May 1832
"Victoire?" Enjolras opens his apartment door, expecting to see the little gamine perched on his divan, puzzling over the letters he's been trying to teach her, or drawing on a piece of paper. But there's no one there. "Victoire," he calls out, feeling exasperated now. He doesn't have time for her silly little games that she sometimes insists on playing. "Where are you?"
Silence. Enjolras sighs – she's probably gone out to the market – and drops his case of lecture notes on the floor, walking over to his desk. His friends are doubtless celebrating the passage of bar exams – all of them passed, except Bossuet and Bahorel, which was quite expected, since neither of them showed any interest in turning up for lectures. He himself passed comfortably, and intends to become a proper advocate once the ever-simmering revolution eventually boils over.
He turns over a couple of plans on his desk, revealing a ragged piece of paper lying under them. Curious, he picks it up, looking closely at the nearly illegible, smudged word written there in Victoire's shaky hand.
Sorry.
"Bonjour, Madame," Victoire says politely as she cautiously enters the wigmaker's shop, feeling ever so aware of her tatty apparel. Since fleeing Monsieur Enjolras' apartment two weeks ago, she's been feeling far too exposed, far too obvious with her fiery red hair colour. She's worried he's going to bump into her one day, and insist that she comes and lives back at his flat, gets off the streets again. But she can't accept anymore kindness – even if she wanted to. The debt would be too great to repay.
"What do you want?" the old woman snaps sourly, barely looking up from the elegant strawberry-blonde wig she is sewing.
"How much for my hair?" Victoire asks quietly. The old woman glances up, and scowls. "I know it's dirty," Victoire holds up a strand, "but it's the most beautiful colour – an intense red – and I see that you don't have many red wigs, and my friend says that red hair is all the rage at the moment…"
The crone stands up, dumping her work on the table and marching towards Victoire, who can't help but cringe back at her expression of disgust. She wraps a finger around a lock of Victoire's hair, tugs the girl towards the window. "Very red," she mutters. "Good colour. But horrible condition, very dry."
"Please, Madame," Victoire begs, feeling close to tears. "I don't have anything else to sell." I've already sunk to the bottom of the heap, she thinks to herself.
"I'll take it," the wigmaker says. "But you need that lot washed, and I'm taking money off for that."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Victoire barely hears the words, only knowing that she won't have to work the street corners tonight.
"Get over here, girl," the woman snaps. "I haven't got all day."
Cheated. That's how she feels. Just as the old woman had finished chopping Victoire's flame-coloured locks, a grand bourgeois woman with the most beautiful green silk gown had swept into the shop, her mousy hair piled in a mass of curls on the top of her head. Determined that the quality customer should not see the dirty, bruised street-urchin in the shop, the wigmaker had shoved a franc and three sous into Victoire's hand, and ushered her out of the back door. What is worse for Victoire is that she heard the bourgeois lady offer twenty five francs for Victoire's own hair! Victoire seethes with anger as she walks down one of the back alleys, back towards her usual haunts. The audacity of that woman, to cheat her of her money when Victoire's hair was just the colour that would sell.
Miserable, now, Victoire doesn't realise that Eponine has fallen into step beside her. "Merde, Victoire, what have you done?" is the first thing her friend says, her tone one of utter shock.
"I cut off all my hair, what does it look like?" Victoire retorts. "And got cheated by that hag in the shop!" Stopping and turning to face the younger girl, she instantly regrets her harsh words. There are tearstains down the brunette's cheeks, red rings around her eyes and a slap mark on her dirty skin. "Eponine, what's happened?"
"Pere, he…he…" a tear trickles out of the corner of her eye. "He…gave me to 'Parnasse. It hurt Victoire, it hurt so much, and when I hit him, he slapped me and told me I was a…a…bitch, and not worth the money he had paid!"
"Oh…Eponine," Victoire can't think of anything to comfort her now-weeping best friend – instead, pulls her into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry, so sorry. It's awful the first time, and I can't say it gets any better."
"But…Monsieur Marius…" the girl whispers against Victoire's shoulder. "I'm no longer pure, no longer clean, not like his beloved Cosette! How will I ever prove to him…?"
"'Ponine, he's in love with this other girl – he's not suddenly going to change his mind," Victoire tries to be reasonable with Eponine, but to no avail. The other girl just doesn't want to listen.
"No, Victoire, he's just infatuated with Cosette, and I'm being silly," Eponine says firmly, pulling away and wiping her eyes. "If he truly comes to love me, then he won't care, will he?"
"If…" Victoire leaves the end of the sentence dangling. The girl is deluding herself. "Come on, let's go and find Gavroche and André – who knows what sort of trouble they've got themselves into now."