They'd have met.
Even without Marius—the link between them—they'd have met.
She'd be slinking home with whatever she'd managed to pickpocket that day, hoping that none of her previous victims were still out searching for their wallets or scarves, watches or handbags. She'd be going home to the father who'd offered her a drink at six years old and the mother who'd cackled when he did. Both drunk. She'd been afraid of them then. She wasn't afraid of much these days.
He would walk with his head down—not from shame, but from the weight of thoughts and ideas of liberty, from Plato and John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau. But his proud stride would stay—the stride of one who'd grown up cared for, wanted in some way, paid attention to when needed. He'd never be able to get rid of that. It was what estranged him from those he wanted to help.
Her head would also be down, out of shame, disappointment, apprehension, or a combination of all. Or perhaps she would be wearing her disguise, and didn't want anyone to see her feminine features. She'd spot him before he saw her, she'd evaluate him as a target. Perhaps she'd had a slow day, had been hoping for one last victim so she might give her father enough to placate him. She'd probably peg him as a good one—a rich young person who didn't notice much.
She might try to seduce him—get him into bed for a few hours and then steal away his things before he woke—or she might simply try to pick his pocket. It all depended on how much she needed. She didn't enjoy her lifestyle—not a bit—but she was very good at it.
But he would notice her. He would. That was just something he did. He noticed things, had noticed the condition of the masses in France, couldn't un-notice it, and so had decided to do something about it. He'd notice her and be surprised that under that dirty, water streaked face (from rain or tears, he couldn't be sure) there was a girl. Not a woman, jaded by life on the streets, but a girl (and he couldn't be certain how he knew this) who still believed in true love and happy endings and miracles and knights in shining armor. Not for herself—her mother had made sure she knew that those things were never for her—but they existed, all of those things, somewhere.
He'd remind her of a prince with his blonde hair and blue eyes. Something would strike her before she could speak—Monsieur? Do you have a moment? Would you like some company tonight?—something about this man made her pause. Perhaps—no, it was—the fact that he looked at her, not through her. It'd been a long time since anyone had done that. People see what they want. She was a street urchin during the day, a burden at home, a protector to Anzelma, and an obscure relative to Gavroche. She could vividly remember the last time she'd been Eponine. Her father sat her on his lap while he over-billed the people who stayed at his inn. "Watch Eponine," he'd said "This is how us Thenardiers survive. We give ourselves the advantage, cause no one else's gonna give it to us." He'd still paid attention to her then, when they had steady income from Cossette's mother—when she hadn't been needed to steal. He'd still thought of her as a child and not a worker. Then and in this exact moment she was Eponine.
And although he would not know her name, he'd know her. In that moment he'd know her. And perhaps she'd attempt (and most likely succeed) in picking his pocket, perhaps she'd take mercy on him and take the beating from her father for not bringing in enough money. Perhaps she'd pass him, and then follow him home just to see where princes lived. And perhaps he'd pretend not to notice. And perhaps, one morning, they'd speak. And he'd invite her to sit at a meeting. And her eyes would be too full of him to ever notice Marius. And perhaps the revolution would not be necessary. And perhaps she'd never be in love with Marius, but with someone else entirely. And perhaps she'd still be alive. And perhaps he'd be with her somewhere, with her safe, and himself not cornered in the salon of a dirty barroom smeared with blood and dirt. Perhaps he'd not be staring down the barrels of guns, but into her eyes. Perhaps he'd not have to die for the cause. But that was all speculation—a luxury he allowed himself now that he was about to die. Something he'd not often tolerated in the previous twenty-one years of his life.
Time seems slow, allowing him this one last might-have-been. He'd give her a ring, the one he'd inherited from his grandmother and never thought he would use. The guns were raising now. They'd be married however she wanted; it didn't much matter to him as long as they were. Their children would have her hair. Perhaps she would have loved him.