Lonely Souls

 

Chapter One

Liberty, equality, fraternity…

“They’re old words,” someone was saying wearily. “We have heard them before. A hundred times.”

“Truth never grows old,” came the steady answer of their leader. “Liberty never dies. And as long as there’s a God in heaven, men are meant to be equal on this earth.” He leaned forward, the firelight reflected in his dark blue eyes, dancing wildly. He clenched his fists as his fervor rose. “I dream of a world where men can hold their heads up and stand tall… a world where children do not starve in the streets… a world where women are not dishonored and cast aside, mere playthings of a cruel and wicked society. This dream… it can become a reality. It will. The light of the new sun is already dawning on the horizon. Patria will rise… will shine in the light of the sun…” he started, his words trailing off. 

Patria. She seemed to be standing before him now, as real as a living, breathing being… Patria, his homeland, his country, his one true love… and she was changed. He had never seen her thus before. Nothing more than a half-starved girl with a dirty face and hollow eyes, stringy dark hair hanging down on scrawny shoulders… and a look of longing about her that spoke of a blighted womanhood and a heart grown early old. And in spite of it all, there was something of beauty beneath the grime and hunger and sorrow… 

He came to himself with a start, realizing that it wasn’t a vision, but a real girl he was staring at. He looked quickly away… but her image stayed with him.

Yes… Patria… it was right that she should look so. She had been in bondage so long. And his heart raged within him. Patria would be avenged. He, the marble lover of liberty… he himself would lead the charge that would strike the death blow into the hearts of her enemies.

oOo

She sat in the corner of the fireplace, relishing the warmth of the flames and not minding the bit of black smoke that drifted into her already grimy face. Warmth and comparative safety were so rare in these dark days. She would take all she could get. And while she sat there, bony hands clasped around her knees barely hidden by her ragged skirt, she kept her eyes fixed on the face of the man she loved.

He was sitting at the table, scribbling fiercely away at something, affording only brief glances at the leader of Les Amis as he worked. It was late, and he had an essay due in the morning. But she didn’t mind. It gave her such a perfect opportunity to take in every detail of him… down to every freckle on his face… she loved every one of them. And the soft, faraway look in his green eyes. She smiled. Perhaps he would never truly see her… but just at that moment, she didn’t mind. She dare not hope so much of such a cruel life. Just to sit here, so near to him… that was a blessing to her.

But the voice of the leader interrupted her romantic daydream and she found herself clinging to his words even as her eyes never moved from Marius. Something about those words of his… they wanted to kindle flames in her heart.

“A world where women are not dishonored and cast aside, mere playthings of a cruel and wicked society…” 

She turned to look at him when he said that… and somehow all she could think of was a lion. A lion of liberty… she grinned at the thought. She had seen a lion once as a child, when she peeked between the bars of the Tuileries Palace gates. A lion in a cage, tossing his golden mane and letting out a roar that seemed to shake the very palace walls. It had shaken her to the core of her being… as this man’s words were now shaking her soul. She wanted a world like that. 

She had looked up at him, the fire in his eyes reflected in her own… and they had shared a startled glance. He had stared… murmured something about Patria… and looked away as if suddenly ashamed.

“Marius,” she whispered, edging nearer the young man who was still scribbling busily away, ink from his pen seeping messily over his fingers.

“Mmm… what is it, ‘Ponine?”

“What is his name?” she nodded toward the golden-haired leader, her curiosity piqued. Marius followed her gaze briefly and bent over his paper again.

“Enjolras,” he answered over the scratching of the pen on paper. “Haven’t I mentioned him before?”

Eponine didn’t answer. She leaned back against the wall, arms wrapped more tightly around her knees as she rocked gently back and forth. She stared at this Enjolras a moment longer, taking in the strong lines of his face, the determined look of him, the way his eyes glittered as he spoke to another young man, tracing the outline of a diagram on the table before him. There was something in this man that she had never seen before. It made her heart race. And the realization of that made her pin her eyes on Marius again. Never let it be said that Eponine Thenardier was not loyal to those she loved, fiercely and with all her heart.

She was just a shadow. A mere slip of a girl who appeared in their midst without warning and flitted away into the darkness of the night. She came softly and left in silence. She spoke to no one but Marius, and not even very much at that. Mostly she sat there in her corner by the fire, staring at him out of big black wistful eyes that seemed all the bigger and blacker because of the pale thinness of her face.

She was starving to death, this shadow-girl… starving not only for food, but for love… love and safety and warmth and kindness. Marius had shown her the kindness she craved, and her desperate mind had turned it to love. He was the first man who had ever been kind to her, the first to smile sweetly and not with mocking hatred or leering cruelty. The first to touch her hand in gentle respect, the first to speak to her softly and in words given in sympathy and friendship. She was used to rough curses, to painful abuse. Her hungry heart clung to Marius with all the strength left in it.

Chapter Two

Eponine slipped through dark alleys and wandered down lonely streets, the cobblestones cold under her bare feet. She was a child of the night, more at home in the darkness than in the light that revealed her for who she was and brought the looks of disgust from those above her. It was comforting to be hidden… it felt almost like safety. Out there alone, with the glittering stars overhead and the cold light of the moon, she felt peaceful… she felt that she could make it through.

She tilted her head to the silent sky as she trailed her hand against a brick wall, focusing on the feeling of the rough surface beneath her fingertips and the gentle night breeze playing with her hair. These very real, everyday things somehow helped balance the swirling of her mind. She had gone to the Cafe Musain again tonight… as she had nearly every night for weeks. She had gone to be with Marius, but somehow, as they always did, Enjolras’ words had swept her up and carried her far, far away.

He spoke of a hope she had never dared dream of… and of a world she couldn’t begin to comprehend. In this world of his, no one ever went hungry or was beaten in the streets, no one was ever drained of their life blood by merciless taxation. And strangest of all, in this world, everyone was equal… the common gamine… just like her… on a level with the highest duchess. Somehow his words seemed to lift her from the gutter… and they stayed with her now. She didn’t even notice the growling of her empty stomach.

He had spoken to her that night… he didn’t often seem to notice her as she stayed hidden in the corner, always watching and listening with the stealthy silence that had kept her alive for so long. But tonight he had seen her, and he had treated her in such a way that made her head spin. Marius had smiled kindly, had called her “friend”… but Enjolras had taken her hand, had bowed as if she were a grand lady, had called her “Mademoiselle”. He had smiled at the light in her eyes, and he had asked her questions as if she was an equal, talking to her as if she was one of Les Amis. He had spoken to her in respect… not mockingly… and it made her jaw drop.

So intent was she on unravelling the tangled wonders in her head that Eponine forgot to watch where she was going… unusual for a native of the Paris streets, for a girl who had to survive by clawing her way through life, always alert, always on guard. And she walked right into doom in the form of a slender young man who sneered down at her, his features contorted into a twisted, cruel smile.

“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” he laughed riotously as if it was actually funny. She could smell the liquor on his breath and she recoiled instinctively, her heart racing in sudden terror.

“Excuse me, Montparnasse, I’m on my way home,” she muttered, lowering her head and wrapping her arms around herself as she attempted to move past him, but he planted himself firmly in her path. She turned then, hoping she could simply retreat the way she had come and thus avoid him that way. But his hand shot out in a lightning movement, snatching her arm. He dragged her towards him as she tried in vain to pull away.

