillness of the city. It was an easy mistake.
But most of the time, no one heard her at all.