Chapter Twenty-Two

A Thénardier Must Never Hope for a Pretty Story

A/N: Content warning for some pretty depressing stuff and suicidal themes. A lot of this is 100% taken from the brick, but actually being in Éponine's head might potentially make it more upsetting, so just a heads up.


She didn't know she was going to keep right on walking past the Daroga's flat until after she had done it.

She had needed to be alone to process all that had happened, and instead she had run into Montparnasse and been given more to sort through.

She couldn't think of Gavroche. There was nothing for her to grasp hold of there, nothing that made any sense to her. It was unfair, and pointless, and it should never have happened. He was one of the most alive people she had ever known, always singing, always laughing, always so clever and bright. And she had to keep him that way, in her mind. Otherwise it was like the sun itself being snuffed out, and that just didn't make any sense. She couldn't think about that. But she did think of Maman.

Maman: gigantic and formidable. Her massive, strong, reddened hands and her frizzing red hair and her small, glittering, intelligent eyes. Maman, who looked rough and frightful and yet loved beautiful things and only ever wanted for her life to be a romance novel. Maman, who had given her first daughter the name Éponine, as if a daughter of a Thénardier could ever hope to be a heroine in some pretty love story. Maman, who almost never left the Gorbeau, and would just sit there in the dark staring blankly, only lighting up when her man came home. Maman, who still occasionally spoke in loving tones or gazed sadly at her daughters now and then, even though she never moved to stop any of the things that happened to them.

She had by no means been perfect, nor very gentle or soft, but she had been Maman, and everybody only ever got one of those, after all. And Éponine had loved hers.

The thought of her dying alone in Saint-Lazare, and dying of cholera...Éponine stopped walking and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She and Azelma had been in Les Madelonnettes for a very long two weeks until they were let go, because there was really nothing to pin on either of them. Azelma was just around, and anyway had an injured hand. Éponine had been a little preoccupied with Montparnasse (who, when the cops showed up, had gotten away, no concern for her or for any of them) instead of keeping watch, so they couldn't really prove that she was involved. Neither of the girls would provide any information on their father or the Patron-Minette, and anyway, they probably didn't know anything that the cops didn't already have. But regardless, it was also realised that both of the girls were underage at the time—Éponine only by a lucky two months, but still.

So at any rate, they'd only spent two weeks in the clink, but it was probably the worst place Éponine had ever been, if she had to pick one. She didn't even want to calculate how long Maman had spent in the woman's prison, and how badly the cholera outbreak must have added to the stifling smell, and... Poor Maman. Not all of her romance stories ended happily. Some of them ended in tragedy, but it was always a very pretty tragedy. If the heroine died, she was given the most elegant and beautiful death.

There was nothing ever pretty about being a Thénardier.

But then, the very worst thing dawned on Éponine as she slipped through a broken fence into an overgrown garden of an abandoned house, which would be the perfect place to rest. There was a broken stone bench that leaned itself at a diagonal, and that was the perfect angle for her to recline herself against and close her eyes for a moment. The very worst thing was that Éponine had always blamed her father for what had happened to them. Especially when she found out that he had been busted out, and Maman was still in. But actually, whose fault was it?

Who had delivered the letter to M. Fauchelevant? Who had given him and his beautiful daughter their address so that he could come to their squalid little dump? Who had set all of those awful events in motion?

It was Éponine.

It was all Éponine.

She didn't have to deliver her father's letter to that kind philanthropist at the church. Sometimes she just tossed the letters so she could do something else with her day instead. Or sometimes they really did lose them, because Azelma was such an idiot. In either case, to escape a beating, they could just tell their father that they had delivered them, but there was nothing doing. And he would believe it, because all of those rich folks could be pretty stingy anyhow. They couldn't get away with it if they did it too often, and they'd have to accept that they'd be starving that day if they did, but every so often, it wasn't too bad.

Why hadn't she just lost the letter that day?

She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and pressed her nails deep into her scalp. She hated almost everything she had ever done in her life. And she couldn't sit here any more and blame her father for making her do any of it. She could have ended it any time. Could have said, "No, I won't," and thrown herself into the Seine. She was completely at fault.

What about when she'd actually stood up to them all in the Rue Plumet, realising she wasn't afraid to die and it made no difference to her? Realising that she held the ultimate weapon, because none of the things those men could do to her would matter to her very much, whereas just one scream from her would be the very worst thing for all of them. What had happened? Éponine had said "no, I don't want you to." Éponine, who always did what needed to be done, who they'd always been able to count on to tell them if a place was worth it or simply a biscuit. Éponine had said no, and sat down, and shocked them all. They'd left her alone and scattered into the shadows like rats. So why hadn't she tried that a long time before? Why had she gone along with things at any time? Sure, maybe she would have been scraped up from the boulevard one morning, beaten to death, but what did it matter? Something she never considered, though, which dawned on her now: maybe nothing would have happened at all. Maybe they would have all left her alone. She would never know, because she had never tried it. And thinking about that twisted her guts up and made her want to be sick.

She couldn't blame anyone except herself.

She was a mess. A pathetic one. She leaned back against the broken stone bench, staring up at the sky through the branches of a scraggly tree. It had started raining, and she was getting soaked. Erik was right to run away. She was properly insane, but not because she loved him. Not because his face didn't frighten her. She had gone off the edge a very, very long time ago. And he did not need any more madness in his life.