There. His face was smeared with dirt and his clothes were torn but it was still him. He reached for his gun, lifted it.
He thinks she’s gone forever. I knew a broken heart when I saw it.
I began to stumble toward him but then a dark-eyed man grabbed me, saying, “Get yourself a gun, Boy! The wall’s been breached—can’t you see? They’ll kill us all!” But I didn’t listen, I didn’t care, I just wanted to get to Marius and so I pushed the man aside. But Marius had vanished! In those few seconds! Where to? I stepped over bodies, searched the Café Musain and the shadows but I couldn’t see him.
The barricade was burning. I had to raise my hand to protect my face from its heat and brightness, and I pleaded with the fire: Please let me find him.
Suddenly he was standing next to me. He was shielding his face too and he shouted, “She’s gone!” I followed his gaze.
Enjolras shouted back, “Gone?”
“Left! Without a word! What do I have to live for now, Enjolras? So yes, I’m back! I’ll fight to the death beside my friends!”
If I’d loved him before, it was nothing compared to now.
He couldn’t die—never. He had to read this letter, have this letter pressed into his hand so he’d know that Cosette still loved him, so he’d know life was worth living and that he mustn’t die tonight, on these barricades.
“Marius!”
But he didn’t hear me. And at that very moment I saw a red-coated soldier kneeling, beyond the flames. He was narrowing an eye. He was taking aim. His rifle was aimed at Marius. All I thought was, Not him.
It was all I’d ever wanted—love. More than food or shelter, or a warm bed. I felt it, for him.
And that was what made me run toward the soldier. I ran through the smoke, through the heat of burning wood … ten, eleven, twelve steps that felt like forever … Not him, not him. The soldier didn’t see me—his eyes were on his target—so I threw my right hand across the end of the musket and pulled it toward myself.
* * *
I felt nothing as I fell. Just love, which rushed out of me, as warm and red as blood.
So here I am. All these things and words and moments have led me to this. To lying here.
The street’s quiet now.
The musket fire has stopped. There’s a soft peace around me so all I can hear is my own ragged breath—and hooves? Yes, the horse is still near me. It’s pulling a cart that’s taking the bodies away.
Most of the young men are dead. I saw them fall as I fell. Since I’ve been lying here, I’ve heard them cry for help. Someone was praying near me but he’s stopped now.
Enjolras is dead. All his friends are.
But not Marius. Marius isn’t dead because I put my hand across that musket and afterward I heard him shouting, “Retreat! Retreat! Find safety, for God’s sake!” So I know he’s alive.
The clock chimes. One, two, three … I wait and count. It’s midnight now.
* * *
Can’t move. Can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.
I’ll die. But Gavroche will keep singing his songs. Papa will keep stealing. One day I think Azelma will stop because her heart’s a good heart, deep down. The man called Valjean? He’ll head north with his sun-haired daughter, stand on a blowing beach and look at the English sea. Cosette will weep, thinking, I don’t want to leave him, I don’t want to leave him …
I don’t want to leave him either.
The note. I still have it. I promised Cosette I’d give Marius the note but I’ve failed.
Those stars. There’ll always be twinkling eyes in the night sky. It’s hard to imagine it—fifty years from now. Or one hundred. Or two hundred. What will the world be like? I don’t know. But I know the starry sky will look the same.
Bring him to me, stars. I have this letter. I made a promise.
I see his face. I see him perfectly—his brown eyes, his dimples, his mouth. His face blocks the stars.
“Are you alive? Boy? Isn’t that your name? Talk to me.”
It’s a strange dream. He is calling me Boy—why Boy? I’m Eponine.
He is so close. He’s kneeling so that I feel his breath on me and it’s not a dream at all. I’m awake and he’s here.
* * *
“Marius?” I can only whisper.
He frowns. “You know my name?”
“Yes. You don’t”—I try to swallow—“recognize me?”
He stares. “I don’t.”
“It’s Eponine. Remember? I—”
His face changes. It softens and opens up and he says, “Eponine? What the … ? Why are you here? And dressed as a boy?”
“Girls aren’t allowed”—I try to smile—“on the barricades. But I’m … dying. See?”
He looks where he’s kneeling and sees my blood. “Oh … you’re very badly wounded … but listen to me: I’ll carry you to the Café Musain, where there are a few others who survived, and who could mend—”
“The soldiers?”
“They’ve gone. It’s safe now. I’ll carry you …”
He takes hold of my hand.
I scream. It’s shrill and sudden, bursting out of me because the pain is too much, too much.
“I hurt you? But I only touched your hand!”
“Look … My hand’s gone. The musket … I held the end …”
“You held the end of a musket? Why?”
“Because it was being aimed.”
“Aimed?”
“At you.”
He pales. “Me?”
“You were standing. There were flames. A soldier saw you and knelt … aimed …”
“The boy. I saw a boy fall … That was you?”
“Yes.”
Marius makes a sound. It’s like a far smaller bullet has hit him. “Eponine … You silly thing … Why did you do that? Why did you get in the way of the gun? Still, they’ll mend you because a missing hand won’t kill you, not if we stop this blood and—”
“Marius. There’s more, I’m sure. My body hurts. The side of me …”
He looks again. Then he drops his gaze. “Mon Dieu …” He knows: There’s not enough blood inside me anymore. Not enough beats left in my heart.
“I asked the stars and they brought you here.”
“What?” He comes nearer.
I can hardly hear my own voice now. “May I ask something of you?”
