22

The following day, there was a knock at the door.

Gavroche had woken early and had announced his intentions to go for a walk almost immediately. Éponine had done her best to encourage him to remain with her, but the boy refused, saying there was no need and that he'd made the plans to see Courfeyrac the day before.

After he had gone, Éponine wished she had forced him to stay. She considered leaving the flat herself and going for a wander, but considered who she might bump into and decided it best to remain indoors.

Besides, she was not in the mood for dealing with people.

That was the thought that ran through her mind when she heard the knock at the door. She put down the romance novel she was reading, half-hoping she'd misheard, and half-hoping it was just a neighbour having finally decided to say hello.

Unfortunately for her, she recognised the three short, sharp knocks upon her front door as being the signature knocks of Combeferre.

Éponine stood up and walked over to the door, a heavy sigh escaping her lips as she stole herself to answer.

Combeferre stood alone on her doorstop, his dark, bottle-green coat hung over one arm. He gave her an uncertain sort of smile.

"May I come in?" he said.

After a few moments had passed Éponine nodded, stepping aside so that Combeferre could enter her flat. He strode straight over to the sofa and sat down, resting the coat on the cushions beside him.

Éponine shut the door. "If you've come to lecture me, you might as well turn around and leave," she said pointedly. "Because I am in no mood to hear it."

"You haven't calmed down, then?" Combeferre tilted his head as he looked at her. She rolled her eyes and sat down next to him, on top of his coat. He gave her a small glare and moved to yank the coat from beneath her.

"I've calmed down," Éponine retorted. "But that doesn't mean I'm not still angry."

Combeferre stayed silent for a few moments before saying, "I understand your anger. Really, I do."

Éponine wasn't sure he did, but she refrained from speaking.

"I'm frustrated with what I learned yesterday, too," Combeferre continued. "I never really gave it much thought when I was alive but I suppose I'd always wanted…I don't know, a family, I suppose, of my own, when I was older. I wanted…a lot, when I was alive. Most of it is impossible now, because of the restrictions of this place. It's not just the family side of things; there are places I wanted to go, things I wanted to see, books I wanted to read that I never will, knowledge waiting to be learned that I…That I will never learn. You're not the only one, Éponine, with hopes and dreams, and Gavroche isn't the only person who will never grow up."

Éponine wanted to scoff and stomp her feet, but she made do with staring at her lap, feeling like a little child.

"But that's not really what I wanted to say," Combeferre said. "What I wanted to say is that I feel your anger, whilst justified, is misdirected."

Éponine whipped her head around and glared at Combeferre with all the anger she could muster. "Misdirected?" she spat. "I suppose you're referring to Monsieur Enjolras, aren't you?"

"Although he'll never admit it, Éponine, I think he was upset by what you said yesterday," Combeferre said quietly. "As his oldest friend, I do not like to see him upset, especially when I do not feel he deserved the brunt of your anger."

Anger and frustration coiled even tighter within Éponine. "Oh, you don't, do you?" She stood up abruptly, looming over the gentleman she had previously been sat beside. "I am not sorry for a single word I said to Enjolras yesterday. I meant every word of it. This –" She flung her arms out wide, then let them drop with a loud slap to her sides once more. " – Is all his fault. It was his revolution we –"

"Enjolras never forced any of us to be there," Combeferre interrupted. He did not stand, and instead laced his fingers over his knee. "Yes, I suppose the idea of rebellion was Enjolras'. He believed in the cause he was fighting for more than anyone else on that barricade. Would I have been there if I had not known Enjolras? Possibly not. But I might have been. It is possible. Because I was there because I wanted to try and make a difference. I wanted to fight. And yes, I died. I died fighting and trying to make a difference – because I was fighting, and because I chose to. Enjolras did not hold a gun to my head and force me to the barricades, Éponine. Just as he did not hold a gun to Grantaire's head, or Courfeyrac's head, or Jehan's head, or Bahorel's head, or Feuilly's head – we all chose to be on that barricade. Even you."

Éponine's hands itched, and she found herself so angry that words could not be formed.

Combeferre continued, his eyes fixed on hers. It was so different, she thought dimly, from talking to Enjolras. Combeferre looked you right in the eye and dared you to look away when he was being as serious as he was being now.

"You made your decision to be there, Éponine, and it was one you'd put thought into," he was saying. "You dressed as a man, you fought alongside us; and then when Marius climbed the barricade with that barrel of powder, you chose to turn the gun on yourself. I don't know what made you do that – I can't begin to know – but you did not do it because Enjolras made you. I dare say Enjolras would have tried telling you to leave had he known you were there, in fact. You needn't have died, Éponine; you chose to follow Marius to the barricades. You can correct me if I'm wrong."

He wasn't wrong. He was right, so right, but it was more than that, so much more complicated than just choosing to follow Marius – it was done out of love.

"You don't understand," she spat.

Combeferre shrugged. "I don't try to," he said. "I don't want to, either. Your decisions are your own, just as mine are my own. So you cannot blame Enjolras for decisions you made."

Éponine dragged a hand through her hair. She felt like tearing chunks of it from her scalp. "And Gavroche?" she threw at him. "What is your answer for Gavroche? He's a boy! And you all saw him there, all of you, you all knew he was there and he had a gun and none of you, not one of you told him to leave –"

"Marius did," Combeferre cut her off. "Marius did. But Gavroche came back, just as we all knew he would. Éponine, you know Gavroche. Wild horses couldn't have kept the boy from the barricade that night."

"You should have made him leave," Éponine said. "You were there –"

"And so were you."

Éponine's eyes widened. Combeferre stood up, and gently, he rested his hands on her shoulders.

"There are a lot of things about that night, Éponine, that I wish we could change," he said, his voice very soft. His hands were a warm weight on her shoulders, comforting almost, even as his words cut through her. "I desperately wish I could change the outcome. I wish, looking back, that I had tried to persuade Gavroche to leave. I wish I had seen you, seen through your disguise, and tried to make you see reason, too. But what's done is done. I have made my decisions. You have made yours. Enjolras made his. But don't heap anymore blame on his shoulders than he's already put there himself, Éponine. It isn't fair, it isn't helpful, and it isn't going to change anything."

Éponine shrugged his hands away and stepped back. "Just…" She ducked in a deep breath and shook her head. "Just…Leave, please."

Combeferre sighed for the first time since entering the flat, and it was a small noise of exasperation.

"Éponine…" he began, but then turned and picked up his coat. "Please, don't let this…Get in the way of your life here. Please. That's all I ask of you."

Éponine's lips drew into a thin line as she watched Combeferre leave the flat. He shut the door behind himself, leaving her stood there with her hands clenched by her sides, feeling even more like a chastised child than she had done the night before when he'd interrupted her argument with Enjolras.