“Not so fast, my pretty little friend,” he laughed, tilting her face roughly up to his. “I want to know why you’ve been avoiding me. Someone else now, is there? A fancy bourgeois boy, no doubt.” That hideous chuckle of his made her soul quake. “You always did know how to pick up the men, Eponine.”

“Let me go, Parnasse!” Eponine struggled harder, almost managing to jerk her arm free. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… I do not pick up men.” She spat the words out in disgust. She had done horrible things in her life, she knew… helping her father in his thievery simply because she didn’t know what else to do… but she was not what Montparnasse accused her of being.

He only laughed again… and then he whispered something, his drunken voice quavering. Eponine grit her teeth in anger. This night had been almost the first time in her life a man had treated her with respect… and she had felt a woman then. She would not be dragged back down into the mire… and this… this was a new level, one to which she would never stoop. She went wild.

When she thought back to that night, she was never quite sure what had happened… she didn’t know what she screamed out in her blind rage and fear, or how hard she fought against him, or what exactly he did to her. She did remember being slammed up against a brick wall, remembered the jarring pain of his beating and how she begged him to stop.

And then he was pulled off of her, jerked backward by some unseen force. Left alone, Eponine found her legs no longer had the strength to hold her and she slid down against the wall until she hit the ground. She huddled herself into a ball, a pitiful heap of rags as she wrapped one arm around her aching ribs, the other raised to her head where she could feel blood trickling from a gash in her forehead. And she watched in astonishment as the two figures in front of her struggled wildly in the darkness. She couldn’t make out the face of her rescuer, but he was tall and strong, and more than a match for the slightly-built Montparnasse. It took only a few moments of fighting, and Eponine’s tormentor lay stretched on the ground, insensible. The mystery man stood over him, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath.

He turned toward her then, lowering himself to the ground beside her and reaching out gingerly to take her hands in his.

“Are you alright?”

She recognized his voice even before her eyes focused on the dim outline of his face. Her head was still swimming with pain from the blows she had received, stars dancing through her vision.

“Enjolras…” she choked out his name, her voice barely there. It was more a halting whisper.

“I’m here,” he whispered back. “I’ve got you now.” He scooped her up before she could protest, lifting her from the cold, hard cobblestones. At first she stiffened, wanting to fight him, wanting to make him put her down. But the next moment, all the fight went out of her, and with a shuddering sigh, she went limp in his arms, letting her head fall against his chest. She was so tired, and she hurt so badly… and she was content to let him carry her.

“I’ve got a friend,” he added, almost conversationally as she closed her eyes and tried to listen, but could barely make sense of the words. “Joly. He’s a medical student. He’ll be able to fix you up. You’ll be just fine.”

She murmured something in reply, and heard him go on talking, but she couldn’t distinguish another word of it. Her head felt fuzzy… and then the world went so dark that even the stars were blotted out.

Chapter Three

When Eponine opened her eyes, it was to stare at a bare plaster ceiling with a jagged crack running from corner to corner. She was lying flat on her back, on something much softer than the pallet in the corner of her family’s dingy apartment, and covered with quilts much warmer than her threadbare blanket. She lay still a moment, blinking hard, trying to bring to memory what it was that had brought her here… and where was she anyway? Oh yes… Montparnasse… she grimaced as his leering grin flashed through her mind. 

Ignoring the pounding ache in her head, she struggled to sit up, biting back a gasp of pain. She touched her ribs gingerly and lifted her hand to feel a linen bandage wrapped around her forehead. It made her smile. How long had it been since she had been cared for? A distant memory of a little girl lying in bed, and Maman sitting at her side with a steaming mug of soup… when had it all gone wrong? The smile changed and she blinked back stubborn tears. 

She stretched hesitantly, assessing the aching of her body and reflected that after all, it wasn’t much worse than anything she had gotten before. Montparnasse knew nothing of being gentle, even when he wasn’t angry… and her father was almost worse. She gazed nonchalantly at the purple fingermarks on her wrist and blinked hard again, guessing her left eye must be swollen. She shrugged her shoulders with a sigh. It had been a good night in spite of everything… at least she had been able to sleep in a warm bed, just this once… and a man had cared enough to fight for her. She lifted her head higher. Perhaps she was worth something after all. 

Quiet voices filtered through the closed door as she slipped from bed, gathering up her belt lying on a nearby chair and wrapping it around her tiny waist. It was time for her to go… but not through the door if people were here. The window would suffice, it was on the first floor. But as she moved towards it, she paused and turned back, recognizing the voice that was speaking.

“...was the first time I’ve ever been able to fight for the people… even if it was only one girl,” he was saying, his voice quiet and intense. “It felt good, Joly. To be able to do something with my hands for once, and not just with words. It’s what I’m meant to do in this world, I’m sure of it… to go on fighting injustice until my last breath. It’s a noble cause… I pray God that I’ll be worthy of it.”

“It’s a good thing you found her when you did,” Joly was answering, and Eponine could hear a shudder in his words. “Whoever this man was, he was brutal. I wonder why he was hurting her…”

“Who knows?” Enjolras sighed. “France is full of brutality. This kind of evil can only be washed away with blood.”

“There should be another way,” and Joly’s voice was more serious than Eponine had ever heard it before. She knew him, the laughing, merry one always at the Cafe Musain with the rest. “I’ve pledged myself to saving human life, not destroying it.”

“And you think a revolution can come about without bloodshed?” Enjolras’ voice rose with anger. “Don’t you see it? This is what is destroying human life… letting this tyranny be prolonged. It is squeezing the life out of the people of France, crushing them into the dust! The greater evil, Joly, is to stand aside and do nothing. Patria has been brutally wronged, and someone must pay the price.”

There was the sound of a chair scraping across bare wooden floorboards, and then footsteps. They paused before Eponine’s door, and Joly spoke again.

“I know, my friend. It is the cruel truth of this broken world we live in.”

A moment of silence, and then the door swung open. Eponine stood still in the center of the room, starting guiltily as if she had been caught doing wrong. Joly’s grim face broke into a cheerful smile.

“Ah, good morning, mademoiselle! I’m glad to see you up and doing well… how do you feel?”

“Well enough,” Eponine smiled crookedly. “I thank you for your kindness, monsieur, but I must be on my way.”

“What, in such a hurry?” he shook his head. “Please, come and have some breakfast. And I must check the wound on your head. You were out as soundly as a stone when Enjolras brought you here, I must ensure that you are alright before you go.”

He took her hand and led her into the other room before she could protest. Enjolras had risen from the table when she entered, but he said nothing more than a quiet “good morning”, his eyes fixed on something behind her as if he didn’t care to look at her. Well, she must look a sight. She smirked in amusement, tossing her hair behind her shoulders as Joly pulled out a chair and motioned her to take a seat.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid” Joly was saying apologetically as he placed plain brown bread and cheese on the table. “But at least it fills the stomach.”

“You set a poor table, Joly,” Enjolras said wryly. “Is that a fair meal to put before a lady?” He withdrew a package from his pocket and shoved it awkwardly at Eponine before tossing another one at Joly. “Surely you can at least serve chocolate. Do you know how to make it?”

“Chocolate?” Eponine spoke the unfamiliar word slowly and then bit her tongue. She would not show her ignorance before this man! She tilted her chin upwards as she reached for the package and pulled back the paper wrapper to reveal dainty pastries. Her eyes widened and she glanced at Enjolras in awe. But he was busy instructing Joly on how chocolate ought to be prepared and didn’t seem to see her at all.

