Éponine raised herself and listened; then she muttered,-- "It is he." And, turning to Marius, added,-- "My brother is here, but he must not see me, or he would scold me." "Your brother?" Marius asked, as he thought most bitterly and sadly of the duties toward the Thénardiers which his father had left him; "which is your brother?" "That little fellow." "The one who is singing?" "Yes." Marius made a move. "Oh, do not go away!" she said; "it will not be long just now." She was almost sitting up, but her voice was very low, and every now and then interrupted by the death-rattle. She put her face as close as she could to that of Marius, and added with a strange expression,-- "Come, I will not play you a trick: I have had a letter addressed to you in my pocket since yesterday; I was told to put it in the post, but kept it, as I did not wish it to reach you. But perhaps you will not be angry with me when we meet again ere long, for we shall meet again, shall we not? Take your letter." She convulsively seized Marius's hand with her wounded hand, but seemed no longer to feel the suffering. She placed Marius's hand in her blouse pocket, and he really felt a paper. "Take it," she said. Marius took the letter, and she gave a nod of satisfaction and consolation. "Now, for my trouble, promise me--" And she stopped. "What?" Marius asked. "Promise me!" "I do promise!" "Promise to kiss me on the forehead when I am dead; I shall feel it." She let her head fall again on Marius's knees and her eyes closed; he fancied the poor soul departed. Éponine remained motionless; but all at once, at the moment when Marius believed her eternally asleep, she slowly opened her eyes, on which the gloomy profundity of death was visible, and said to him with an accent whose gentleness seemed already to come from another world,-- "And then, look you, Monsieur Marius, I think that I was a little in love with you." She tried to smile once more, and expired. CHAPTER VII. GAVROCHE CALCULATES DISTANCES. Marius kept his promise; he deposited a kiss on this livid forehead, upon which an icy perspiration beaded. It was not an infidelity to Cosette, but a pensive and sweet farewell to an unhappy soul. He had not taken without a quiver the letter which Éponine gave him; for he at once suspected an event in it, and was impatient to read it. The heart of man is so constituted,--and the unfortunate child had scarce closed her eyes ere Marius thought of unfolding the paper. He gently laid her on the ground and went off, for something told him that he could not read this letter in the presence of a corpse. He walked up to a candle on the ground-floor room; it was a little note folded and sealed with the elegant care peculiar to women. The address was in a feminine handwriting, and ran,-- "To Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfeyrac's, No. 16, Rue de la Verrerie." He broke the seal and read:--