Alcohol runs through her veins more than blood now, and Eponine looks at him with a tilted head. "Believe it? No, I do. I wanted to hurt him. Not you. I did not-- M'sieur, I would have flirted with you all the same, that is how I have always done it. I wanted to give a sad man a drink. At home, and we are not in Paris, I know, this is how it would have gone as well. Drink my ale, drink in me." She's not sure how much sense her squeaking is making, but she keeps trying, reaching a hand out to touch his knee.

"I did not want to hurt you, m'sieur." She looks up at him through half-lidded, glazed eyes. "I wanted comfort and I kissed you back because you were so like him and I wanted him. I did not see I could use this to hurt him in the moment. I swear to you, on my life, tough that is not worth much when you speak to a dead girl."

She nods at the destruction. "I cannot. It is here in every shadow."