“Forgive me if I know nothing of your fancy nonsense,” Joly laughed to Enjolras as, a few minutes later, he set a mug of the steaming liquid chocolate in front of Eponine. “You see, he used to be bourgeois,” he added to the girl in a confidential tone. “It seems one day he just got tired of the wealthy life and renounced his family and they renounced him…”

“Enough, Joly.” The quiet words were filled with a sort of ferocity. 

Eponine shifted in her chair, uncomfortable in the momentary silence. Joly was enthusiastically tasting the chocolate, his eyes dancing merrily, while Enjolras sat with his head bowed, one hand clenched into a fist on the table as he stared unseeingly into the distance. Eponine nibbled at a croissant, stared longingly at a lovely pink macaron, and warmed her fingertips against the mug of chocolate, but more than that she hardly dared to do. Enjolras looked at her then, frowning.

“The pastries are not to your liking?”

“Oh… no, monsieur, I…” Eponine fidgeted with a corner of the paper wrapping. “You see, I… I never had such things before… you should not… waste them on me…” Why was she saying these things? Shouldn’t she be grateful for what she could get?

“They’re for you,” he muttered, looking away again. She cocked her head at him curiously, decided he wasn’t prone to conversation today, and turned back to the pastries. He had given her permission, might as well not let them go to waste. She gave in to her ravenous hunger and devoured them, almost desperately. Oh, but the chocolate… the chocolate was heavenly… she sipped it slowly, letting the creamy richness slide over her tongue and trickle down her throat. It warmed her through and through, from the inside out. 

“Monsieur,” she ventured at last, reaching out to touch Enjolras’ sleeve. His head jerked up abruptly and she moved her hand away. “Monsieur,” she went on, raising her voice. “Merci. Merci for… for everything.”

He nodded, his lips set into a grim line.

“No need to thank me, mademoiselle. I did my duty, nothing more.”

She smiled at him. It was as if he was almost daring her to be afraid of him. Well, Eponine Thenardier was hard to scare. And besides, she could see straight through to his heart… he couldn’t fool her with this gruff exterior.

“You are a good man, Monsieur Enjolras,” she said simply. “And good men are hard to find.”

She left as soon as Joly gave her reluctant leave, slipping off through the Paris alleys in the warm glow of morning sun. And so off she must go, back to her miserable little life in the streets… but her heart had been touched and it gave her courage to go on. This strange and stubborn leader of Les Amis had given her more than one night of safety and a good meal in her stomach… he had given her the gift of hope, fragile though it was.

oOo

“Enjolras, marble lover of liberty, conquered by a woman at last,” Grantaire laughed as he tipped his head back, lifting his ever-present wine bottle to his lips. “Tell us more,” he added, dragging his sleeve across his mouth. 

The story of how Enjolras had come to Joly’s door in the middle of the night, an unconscious young woman in his arms and something akin to panic in his eyes, had spread through Les Amis like wildfire, and each one of them had twisted the meaning of it to his own liking. They dragged it on and on, laughing over it and at their leader, who was sitting at a table in the corner, glowering at them all over a stack of books.

“Come, man, tell us her name… who is your fair lady?”

“I did not ask her name,” Enjolras snapped at the offender and buried his nose in his book, determined to block them all out until they were ready to speak of more sensible things. He was more than a little irritated… not only were his friends tormenting him mercilessly, he couldn’t seem to focus on a single word of the page before him. It frustrated him that he could not completely push her face from his mind. The way she had looked up at him, with such relief in her eyes… it had done things to his heart that he refused to admit, even to himself.

“She was Marius’s shadow friend,” Joly supplied quite willingly. “The Jondrette girl. Eponine.”

The name was repeated half a dozen times, but Enjolras did not hear. He was forcing himself to read, to absorb every word and to think of them as hard as he could. This would never do… he had so much work before him… papers he needed to write, plans that needed perfecting… and there was the rally he meant to hold tomorrow afternoon. He couldn’t afford distraction now. Ever.

“A man without a woman is a pistol without a trigger,” Bossuet was laughing. “It is the woman that sets the man off. Well, Enjolras has no woman. He is not in love, and yet he manages to be intrepid. It is a thing unheard of that a man should be as cold as ice and as bold as fire.” The jests flew around the room, thicker than the smoke that was rising through the dirty little chimney. No one heard Enjolras as he forced a single word between clenched teeth, his knuckles white as he gripped his book.

“Patria.” He meant it with every fibre of his being… and yet he could not rid himself of the fact that the girl’s face accompanied the beloved name of Patria… no matter how it angered him.

Chapter Four

Eponine threaded her way through the crowd, her eyes searching the faces all around her. She had heard Les Amis speaking last night about the rally that would take place in front of the house of General Lemarque. They had been busy all evening putting pamphlets together and rehearsing speeches. The tension in the Cafe Musain had been fiery that night and she had loved it. She hadn’t terribly much faith in their revolution, but the tiny spark of her hope was growing into a small but steady flame.

She knew Marius would be here at the rally, and so she had come in search of him… she told herself that this was the only reason she came, just to see him, to be near him… and yet something deep inside of her knew she had come to hear Enjolras again… to feel his words make her soul soar high above the dirty streets of Paris. 

The rally had not yet begun although people were already gathered. As Eponine pushed forward, someone brushed against her, nearly toppling her over, and she reached out instinctively to catch the small body in her arms.

“Here, what are you doing, little man?” She held tightly onto him as he struggled for a moment, and then he twisted to look up at her, dirty face breaking into a dimpled grin and blue eyes sparkling merrily.

“Perhaps I should ask what you are doing, ‘Ponine,” he answered with an impertinent nod of his head that sent his unruly hair falling into his eyes. “Turning into a revolutionary, are you?”

“Oh, come here, you,” she knelt to sweep her little brother into a crushing hug, despite his protests. “Where have you been, Gavroche? It’s been days…”

“You know me!” The grin grew wider. “I take care of myself. ‘Course, I’ll take care of you too, ‘Ponine, when I’m big enough.”

“‘Course you will, dear little man,” Eponine laughed and ruffled his hair before she released him. He saluted her smartly before running off into the crowd and vanishing, his little crowd of cohorts running along behind, laughing… dancing. She watched them go with a twinge of pain in her heart… they were just little ones… they deserved so much better than this. 

“Eponine!” Marius’ voice caught and held all of her attention and she turned to him with light in her eyes. He was smiling, almost breathless in his excitement. He had fallen deep into the revolution fervor. “Something to read?” he thrust one of his pamphlets into her hands. “Glad you’re here… this will be a great day, ‘Ponine!” 

She hardly knew what she said in response… but she felt her heart answering to his smile… and in her fancy she imagined that he smiled for her, and her alone. She had forgotten Gavroche, Enjolras, Paris even… nothing else seemed to matter when Marius stood before her. Everything in her was reaching out to him in desperate longing… and he never saw. 

He moved on, climbing onto the makeshift platform beside Enjolras, lifting his fist as he joined the cheer, “Vive la France!” It rippled through the crowd and Eponine found herself crying out the phrase too. She caught a glimpse of Gavroche, hoisted high on the shoulders of one of Les Amis, and he shouted back at her, “Vive la France!” For a moment she smiled adoringly at her little brother, and then turned her eyes to Marius.

