I nod to myself. How did I not see it before? Marius could have lifted her up and taken her to a physician. He would have found one in Paris somewhere. Javert would have helped. Jean Valjean. Cosette, even. I can see it now. He whisks her away from the barricade and takes her to safety, covering her bleeding wound with his own coat. And it’s an entirely different story after that. Maybe Marius would have forgotten all about his revolution. His Cosette. His friends. Maybe he would have felt some tenderness for a girl who nearly died so he’d live.
But he let her die.
That thought settles in me; it nestles so deep down in the crevices that it sprouts roots.
I believe I was a little in love with you.
My heart pounds against my ribcage like a lunatic trying to break out of a cell. It’s true. Marius let Éponine die. He didn’t love her back and that was why. And she gave it up all too soon, all too early. Marius was sure of how she felt. He could see it written all over her face. He knew.
“Paul, dinner will be about ten minutes,” Aunt Amy calls from the kitchen.
He let her die.
I see it all now with new eyes, as if my old friends have removed their masks to reveal their true selves. It’s like changing the camera angle in a film, just so, to see the villain hiding in the shadows all that time while the hero thought he was safe and alone.
“Paul?”
She could have been saved.
“Paul?”
But he didn’t do it.
I hear Aunt Amy near me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Paulie, what’s the matter?”
“He let her die,” I say, so quietly.
“I beg your pardon?”
I feel like I’m outside of myself, watching, as I launch my book across the sitting room. It smacks into the wall, knocking down a decorative plate, breaking it. Aunt Amy jumps back.
I shout, “He let her die!”
“Paul!”
I stand. “He let her die!”
She reaches for me. “What’s wrong with you?”
I pull away from her. My hands are fists, beating against the winged-back chair. “He let herdie!”
Aunt Amy’s grip on me is firm, her big man-hands on my shoulders, pulling at me, getting me away from the chair. And I continue, “He let her die, he let her die, he let her die!”
“Paul.” Her voice is softer, but her arms around me are rough and tight like a straight-jacket.
I fight her, try to pull away from her, but the tears are streaming and there’s no way for me to stop them. I fall to my knees, I can’t fight it, and so I weaken and fold like a collapsing tower.
“It’s all right, Paul—it’s all right—”
“…just let her die…” My voice sounds weak and faraway.
“It’s all right…”
“…let her die…”
And somewhere I see myself, in his arms, telling him before my death dream ends:
I believe I was a little in love with you.
