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Is anybody here a fan of Poe? I got this in my locker last jump:

[There's the sound of a paper rustling. Firo clears his throat.]

"Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy..."

[He continues to read, impatiently speeding up at the end so the lines of the last stanza run together.]

To be honest, I never really got the end back when my friend used to read it. But it’s creepy, isn’t it? Really suits this place.

What I'm wonderin' about is if it's supposed to be some sortta threat or message. 'Cause just comin' out and sayin' it would be too easy, right?

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A poem... yes, yes, of course a poem. I like that it is short - it is easier to read. But only it makes you wonder what becomes of the man talking. Do you not find it peaceful, though, Sir? It makes me feel heavy, as if I could sleep forever and have some of the quiet it says. I would like quiet where I am not alone. Often I wandered Paris at night when I was alone - but I had to imagine a companion. It would be nice to just have it. To be with the dead. It would be quiet, I think, and sometimes I have been so tired.

[She finds it hard to explain, really. But it sort of encapsulates a lot of what she has felt in her life, in a way that Eponine could never express herself. And it comforts her to think that she is not the only unhappy soul in the world. This Poe almost feels like a friend to her.]

I prefer, well, company who's alive. You don't get much meaningful conversation out of a dead guy.

Is it really that lonely where you're from?

[The way she talks about it doesn't convince him any more of the poem being pleasant, but he is thinking that she must be pretty sad. Really, he doesn't even know the half of it.]

But it is nice to think up your own conversations. I talk to myself to make people say as I wish them to - but perhaps the dead would listen to me. There are lots of people where I am from, Sir. I am from Paris. But people do not listen to women like me. Sometimes I think it would be nice to be in a place with people who wish to talk to me. I would like the stars - but I like your poem, Sir. Do you truly not like it?

Sounds like people where you come from are pretty damn rude. You shouldn't have to rely on a dead person to listen to you. Might as well talk to a rock.

It's not exactly my poem--but it's one my friend read to me a couple times. I guess... it's not bad, but I'm not really a poetry person. I don't get as much out of it as you seem to.

It is not rudeness, Sir. It is just... it is different in Paris than here. There people look at me and they... well, it doesn't matter. It is not so bad, though. It means conversations go my way always.

[She laughs a hoarse, cackling laugh.]

You know, I have not heard a poem since I was tiny. My Mama used to have a book with poems in, such beautiful poems they were. But we lost it when we had to leave. I do not know your poem - it is just a feeling it gives me, here in my gut. That is all.

[He has to laugh with her. At least she's optimistic about it.

He does feel bad, though, when she mentions having to leave. He's assuming she means her family got kicked out like he did when he was young, and that's not an enjoyable experience at all.]

That really sucks. Too bad Luck's not here--I bet he'd love to share some of the ones he's read with you.

I could copy this one down for you, if you want.

Would you really, Sir? Do you have the paper to spare? And the ink?

[Just fancy - a poem all of her own. In that scrap of paper, Eponine would own more than she had in the past ten years. And that idea thrilled her. At long last, she was getting 'stuff' again.]

Who is Luck, Monsieur? Do you not know any more poems? What is 'suck'?

I think I can find it around here somewhere; this place has almost everything else.

[Whoa, that's a lot of questions. He laughs as he tries to keep trac of it all.]

Luck's my brother. Any poetry I know, he's the one who showed it to me. And, uh, I can try and remember some more, but I'm not really that great at rememberin' stuff. And "suck" just means it's bad.

[He realizes now that it's probably not the sort of language he should use around a girl, but no harm done if she didn't know what it meant, right?]

I would like that, please, Sir. Just fancy, a poem of my very own!Perhaps I will look as fancy as the students yet?

Suck... suck - yes, I like it. Black bread is suck.

[She laughs quickly] Suck - it is a funny word to mean bad, really. But your brother is not here? My brother is not either, or my sister. I wish Azelma were; she can't stand up for herself much. Was your brother a student, Sir?

[Firo tends to think of students as bored little kids, so he doesn He's about to tell her so, but she sounds happy enough that he just can't bring himself too.]

...Yeah, you definitely will.

He's not, nobody I know is here. And none of us went to school much. But he does like to read, if that counts. What about your brother and sister?

I would like to be a student. I am cleverer than I look, you know? I might have been a student. But no. In Paris, you must pay for a school. My Mama used to teach me and 'Zelma a bit when we had the inn, but when we lost it, she didn't want to teach. I can still read some though, and write - sometimes joined up! But Gavroche? No. My Mama did not like him; he was driven away when we moved. He is not here though, or Azelma. I have not seen her since she were arrested though...

At least where I come from, they don't teach much that's useful besides readin' and writin' and math. And you probably know more than a lotta people in my old neighborhood did.

[His smile vanishes as she gets to the part about Gavroche. When it comes to family, he has some pretty strong opinions.]

What the hell? What kinda parent does that to their kid?

Why do they teach nothing else, Sir? If you are in school, you should learn everything.