Enjolras was shouting out his challenge to the people, his promises and dreams of swift action and a brighter tomorrow… and they clamored out their answering cry, desperate for any kind of a change in their miserable lives. The judgement day was coming, he told them… coming sooner than they knew. But he was cut short as the crowd turned to see a line of mounted policemen moving slowly but steadily forward, come to put a stop to the rebellion.  

Panic seized Eponine as she glanced from the officers to the two men still standing on the platform… but in the next moment, they had vanished into the crowd. Eponine caught a glimpse of Marius and pushed through the chaos in attempt to reach him. He was speaking to a rather wealthy-looking old man… or rather was being scolded by this man. She could barely catch the words, but she heard Marius say “grandfather” and her eyes grew wide. This man was bourgeois… and Marius was nearly as poor as she… wasn’t he?

The man was climbing back into his carriage now, his face red with anger… and Marius red enough to match as he was swallowed up by the crowd, crying out “Vive le France” in defiance. Eponine tried to follow, but she lost track of him in the next few whirlwind moments as the people scattered and nearly collided headlong with another woman.

“Pardon, Madame,” she gasped out, trying to regain her bearings as the line of officers pushed the people back mercilessly, trying to pick out the leaders of the tiny rebellion. The crowd was surging back, refusing to be quenched so quickly. The woman was bent slightly, struggling to catch her breath as one hand reached out to clutch Eponine’s arm for support. Eponine felt suddenly painfully conscious of her tattered rags and tangled hair as she took in the elegance of this stranger. The woman was middle-aged, surely, but there was a youthfulness in her face that belied her years. Golden curls escaped from beneath her bonnet and there was something familiar about those blue eyes of hers… Eponine stared, caught off-guard by this odd familiarity.

“No, no need to apologize,” she gasped out in answer, pressing a hand against her breast as they stood pressed up against the wall of Lemarque’s mansion while people raced by in wild confusion. “I… I just… please, do you know who that man is?” She gestured and Eponine scanned the swirling mass of people to see Enjolras standing still in the midst of it as if he had been turned to stone, staring steadily in her direction… only he wasn’t looking at her, but at the woman at her side. Eponine frowned at the question, vague alarm rippling through her.

“Why do you ask?” She silently urged Enjolras to leave, to get out of here before he was recognized as a leader. It hardly seemed logical that a woman would be involved in ferreting out the student rebels… but then perhaps they thought a woman would be more trusted.

“Because… because…” her voice trailed off. Enjolras had moved forward, away from the retreating crowd and into the open. The woman gasped and drew back as if startled, her eyes flooded with tears. “Please, girl, make him leave this place, get him away from here, quickly! There is nothing I can do, and he will be taken…” 

An odd request, truly. But Eponine didn’t wait to puzzle out her meaning. She simply ran, seizing Enjolras’ arm just as she heard a shout from one of the officers that a leader had been spotted. 

“Please, Enjolras, we must leave,” she tugged at him breathlessly, wild with panic when she found she couldn’t move him. He stood like a statue, as if she wasn’t there at all. “They will arrest you… please!” 

She glanced over her shoulder to find that the woman had vanished… and Enjolras seemed almost to wake from a trance. He glanced down at her, his eyes filled with something she could not read. She pulled at his arm again, sputtering a desperate stream of Argot, and he followed, not even protesting as she led him into the maze of Paris alleyways. 

Chapter Five

The officers could hardly follow here… they knew little of the vastness of the city they were supposed to patrol. Eponine had always the advantage… light on her feet, as subtle as a shadow, and with a wealth of street knowledge. She ducked in and out of corridors, pressing steadily forward, clutching Enjolras’ hand as he stumbled after her. 

Finding herself in an empty alley, she fell against the wall of a warehouse with a gasp of relief, willing her racing heart to calm. She hadn’t run that fast or that far in a while yet… not since the last time her father had forced her to steal and then left her to run from the police on her own. It wasn’t until she caught her breath that she remembered Enjolras… and turned to see him kneeling on the cobblestones, his head bent low. He looked like a man defeated. Never in a hundred years, knowing what she did of him, had she imagined that she would see him like this, almost curled on the ground, his shoulders trembling.

She crouched down beside him, reaching out hesitantly. He lifted his head at her gentle touch, sticking his chin out stubbornly and squaring his shoulders. He had changed so completely back to his old self, that she wondered if she had only dreamed up the last few moments. If so, it was an odd dream. She laughed aloud, hardly realizing that she did it. His eyes shot sparks.

“So you think this is funny, do you?”

“I don’t… know…” Eponine faltered, trying to hide an irrepressible grin. “I think I’m just glad to be out of there.”

“It certainly wasn’t part of the plan to run from the police,” Enjolras muttered, leaning back against the wall. “Where on earth have you taken me?”

“Oh…” Eponine gestured vaguely at the alleyway. “Welcome to my side of Paris, Bourgeois Boy. This is my home.”

“The warehouse?” he raised an eyebrow and she laughed again..

“Look beyond. Surely you know of the streets of this city, you who fight so nobly for the people.”

His gaze faltered. Reaching down to the cobblestones, he picked up a loose pebble and let it fall through his fingers.

“I am still learning.” 

“Ah!” Eponine bounced up eagerly. “Then let me teach you, monsieur, for I know all there is to know of Paris and her people. I can teach you of your beloved Patria.”

He glanced up at her, a slow smile spreading over his face.

“You have been listening.”

“More than you know.”

“Then I too shall listen.” He scrambled to his feet and caught her hand, bending to press a kiss to the back of it, a gesture she, only a beggar of the streets, had never thought to receive. It stole her voice away, and her hand trembled in his. She pulled it away, hiding it in the folds of her ragged skirt as he spoke with a grand air. “Lead on, Lady of Paris, show me your side of the city.” 

She beckoned, and he followed as she moved lightly over the cobblestones, threading through the warehouse district with an easy familiarity. The farther they went, the narrower and darker the streets became, hidden in the shadows of crumbling buildings. Wagons rattled over uneven cobblestones, sending up sprays of filthy water. Ragged, barefoot children raced past, weaving in and out of the heavy traffic. The sounds of a baby crying filtered through a shattered window and across the street, a woman was yelling angrily. An old man, so thin that he seemed a skeleton, huddled in a pitiful little heap in the gutter, nearly hidden by the evil-smelling garbage. 

“S’il vous plait, monsieur,” a woman spoke in a quavering voice as she clutched at Enjolras’ arm with bony fingers, her other hand held out to him, palm outstretched. “The children, monsieur, they must be fed…”

He nodded, his face grim as he reached into his pocket and pressed coins into her hand. The woman’s eyes filled with tears and she whispered her thanks before vanishing in the swirl of humanity. A little girl sat on an overturned bucket, her face buried in her arms, her thin shoulders shaking with sobs. He bent to lay a hand on her head, and when she glanced up, tears streaking trails through the black soot and grime on her face, he gave her coins as well. It wasn’t long before his pockets were empty and he was angry with himself for not carrying more money. 

He had to scramble to keep up with Eponine, her slight form darting around obstacles, always ahead of him, often vanishing into the distance. Once she glanced back over her shoulder at him and he sprinted to reach her side, snatching up her hand. She tossed her head as she shot him a triumphant smile and he looked back at her with tears in his eyes.

