"You--" I begin.
"What?" She pushes away from the wall, digging both hands in her pockets ostentatiously. "Don't think it made off with anything."
But I'm too stunned to laugh. "That was you."
"What was?"
She's good; she's very, very good. Even now, I doubt for a moment-- but it fits too well. The boyish, beardless face; the odd fineness of the hands; the unexpected fits of melancholy. The yearning looks at Enjolras!
It takes me a moment to think what to say. "I won't tell anyone. It just-- I heard you. I wouldn't have known, else."
"Well, of course you heard me, you're not deaf."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes," she says gruffly. "And you can stop staring at my shirt. I promise you there's nothing to see." Doesn't even blush, which is more than I can say for myself.
"I wasn't-- I was only wondering how I didn't see before."
She gives me a disgusted look. "You didn't see because I took the damnedest pains that you shouldn't see, now will you shut up?"
"Mademoiselle--"
"O good God!" She gives me a shove, and swings around to start up the street again before I've got my balance back.
"Well, I don't know your name."
She laughs, familiar hoarse laughter. "Don't you, now?"
"Marie," I guess, jogging after her.
"Ha!"
"Sophie."
"Be damned to your Sophie."
"Therese."
"You sound like the miller's daughter," she mocks me. "I don't want your firstborn, monsieur. Give it up."
"All right." I've caught up to her now. "What's your name, then?"
Quick as a flash the bony hand knots in my shirtfront, so sudden that I stumble and nearly fall.
"My name's Grantaire," the girl breathes, "you damn' fool."
And turns and walks away.