It was crawling along the pavement.
It was this that had spoken to him.
The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn trousers of coarse velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool of blood.
Marius indistinctly made out a pale head which was lifted towards him and which was saying to him:—
“You do not recognize me?”
“No.”
“Eponine.”
Marius bent hastily down.
It was, in fact, that unhappy child.
She was dressed in men’s clothes.
“How come you here?
What are you doing here?”
“I am dying,” said she.
There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings.
Marius cried out with a start:—
“You are wounded!
Wait, I will carry you into the room!
They will attend to you there.
Is it serious?
How must I take hold of you in order not to hurt you?
Where do you suffer?
Help! My God!
But why did you come hither?”
And he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise her.
She uttered a feeble cry.
“Have I hurt you?” asked Marius.
“A little.”
“But I only touched your hand.”
She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that hand Marius saw a black hole.
“What is the matter with your hand?” said he.
“It is pierced.”
“Pierced?”
“Yes.”
“What with?”
“A bullet.”
“How?”
“Did you see a gun aimed at you?”
“Yes, and a hand stopping it.”
“It was mine.”
Marius was seized with a shudder.
“What madness!
Poor child!
But so much the better, if that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed.
They will dress your wound; one does not die of a pierced hand.”
She murmured:— “The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is useless to remove me from this spot.
I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon.
Sit down near me on this stone.”
He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius’ knees, and, without looking at him, she said:—
“Oh! How good this is!
How comfortable this is!