“Well, monsieur?”

He didn’t answer. What was there to say? She pulled her hand from his grasp and turned to face him, spreading her arms out as if presenting the city to him.

“What think you now of your Patria?” Something desperate seemed to creep into her eyes as if she was silently begging for help, but she would not condescend to ask it. She drew herself up proudly, her cheeks flushed and her eyes hard. And he stared. That picture of her, he would carry to his dying day… this brave young woman standing there in the midst of squalor and misery, dignified in spite of her rags as she revealed her people to him. There was beauty in her destitution and courage. It was Patria… she was Patria. 

“She is more real to me than ever before.”

“Then, monsieur, I accept you as the leader of the revolution that is meant to lead us into a brighter day.” She dropped a curtsy. Clumsy though the gesture was, it struck his heart as oddly significant. It felt an honor. 

“Come,” she added, breaking through his reverie. “It is growing dark and it looks like it might rain… I’ll show you the way to the Cafe Musain.” As he fell in step beside her, she glanced up at him curiously. “Tell me of yourself, monsieur.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you confuse me,” she admitted frankly. “There is something of a mystery about you. That woman at the rally… you know which one I mean. You knew her. Who is she?”

“There were many women there,” he answered vaguely, turning his face so that it was hidden from her.

“She asked me if I knew you,” Eponine persisted. “She told me to get you out of there, before they could arrest you.”

“You say that I am a mystery, and yet I still do not know your name,” he put in bluntly, before she could say anymore. “Who are you?” 

“Me? Why…” Eponine laughed to herself. “I’m nobody.”

He smiled crookedly at her, but shook his head. “No one is a nobody in the eyes of the Republic.”

“But the Republic… it does not exist.”

“It will.” He spoke with such a conviction that for a moment, she believed him with all her heart. “It will… and then every man, woman, and child will be equal and valued the way God made them to be. You are valuable, your life is precious. Your life station does not define who you are. I tell you, if this world was just, you would be respected as much and even more than the high-born duchesses.”

“Me on a level with a duchess!” Eponine looked at him in astonished amusement. “You speak too freely, monsieur.”

“I speak the truth.” 

She offered a tiny smile and lifted her head. 

“I like it, monsieur. I wish there were more who spoke like you.”

They were standing at the door of the Cafe Musain. Enjolras opened it, standing back as he gestured her to enter, but she shook her head.

“I must go,” she stepped back, suddenly alarmed. What was this stealing over her? She couldn’t stay with him… something was wrong inside of her heart. It couldn’t possibly be true… she was in love with Marius… “Bonne nuit, monsieur,” she turned to slip away into the evening shadows. He let the door fall shut as he took a step after her… but she was gone, and all he could hear was her voice echoing in the distance…

“My name is Eponine.”

Chapter Six

Eponine climbed the stairs of the tenant building wearily, her hand trailing over the rickety banister. Someone was clattering about upstairs and she smiled. Marius was home. She didn’t even waste a glance at her own family’s battered door but crossed the hall to Marius’ room. His door was open and he knelt on the floor, an open wooden case in front of him. She could see the gleam of a pair of pistols through the folds of fabric they had been wrapped in. But he wasn’t looking at the guns just then… he was holding a gold ring between his fingers, turning it over as he stared at it.

She had seen that ring before, and always wondered how he had gotten it. He lived in a hovel, ate coarse brown bread, and wore a threadbare coat. The ring had always seemed a contrast to his obvious poverty, with its strange design stamped on it, like a coat of arms. But remembering the confrontation at the rally… she understood. 

Startled, he turned at the sound of footsteps, slamming the lid of the case shut. But seeing her, he simply turned to open it again, pulling out the pistols and stuffing them into his belt.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” she smiled. “What’s new with you? Plotting to overthrow the state?” It sounded ridiculous when she said it like that. Her smile changed into a smirk. “You still pretending to be poor? I know your grandfather’s rich.” 

He stood, slipping his coat on and adjusting it to hide the weapons. 

“I will not take a single franc that I haven’t earned,” he replied, moving past her as if in a hurry, affording her no more than a glance. “I’ve long since burned all those bridges.” She held her breath for the fraction of a second that he was at her side. Just the sound of his voice and the shine of his eyes had captured her all over again. She followed him, the lovesick shadow that she was, as he hurried down the stairs. 

“I like the way you talk, monsieur.”

He paused on the landing, one hand on the banister as he turned to face her, his grin amused. There was a sort of affection on his face as he looked at her… it made her heart race. 

“I like the way you always tease,” he answered with a shake of his head… and he rushed out the door. She stood still a moment, torn between wanting to follow him and wondering if he even cared if she would. Had he ever really, truly seen her? 

In the end, the faithfulness of the shadow won, and she slipped into the street behind him. He had been in a hurry, but there he stood, rooted to the ground. He was staring at something, staring riveted as if he was seeing for the first time in his life. She followed his gaze, noting the awestruck smile that curved his lips.

A young woman was standing across the square, her arm linked through that of an older gentleman… her father, most likely. She was placing coins in the hand of an old woman, smiling sweetly as she murmured a few words… and then she looked up again, her eyes meeting Marius’. She was beautiful, Eponine realized as her heart sank, lower and lower. Beautiful with lily-white skin and golden hair, flowers on her bonnet and lace trim on her dress. This girl… there was something about her… Eponine shuddered. And her father’s voice, coarse and angry, broke through her troubled thoughts.

“Eponine!”

She glanced at him, where he stood in front of a curtained market stall, and rolled her eyes in disgust. She wanted no part of him today. But a hand closed around her arm and a delighted, despicable laugh caused her to recoil. Montparnasse dragged her towards her father, smiling in mocking triumph. 

“Montparnasse,” Thenardier grinned, his ever-present pipe clamped between his teeth. He pulled it out to speak, waving it expressively. “Watch for the law. Take care with Eponine.” 

Montparnasse nodded eagerly, his grip tightening around Eponine’s arm. She resisted the urge to cry out, blinking hard to force back the tears. This was no more than her usual, everyday nightmare… but just at the moment it seemed too much to bear. Marius was standing in the streets, falling in love with a woman of his own class… and she, the street rat, was being dragged around by a man who regarded her as little more than dirt under his feet. Did Parnasse even know she was a human being? 

She looked gloomily down the street, assuming her usual post of watchdog, trying to ignore the creature at her side. Her parents were putting on an elaborate show as usual as they appealed to the wealthy gentleman with his elegant daughter… the fake baby, the weeping mother, the ill father… it turned Eponine’s stomach, those lies of theirs. But what could she do? An officer was in the street now… well, at least with the appearance of this man, she could stop the attempted robbery.

“Run for it!” she called to the gang of thieves. “The police… it’s Javert!” 

It was too late to run. The Thenardiers had nothing to do but to go out into the street and look as innocent as they could. Eponine stood in the corner, relieved to have been separated from Montparnasse in the brief scuffle. Javert combed the square with eagle eyes, seizing Gavroche as he ran past and lifting him off the ground as he demanded information. Gavroche said nothing. 

The young woman from before had run to the side of her father as Javert strode boldly down the street. Her father seemed panicked… he whispered something to her as he seized her hand, and they vanished down a side alley before Javert could get a good look at them. Suspicious, that. Eponine raised an eyebrow, but like Gavroche… she said nothing. 

