Marius did not wait long after Éponine's last breath to abandon his station. Laying her down on the pavement, he stood up and wiped his blood-soaked hands on his trousers. Then, thinking to seek Enjolras and ask him where they ought to put the body, he turned around.
It was Grantaire that he saw first, not Enjolras. The man had appeared right behind him. As soon as Éponine's body had gone limp, Grantaire had rushed forward.
He'd given her her wish… He'd sacrificed his last moments with her to Pontmercy, as she would have wanted. But now that she was dead, he need hold himself back no longer.
Shouldering Marius out of the way, Grantaire sank to his knees and threw himself on top of Éponine. When he sat up again, she was clutched fiercely to his chest, his large arms utterly engulfing her small body. He rocked her, ran his fingers through her hair. Most of all, he wept.
It was a horrible sight and Marius had to look away.
Finally, after several minutes had passed, Grantaire's sobs quieted and the violent shaking of his body slowed to a tremble.
Grantaire relaxed his fierce hold on Éponine's body, lowering her slightly so that he could gaze upon her face. Moving as though plagued with arthritis, he laid her down gently on the cold pavement.
He stared for a moment.
Then, with a convulsive movement, he shucked off his vest. He spread it out on the ground beside Éponine – his eyes never leaving her face. He took her up in his arms again, and this time laid her down on top of his vest.
With quivering hands, Grantaire folded Éponine's arms over her chest. He smoothed down her hair. He gently wiped the streaks of blood from her forehead and cheekbones. When the blood was gone, he still continued tracing his fingers along the jagged contours of her beloved face. Her beloved, beautiful face...
He pressed his lips to her brow. Unlike Marius, he meant the kiss.
Finally, Grantaire turned and his eyes sought out their new target.
Enjolras.
Grantaire stared at the golden-haired revolutionary and steeled his jaw.
It was his own turn now.
"Two birds with one stone," Grantaire said, gazing at Enjolras and extending his hand. "Permets-tu?"
Éponine had died for the man who cared nothing for her. So, Grantaire decided, would he.
He had failed in everything. He'd failed to protect Éponine from her father. He'd failed to protect her from Montparnasse. He'd failed to protect her from herself and her senseless infatuation for Pontmercy. But this much, at least, he could do. He could die as she had. He could go down with her, sacrificed to the same senseless infatuation.
Yet as the bullets ripped into Grantaire and he slumped to the floor, he realized that he'd failed even in that last resolution.
He hadn't mimicked Éponine's death. Enjolras was beside him now, but he wasn't dying for Enjolras.
He was dying for Éponine.