[It makes her feel proud, though, that this boy thinks she's more clever than his neighbours. At his questions about Gavroche, Eponine shrugs, though he can't see, and sighs.]

they had no money to feed him. It is hard when there are so many bellies and no money. Mama sold my youngest brothers but Gavroche was too old so they turned him out. He is better off, though. My Pa'd beat him, and he is heavy with his blows. If I could live like Gavroche, I would. But no. I am better a part of the Patron Minette.

Nothin' else useful, I said.

[To be fair, a lot of people would protest if schools started teaching only the skills a gangster deems useful.]

They sold kids? That's horrible. Maybe he is better off without 'em--why don't you leave, too?

[He has no idea what the Patron Minette is.]

I do not know. Sometimes I think it would be useful to know the countries of the world, and about them. They teach that, Sir. The students know about that - and if I did, I could talk to them. Or about pictures and in different languages. Monsieur Marius knew other languages. I used to hear him sometimes through the wall.

[She sighed at his questioning]

We needed the money for the room... Gavroche... yes, he is better alone. He has made friends with some of the students - he is clever, my brother. He eats better than I... I would like to leave, sometimes. Sometimes I think, yes, yes I will, and I go off by myself and sleep in a ditch for a few days. But if I am not there, then the gang will use Azelma, and she is not like me. She cries. How can I let her cry when I die by myself? Or my Pa sends the gang to look for me and they bring me back. I cannot leave. It is better, sometimes, to be with them than by yourself always, no?

If that's the kinda thing you like, I guess. You could go to a library for all that.

[He doesn't know if the weird library here would be helpful, though.]

...It's good you look out for your sister. I don't think anybody wants to be alone, but a real family wouldn't be so cruel to their kids. I know nobody in my family would.

[They're abnormally nice for criminals.]

A library? I could not - they are in houses, Sir.I cannot go into a house; they would call the guard on me straight away for stealing.

[She says it in an attitude that might suggest his stupidity in that suggestion.]

Perhaps, then, Sir, your family is nice. It is not always so; my family - my father, he is not a nice man - but your family sounds lovely, Sir. You are lucky.

You don't have public libraries where you're from? What about the guy who speaks all the languages, can he lend you any?

A guy who acts like that can't be called family at all. I am lucky. Really lucky. If any of 'em were here, I'd introduce you.

[He's happy to talk about his family, not realizing that it might be unfair to her and her situation to do so.]

Books are expensive, Sir. Even if there was a library, I would not be allowed in. You need... to go into a place like a hospital or a church, Sir, you need shoes. Sometimes Pa gives me his, but I would rather not wear them, for they are too big and the toes let in the water so they squelch under my foot. But sometimes he wishes me to go to the church.

[She sighs wistfully. If only she could have a family like this man describes. She's jealous, very jealous, and it tortures her to hear about them. But at the same time, she wants to hear about this Luck. It will, if nothing else, help her to imagine a nice family for herself when she's alone.]

Will you tell me of them, Sir? I like to hear such stories.

...Oh. Um, I'm sorry.

[Even he had shoes when he was a kid, and he'd hardly consider his situation back then enviable.

He's happy to jump to a different topic.]

Sure! Anything in particular you'd wanna hear about?

Sorry? But for why, Monsieur? It is not a thing to be sorry about. It is just the way of Paris... there has to be the poor and the rich... I am perhaps a bad girl, and now I am poor. It is just the way, Sir. There is nothing to be sorry about.

I do not know, truly. What can you tell me? Of how you... I do not know. I cannot think of what you might do. Do you have a bedroom? And a kitchen? Do you have a pet?

[She has very little conception of a 'real' family. What she truly wants to know is what it's like to be loved. But she doesn't know how to ask that - and it makes her fidget anyway, for fear she should be pitied, or scorned if people should know that.]

Hey, you can't say it's your fault. And... maybe it'll get better someday.

[He makes a mental note to tell her about Alveare.]

Yes to the first two, but a pet. ...Well, I got this kid named Czes livin' with me. He's small and sometimes gets in the way, so would he count as a pet?

[He laughs; he missed making fun of Czes. It's too bad the kid isn't here to react.]

I do not know... I think, at home, I would soon be dead. But that is... well, I cannot change that. I think I will either starve or be murdered; six months, perhaps, if I am lucky. The winter will get me this year.

[That probably seems really depressing... but Eponine is nonchalant about it all. And she truly doesn't fear her death at all.]

Czes is a boy, no? Not a goat? Can a person be a pet, Sir?

...Oh. Maybe you'll get lucky. Things don't always turn out the way you think they will.

[It is pretty depressing.]

He's a person, yeah; the little brother of my, um... friend. It was a joke.

You tell jokes with me? Now that is a good thing!

[She laughs at that. She is quite unused to people joking with her though - but she likes it. It makes her feel, almost, like she's gained a friend. Like Marius with his; they laughed together.]

Of your friend? Do you live with your friend then? I think that would be nice, to live with such people. Is he annoying? My brother was very annoying when he lived at home.

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