Javert was asking for the man and the girl now… Eponine listened as her father stepped forward, taking on a look of admirable woe as he insisted that the stranger was the man who had stolen a child from him, nine years before… Sudden memories flashed into Eponine’s mind of a frail, golden-haired child with wistful, pale-blue eyes… a girl she had scorned and laughed at, long, long ago in a different world and another life. 

“Cosette…” she murmured. “I remember… we were children together. Look what’s become of me.” Her face twisted into a sardonic grin. What cruel irony was this? Was it not enough that Cosette lived in luxury while she was starving on the streets? Marius had looked at Cosette in a way that he would never, never look at Eponine. A punishment on her for her sins, was it not? In that moment, Eponine wished herself dead. And it only worsened, as Marius rushed breathlessly to her side.

“Eponine, who was that girl?” His eyes were still frantically searching the streets. She tried to laugh, and failed.

“That bourgeois, two-a-penny thing?” She wanted to make her voice sound scornful, but somehow it just fell. 

“Find her for me,” Marius pleaded. Eponine turned to him, forcing a smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eye. She was still a woman, surely she had some charm… she would make him see her. 

“What will you give me?”

“Anything!” He was desperate and she wanted to take advantage of this moment. She would ask for a kiss. And with a kiss, she would claim him. He wouldn’t want Cosette then. 

“You’re all excited now,” she shrugged. “God knows what you see in her.” She frowned as he reached into his pocket, his few francs rattling as he scooped them up. “No. I don’t want your money.” She turned away, feeling sick to her stomach. She pressed a hand against her waist as her head drooped. Marius had reached out, caught her arm… her heart soared at his touch and she glanced down at his hand on her arm before turning back to face him. 

That look on his face… that lost, lonely look but with that shine in his eyes… how could she resist that? His voice was trembling with sincerity… he was pleading with her.

“Eponine, do this for me… discover where she lives… please! I know you can find her… just… don’t let your father know. Please… my friend… I’m lost until she’s found.” 

“I told you so,” she tilted her head proudly, trying to gather the shreds of her tattered bravado around her. “I know lots of things.” But he left without even acknowledging what she was trying to say. Alone, Eponine slipped into an alley to do fierce battle with herself. 

Chapter Seven

The news had come that General LeMarque was dying. The summons could come any day now. Enjolras threw himself into his work with a passion that night. Things had to be set into motion, and fast. He had stormed into the cafe like a hurricane, brushing pewter mugs and plates off the table with a sweep of his arm. They fell to the floor with a deafening clatter as he spread his carefully-planned diagrams over the table-top. The plans were perfect… the barricades set to go up all over Paris at a moment’s notice could not fail. There were hundreds already sworn to come at his call, and when they came, the people would follow. He himself would command the barricade on Rue de la Chanvrerie, and Les Amis would stand with him.  

“Courfeyrac, do we have all the guns we need?” he called impatiently. “Feuilly, Combeferre… our time is running short.” He turned on his heel, fixing them with a look of disgust. “Grantaire, put that bottle down!” Grantaire only grinned at him, impudently, and took a long swig from the bottle. Enjolras rolled his eyes. Courfeyrac was running up the stairs, his arms full of rifles. He began to hand them around the room as Enjolras raised his voice.

“The time is near, can’t you all feel it stirring the blood in your veins? It’s closer than it’s ever been before…” He shook his head in frustration, desperate to drive home the importance of what was about to take place. Bossuet was laughing as he flourished a rifle… Enjolras lunged forward to snatch it from his hands, his frown disapproving. “Beware! We can’t afford to lose our heads now. Soon, we face a dangerous foe. We need a sign to rally the people… to call them to arms! Marius! You’re late.” This last he added as a rather pale Marius stumbled up the steps and found a place in an empty corner. Joly grinned, nodding to Grantaire as he spoke to the newcomer. 

“What’s wrong today, Marius?” he put emphasis on the “today” while Grantaire smirked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Tell us what’s going on,” Grantaire pressed, pushing a mug of wine into Marius’ hand. The boy didn’t seem to notice it. His eyes had taken on a distant, dreamy look. 

“Maybe she was a ghost,” he murmured. “She was there for just a moment… and then she was gone…”

Grantaire laughed easily as he settled into his customary chair by the fireside, tilting back his bottle again. “I am astonished,” he raised his eyebrows. “Is Marius in love at last? I’ve never heard him ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over a girl before…” Marius looked away, a flush spreading over his face. This was too good to waste. Grantaire lifted his head in mocking triumph, looking at Enjolras in amusement. “You there, you talk only of fighting battles… and here comes Marius like Don Juan… ha! It is better than an opera!”

Enjolras had turned from the table when Marius first began to speak, rising to his full height, hands on his hips, a formidable figure indeed as he glared his warning. Would they never take this seriously? There was a revolution to be fought, a world to be won, and here they were talking about… love? 

They were all laughing now, lazily and carefree. Enjolras clenched his hands into fists, willing himself not to lose his temper as he spoke, trying to bring them to the realization of the moment. 

“It is time for us all to decide who we are. Think of what we are fighting for! Have you asked yourself what’s the price you might pay?” He turned to Marius. “Look at you… just a rich, young boy… is this just a game to you? Don’t you realize what is happening? The color of the world is changing! Red… the blood of angry men! Black… the dark of ages past! Red… a world about to dawn! Black… the night that ends at last!”

Joly laughed at that. “Have you turned poet now, Enjolras? What next?” 

There was no answer. Their leader’s heart was heavy. He was speaking to himself almost as much as to Marius. A game for a rich young boy to play… How could he claim more than this? He too was guilty of hidden wealth… and more than that… yes, of a heart that had betrayed him! But he would fight this… he would triumph over his weaker self. For Patria… for France. 

“You don’t understand how it feels,” Marius said softly. “She changed my world in just a moment. Just one moment of breathless delight.”

Enjolras scoffed, turning away. Foolish nonsense, that’s all it was. He would not let himself remember Eponine, and that moment she had stood there before him in the streets of Paris, changing his world. He had let down his guard in that moment, true, but it would never happen again. He steeled his mind against her. She symbolized what he fought for… the people of France… and that was all she was to him. 

“Two can play at this poetry game,” Grantaire laughed. “Look at his face! Come on, Marius… red!”

Marius smiled, rising to face Enjolras almost defiantly as he accepted the challenge. “I feel my soul on fire!”

“Black!” Grantaire cried.

“My world if she’s not there!” Marius warmed to his subject, his voice filled with passion.

“Red!” 

“The color of desire!”

“Black!”

“The color of despair!” Marius cried out the last words boldly. And Enjolras was angry. His eyes fairly blazed as he turned on his friend, his every word laced with scorn.

“Marius, you’re no longer a child. I don’t doubt that you mean it well, this… this love of yours. But there is a higher call!” He leaned forward, his scorn changing almost to pleading. Why could they not see it? “Who cares about your lonely soul? We strive for things so much larger than this… in the scope of what we fight for, our little lives don’t count at all!”

“Listen everybody!” Courfeyrac’s voice silenced the noisy group and all eyes turned to the man who stood on the top step, Gavroche at his side. The boy’s face was a flush of excitement. So young he was, and yet… he understood.

“General LaMarque is dead!” Gavroche called out and Enjolras’ face changed. The waiting was over.

“LaMarque…” he breathed. “His death is the hour of fate!” He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on Marius. “His death is the sign we have been waiting for!”