“Oui, Eponine.”
“Stay with me? I don’t want to die alone. Stay by my side?”
He sits down. Very carefully, he moves his arm beneath me so he’s half holding me. “Of course. I’m here.” His eyes look so sad. “Many have died tonight—good souls—but I’m still living, Eponine. Why?”
“It’s right that you are.”
“Is it? You shouldn’t have grabbed that musket … I’ve got nothing to live for. The woman I love’s gone …”
“No,” I whisper. “Come nearer …”
He bends down.
“I’ve got a note.”
“A note?”
“From her.”
“Cosette?” He tenses. “How? I left the funeral procession to be with her but she was gone—without a word! After all our promises …”
“I saw her … She wrote a note and asked me to deliver it to you so you’d know—” I cry out in pain.
“Oh! Oh!” He lifts my head a little, puts something soft beneath it. “Does that help?”
“A little.” I can see him better now. I could just look at his face for the rest of my life, but I’ve got to keep talking. I say it quickly, in one breath: “She asked me to give you this note so you know she loves you. She doesn’t want to leave. It has”—I shudder—“her address so you might find her. Be with her.”
He smiles, but there are tears in his eyes. “A note? Where is it?”
“Safe … in my waistband …”
He looks down. “May I … ?”
“It hurts so much …”
“I know …” He’s so careful as he unties the str
ing around my waist that I barely feel him. I close my eyes. He is touching me.
“I have it,” he says, and his face is lit like a hundred thousand stars.
“Marius? Before you read it?”
He looks down at me. I’ve got seconds left, no more. I know that. “Kiss me?” He says nothing, but I see that familiar crease appear between his eyes. “Not on my lips and not when I’m living because that would be untrue and unfair. But on my forehead? When I’m dead?” I hear myself sob. “As a friend?”
He nods.
“You’ll stay with me?”
“I’ll stay. You won’t be alone.”
“And a kiss?”
“I promise. When you’ve closed your eyes.”
* * *
He’s holding me. He’s looking at me.
My love. My love. I’ve seen him in every season. I walked with him on a warm summer’s evening … He made my world feel new.
What else? I see the sunlight on the Seine, and Cosette’s hands holding on to mine. I hear the gray nag’s whicker as I rub her nose, and I feel Gavroche sucking milk from my fingers. Warm fruit. A breeze, high up.
How lucky I’ve been.
And I’ve seen him take her note. He’ll find her now. Marius will find Cosette and they’ll marry and have children and perhaps on winter nights they’ll sit with their children and tell them the story of a girl they once knew called Eponine who brought them together.
I open my eyes.
He’s watching me. His smile is soft. He strokes my hair and I feel a peace that I’ve never known—here, in his arms.
Very quietly, I say, “You know … Monsieur Marius?”
He smiles. “Mademoiselle Eponine?”
“I think I was a little in love with you.”
His eyes shine and I can see my reflection in them. But I like the girl I see. She looks happy. Why, I wonder, when she is dying? Perhaps it’s because she knows Marius does love her, in his way. He will not forget her.
I smile. I’m not alone—Marius is with me. I’m not afraid anymore.
* * *
We all leave something behind us. A bird in flight will lose a snow-white feather, and flowers in the hedgerows will drop their petals. And people? We leave memories. Footprints in the dust and fingerprints on everything we’ve touched, warmth in every hand we’ve held. We become stories that are spoken of, for always. And in this way, we carry on.
I feel his lips. They are on my forehead—warm, warm—as he lays me down. “Oh, Eponine …”
And now my love’s shining out of me, filling the streets and fields and sky, and all I can think is, He lives, he lives. And perhaps I live too and always will, for love is the strongest thing of all—and love never dies, never dies.
This book has been both a delight and a privilege. I am grateful to everyone at Chicken House for their warmth, knowledge, and care—but particular thanks to Barry Cunningham and my wonderful editor, Rachel Leyshon; I’ve loved working with you all. My thanks, too, to my family, whose support is the foundation of every book. And lastly, I am grateful—as always—to my agent, Vivienne Schuster, who is to me as the stars are to Eponine—wise, reassuring, and always there.
Susan E. Fletcher is the author of several books for adults, including Eve Green, which won a Whitbread First Novel Award in the United Kingdom. A Little in Love is her first book for young adults. Susan lives in England. You can follow her on Twitter at @sfletcherauthor.
Based on the original classic novel by Victor Hugo
Text copyright © 2015 by Susan E. Fletcher
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2014 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fletcher, Susan E., 1979– author.
A little in love / Susan E. Fletcher.—First edition.
pages cm
“Based on the original classic novel by Victor Hugo.”
Summary: Eponine, the street girl from Les Misérables, tells the story of her life and her unrequited love for Marius, which ultimately leads to her death on the barricades during the short-lived rebellion of June 1832.
ISBN 978-0-545-82960-1
1. Hugo, Victor, 1802–885. Misérables—Adaptations. 2. Riots—France—Paris—Juvenile fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Juvenile fiction. 4. Paris (France)—History—19th century—Juvenile fiction. 5. France—History—Louis Philippe, 1830–1848—Juvenile fiction. [1. Love—Fiction. 2. Riots—Fiction. 3. Paris (France)—History—19th century—Fiction. 4. France—History—Louis Philippe, 1830–1848—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.F58Li 2015
823.92—dc23
[Fic]
2015001439
First edition, September 2015
Cover art by studiohelen.co.uk and Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-0-545-83057-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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