I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
    -—Robert Frost

She came to a halt. Struggling to regain her breath, Marie-Elisabeth Devereaux leaned over, panting, and place her hands on her knees for support. She had run hard, though for only about ten minutes; she was, however, unused to such exertions, being of noble blood, strict parentage, and tight corsetry. The night was dark and eerily silent as she gazed at the trees and shrubbery around her. She could barely see—it was, after all, past midnight and the foliage was thick—and fumbled in her small muslin sack for her lantern and tinderbox. She quickly struck a spark and lit the lantern.

She could not recognize the woods around her.

She searched the bag for her blanket and removed that. Checking to be sure no one was nearby, she slipped off her thick outer skirt, bundled it into a rough pillow of sorts and, exhausted, lay down to sleep.

"No!" she screamed. "I won't listen to this! Stop it, stop it..."

"And I will not listen to your nonsense any longer. That is enough," her father roared. "You will marry whom I choose, when I choose, and for what reason I choose."

"But I love Michel," She whispered. "Papa, I am twenty-six. I can make my own decisions."

"It is not a question of love," her father rumbled softly, but by no means gently. "You will marry the Comte de Ghent and that is final. You are fine young woman from an upstanding, well-respected family. You will not marry an innkeeper." This with a thick disgust, as if he spoke of manure and not a respectable job. "That is not good enough for a lady of your breeding."

"Michel is good enough for me. He is better than I deserve! He is kind and gentle and loving. It is all the same to me, whether he has a pile of gold or none at all, whether we are cold or hungry, for we shall feed on love and take warmth from it." She glared at him. "You're just jealous! You know Mother never loved you! She was forced to marry just as you are forcing me! You are not happy so you don't want me to be happy!"

"To your room! No more of your nonsense. You have read too many of those scandalous novels and they have shattered the small amount of intelligence you once had. Tomorrow we start preparations for the wedding." She felt guilty for a moment; she could see she had struck a weak spot with her simple argument. The moment, however, passed quickly.

"We'll see about that."

Dawn broke. She gathered up her things, put on her skirt, and ate an apple as she walked. She could eat more later; with Michel perhaps. She sighed.

"Michel is good enough. He is more than enough for me; he is a king, in my heart, at least. If Papa understood, things would be so much better."

But an heiress can not marry an innkeeper.

She came to a stream and knelt to drink. When she had done, she stared at her reflection.

Her Titian locks were scraggly after sleep and she hastily combed at them with her fingers, before remembering her own comb and pulling it out. Her clothes were creased, but otherwise fine. She carefully retied the crossover fichu she wore. Her eyes were green and sparkling with a hint of joy and defiance. Satisfied at last, she continued on.

As she travelled down the thin path through the forest, she began sing a few snatches of song:

...A la belle et tendre Imogine
Il le faut, je suis chevalier
Et je pars pour la Palestine.

Soon she reached Montfermeil. Michel was waiting for her and in no time, they had married. The next year he was off to war; on coming home, his inn recieved a new name. They had two daughters, and, after some time, three boys. Marie prefered her girls. Michel grew more cynical, lean, with a hard glint in his eyes, and an odd bitterness in his laughter. She grew taller, wider, sharper, angrier. And so time passed. She moved to Paris; she had wanted to when she was a girl, but this was not the Paris she dreamed of. Life never got better. She never again spoke to her family.

What would have happened, Madame Thénardier sometimes wondered, had I married the Comte instead? She knew that her life would have been better, but not in love. Michel still felt a vague sort of love for her, she was sure, and she loved her daughters dearly. Still, sometimes, she wished she could have traveled the other path, the one she passed by so many years ago.

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