They were listening now, every man fixed on their leader. The tension rose in the room… they could feel it. There was no more talk of love, no more laughter, no more good-natured jokes. They bent with fervor to their work as Enjolras outlined in stentorian phrases the next steps they must take. 

But Marius could not focus himself to the tasks at hand, not with the memory of love’s first sight still fresh on his mind. And there, he saw Eponine at the window, and he rushed to the door with hope surging through his being.

Enjolras looked up as Marius fled the room, glancing to the window in time to glimpse Eponine’s pale face through the glass. She caught his gaze and held it for a moment, and he saw a sea of pain and distress raging in her eyes. It seemed to seal the hour… Patria signalling him to the battle. Another moment and she vanished from sight. He wondered if he had really seen her there, or had she only been a vision? Perhaps she wasn’t even real… perhaps he had only dreamed her up. She was his Patria, come to life for him alone, in the time when she needed him most. He would not fail her.

Chapter Eight

Eponine was silent as she led Marius through the dark city towards Rue Plumet… an altogether different part of Paris than what she had shown Enjolras only the day before. The streets here were cleaner, the cobblestones laid in neat, flat rows, and the houses large and grand with lovely, rambling gardens all fenced in to keep the rabble out. Carriages rolled through these city blocks, and most of the people on the sidewalks were dressed elegantly. It was like another world.

It hadn’t taken her long to discover where Cosette lived. Just a little bit of investigation, a few hours of roaming through bourgeois neighborhoods. Her heart was still numb. It somehow hadn’t sunk in yet, this reality that Marius loved another and had enlisted Eponine’s help to find this mystery girl. She could hardly believe what she had always known… that he could never, ever be hers. 

Marius had asked the moment he had met her outside the Cafe Musain, breathlessly, his eyes wild with a look she knew well… it was the look of someone in desperate love. “Did you find her?” he had gasped out. She hadn’t answered, only tilted her head and signalled him to follow her. Now as they reached Rue Plumet and, in answer to his eager questions, she told him briefly where the house was, he was suddenly the one leading her, dragging her along in wild excitement. He had waxed poetical in his fervor, and the words he said were beautiful… beautiful… and with all her heart, Eponine longed to hear him say those words… meant for her. 

“She has burst into my life like the music of angels,” he cried out, his eyes alight. “She is like the golden light of the sun. It’s like… like my life has ended and started anew… like something is over, and something scarcely begun.” He had moved ahead while she trailed along behind, but he whirled to face her suddenly. “Eponine, my dear friend, you found her, you have brought me here…” he grasped her hands in both of his and she let herself smile, let herself melt at his touch. He spun her in a joyous circle and she laughed, pretending she was happy… “It’s thanks to you,” Marius squeezed her hands. “Because of you… heaven is near! It’s a new world… new and free… and my heart is soaring…”

Her smile faded as he dropped her hands and rushed on ahead. Every word that he said was like a dagger, straight to her heart. They were standing before the garden gate of the house on Rue Plumet now. Eponine shrank back into the shadows as Marius stood there, suddenly grown silent. The slim figure of a young woman was moving slowly through the garden and he stared at her, transfixed. 

Eponine wanted to leave. She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to watch as Marius reached through the gate to clasp Cosette’s hand. And Cosette was looking up at him, starry-eyed, as the young man declared undying love. The last tiny shreds of Eponine’s hope died away when Cosette accepted Marius’ love and timidly offered her own. She loved him back. This… this pampered, bourgeois girl who had everything life could possibly give her… and she had taken Marius too. 

“He was never mine to lose,” Eponine murmured to herself, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “Why regret what could not be?”

Cosette went inside reluctantly at last, and Marius bent to pick up the handkerchief she had dropped… had it been intentional? Eponine groaned as she turned away, not wanting to see the look on Marius’ face as he pressed the handkerchief to his lips. In the next moment he brushed past her, never once looking her way, as if he had forgotten she had ever been there.

“Who is this hussy?” A rough, half-drunken voice startled Eponine and she whirled to face a shadowy group of figures standing there in the alley. A laughing voice answered,

“It’s your brat, Eponine… don’t you know your own kid?”

“What’s she doing hanging ‘round here?”

“Eponine, get on home, we don’t need you tonight, there’s already enough of us.” her father grabbed her arm as he pulled her inside. She looked up at him, tears trickling down her face, and her resolve was formed in a moment. They meant to rob Cosette and her father… well, she wasn’t going to stand by and watch it happen. All she could think of was Marius and how he would feel if Cosette was attacked… and by Eponine’s father, while Eponine stood by…! She wouldn’t let her father do this.

“I know this house,” she pleaded, hoping she could buy him off just with talk. The members of Patron-Minette surrounded her as she spoke and she fixed her eyes on her father, her back to Montparnasse. “It’s just an old man and a girl, there’s nothing here for you.” 

“Well, you’ve got gall, wench,” her father hissed. “Watch what you say, don’t interfere with me.”

“Then I’ll scream!’ Eponine spoke desperately, backing up, trying to put distance between herself and the leering thieves. “I’ll warn them!” 

Her father followed threateningly, advancing until she hit the wall of the building behind and could go no further. “If you scream, you’ll regret it for a year!” 

She threw her head back and screamed, crying out her rage and pain and desperation for all Paris to hear. 

The thieves were fleeing now… even Parnasse… Eponine felt a surge of triumph. But it was cut short as her father loomed over her, his eyes wild with anger.

“You’ll rue this night,” he cried. “I’ll make you scream!” 

She spat in his face, feeling not even fear, but disgust. No matter what he did to her… he could never hurt her now. What was a little physical pain to a woman already dead? He drew his arm back and hit her in the jaw. Staggering from the force of the blow, she fell against the wall as he stalked off, leaving her in the alley.

Silence fell, but Eponine could see lights moving past the windows of the house… they must have been alerted by her scream. She sank to the ground, her hand pressed against her aching face as she watched and waited… waited for she knew not what.

Minutes ticked slowly by. It couldn’t have been long before the door opened and Cosette ran out, her face pale in the moonlight, her eyes worried. She clutched something white against her heart. Eponine wanted to laugh.

So, you think you have problems, Cosette? You think you have cause to worry?

Cosette laid something between the bars of the gate, darting frightened glances down the empty street, and rushed back to the house. Eponine moved forward, snatching up the folded slip of paper without a second thought. As she retreated back into the alley, she turned it over in her hands, noting Marius’ name in a hasty yet elegant script on the outside.

There were only a few brief lines in Cosette’s letter… she had to leave, she had written. She had to go away quickly with her father, but she was sending him her new address and begging him to come and see her there. And she reaffirmed her love…

Eponine slipped the letter into her belt. She had saved Cosette from robbery, yes… but the limits of human sacrifice can only stretch so far. Burning with jealousy, weak from heartache, she wandered unseeingly through the streets as rain began to fall. Perhaps the sky was weeping for her… this lonely soul with no one else to care.

She had her black hour that night. It seemed a tempest raged inside her. But slowly, slowly it died away, leaving nothing but a chilling emptiness. Her life stretched out before her, bleak in its misery… and she no longer wanted to live it.

