Something scuttled across the floor in the darkness; a foot came down, and it stopped, dead. A rat, and a scrawny one at that, but better than nothing.

Her hunger barely appeased, she pounded on the dank stone wall, hoping that they would bring her some food. The hollow sound reverberated around the cell, but no-one outside would hear.

She had not seen her husband for days, months, years. No light penetrated the walls, and she had no notion of the passing time. That salaud had probably already made his escape and forgotten about her. When she next saw that two-faced wretch she’d wrap her hands around his bony neck and squeeze…no, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t dare. If she ever saw him again, that was. She was no fool: she knew he would have no qualms about abandoning her to rot in the dark hell of this prison.

He had landed her and all the rest in jail just for an old schnock who was probably a biscuit anyway. And only if he had not wasted all that time arguing over who was to escape first, trying to save his own sorry skin. She clenched her fists at the memory, the same fists that had rained futile blows down on that cop. That cogne would have had no chance alone, but he had had back-up. Someone must have tipped him off. But who? The only person who could have known was that fool of a student in the next apartment. Yes, it must have been him, that good-for-nothing whom Eponine…

Suddenly, a wave of fear washed over her. What had happened to Eponine and Azelma? She racked her brain, trying to remember what they had been doing, where they had been during the job, but blind panic clouded her mind. She could only hope they were not shut up too, or worse, left with her husband. Once the food they ate cost more than what they could bring in, that rat would turn them out into the streets. The mere thought of her daughters picking through rubbish dumps on numb bare feet, shivering with the chill of winter, was too much for her to bear. She thought of them being forced to sell themselves for a sou, tremblingly removing their tattered chemises for red-faced drunkards, and a shudder ran through her body.

She lay prone upon the cold slabs and started to weep. After all the years of trickery, the tears flowed with surprising ease. Another fit of coughing racked her body, splattering the stones with drops of warm blood, but the sobs resumed with added fervour after it had ended. She grieved—not because of the slime that soaked through her dress; not because of the cough that tore her body apart and robbed her of blood; least of all not for her husband—but for her precious angels with dirty faces.