The rain had soaked her through as she reached the Rue de la Chanvrerie, her tattered dress heavy with water, her dripping hair clinging to her face. She didn’t even feel it. The sky was so dark, the streets so silent… and she had never felt so alone. She found herself in front of the Cafe Musain and watched idly as the students trickled out the front door. Something was different about them tonight… they did not leave laughing and joking as they usually did, but talking quietly in tense, excited tones. It mattered little to her. What did she care of anything anymore?

She huddled in a corner, arms wrapped tightly around her knees as she shivered in the rain. Above her, in the window of the Cafe Musain, the flame of a single candle was still lit. She watched it flicker in the darkness… just one lonely little light in the night. And as she looked on… the flame went out at last, a tiny wisp of smoke rising and fading away. She bowed her head, choking back a sob.

oOo

Enjolras was the last to leave the Cafe Musain that night. He sat there long after the others had gone, alone in the silent room, writing by the light of a single candle. Only one day more… and there was so much yet to be done.

It was the wee hours of the morning when at last he blew out his candle, snatching up his coat from the back of a chair, and striding out into the rain. He didn’t even feel tired. The revolution was so close, he could sense it… every nerve in his body was on edge, waiting, listening for the final call… 

A dark shape was curled in the street as he passed, the figure of a girl, unprotected in the falling rain. He stopped, turned back, moved to her side. 

“Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even move to lift her head. For a moment he was alarmed… was she hurt… dead? But he saw her trembling and heard a stifled sob. He knelt beside her in the muddy street, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, hiding her face.

“Leave me alone.”

“Eponine…” he murmured her name as he recognized her. “Please, can I help you? What’s happened?”

“Go away,” she whispered, her voice quavering. He hesitated, and she pushed away from him, curling into a tighter ball, her arms around her head as if she was trying desperately to protect herself. With a sigh, he pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. For a moment longer he knelt there, wondering if he should just pick her up and take her to shelter… but no. If she wanted to be alone, then he would go. He could see that she was wrestling with a burden he could not share.

Chapter Nine

High excitement ran from one end of Paris to the other, an undercurrent beneath the deceiving calm. In every room, at every street corner, the news was being whispered from one to another… it blew like the wind, rippled like the waves of the sea. One day more… 

Eponine turned from her dirty, cracked window to the empty room around her. One more day on her own. For tomorrow, she would die. She was resolved. When the barricades rose, she would be there with them… and she would let herself fall. 

Marius would be there. She knew him better than he knew himself. Finding Cosette gone, he would join his brothers at the barricade. She would go to see him one last time, and then she would die at his side… and in death, he would be hers… Cosette could not take him away from her then… she would be triumphant at last!

She laid aside her tattered dress, wrapping ragged strips of fabric tightly round her torso to hide her feminine form. She donned old clothes of her father’s… men’s trousers, a baggy shirt, a long brown coat… and stuffed her long hair under a cap. Thus disguised, she would slip unseen into the ranks of Les Amis. She smiled ruefully to herself as she remembered Enjolras’ promise of a better world. She would never live to see it… if it came at all. But what good would a “better world” be to such a lonely soul? To the end of her days she would be alone… it was best to make sure those days were few.

oOo

It was just a trickle at first… just a few curious onlookers that entered the Cafe Musain early that morning. But soon they became a steady stream. Les Amis had been there since before the first light of dawn. Boxes of muskets were dragged from hidden corners and unloaded, barrels of gunpowder stacked in the front room. Every gun must be primed and loaded. Provisions must be stored up… there was no telling how long the siege could last. Every pewter mug and plate… down to the very last fork… was gathered up and melted down to be cast into bullets. Enjolras snatched the last mug from Grantaire’s hand, grinning wryly as he dumped the whiskey on the floor and tossed the mug across the room to Courfeyrac.

All through the day, people came in and out, bringing their offerings for the revolution.  In the middle of the crowd in the front room, a woman with a ragged dress and bedraggled hair sat stitching a bright red flag. Enjolras bent to kiss her hand and her eyes shone. He moved through the people, nodding thanks to those who brought contributions, calling orders to whoever would listen. The people loved him. They clamored around him, gripping his hand in breathless anticipation, hanging on to every word he said. They believed him with all their hearts… this lion of liberty who had come to champion their cause. 

“One more day before the storm!” he cried out from the steps of the cafe. “Who will come and stand with me?”

“One more day to a new beginning!” came the answering cry. “Raise the flag of freedom high!” 

Darkness was beginning to fall that evening when frantic footsteps sounded on the stairs of the Cafe Musain and Marius burst in breathlessly, gripping the flag. He lifted his chin in determination as he raised the flag above his head.

“My place is here!” he cried. “I fight with you.” 

And Enjolras smiled. They had come, they had answered his call… the moment was nearly here… one day more…

Outside, the streets were crowded. Hundreds stood there, flags flying from every window overhead. It was a wonder the sound of them hadn’t reached the palace on the other side of the city. A mighty force, a formidable foe to tyranny. Enjolras leaned from the window, his courage rising as he looked out over the people. They were ready… and freedom would come at last. Tomorrow… tomorrow would reveal what God had in store.

One slight figure in men’s clothing that was much too big slipped through the crowd, something red in her arms. She made it to the door of the cafe and shoved the coat at Courfeyrac before vanishing again. As she stepped back, she caught a glimpse of Enjolras at the window and it struck her suddenly that… he could die… and the thought frightened her. For just one moment, she forgot Marius as she breathed a prayer for the lion of liberty.

Courfeyrac mounted the stairs and passed the coat to Enjolras, a puzzled expression on his face. “I think it’s yours,” he shrugged and Enjolras nodded.

“Patria,” he whispered. “We will avenge her.” 

Chapter Ten

It began so quietly… like a whisper that gradually rose into a roar. At first, the people seemed to hold their breaths as one while columns of soldiers marched in orderly procession down the street, drums beating to the rhythm of their feet. The ground seemed to shake under their steady approach. It was a formidable show of military might… and yet it did not strike fear into the hearts of those who awaited the signal, but only heightened the desperate urge to throw off the shackles of tyranny. 

Eponine had forced her way to the front and found herself standing between Courfeyrac and Bahorel. The edge of the streets were lined with Les Amis. Through the flash of uniforms and bayonets, she caught a glimpse of Enjolras and something in her heart responded to the look in his eyes. Never had she seen such courage and determination on the face of one man and for a moment, she felt as if her broken heart had been lifted from the ground. The spirit of liberty seemed to hover in the air… the promise of a brighter tomorrow suddenly felt very near.

Enjolras was singing… even from across the street she heard it… one lone voice in the midst of the army’s drums…

“Do you hear the people sing?”

It was flung into the wind like a challenge. Others heard and took up the song, quiet and tense at first… but growing steadily. Eponine found herself singing with them… pouring out her heart for liberty.

“Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men!
It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!

When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drum,

There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!”

The voices rose in unison as the hearse of General LeMarque rolled slowly by. Hundreds had joined in, shouting their defiance fearlessly. 

“Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?

Beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?

Then join in the fight that will give you the right to be free!” 

Enjolras’ voice rose above the others as he rushed out into the street, holding the flag high. The signal was given… the revolution had begun. The students followed him, pushing through the orderly rows of soldiers as the crowd pressed forward eagerly. 

“Do you hear the people sing?

Singing the song of angry men!

It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!

When the beating of your hearts echoes the beating of the drums,

There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!”

The cavalry fell into disorder, frightened horses rearing. Soldiers scrambled out of the way in confusion, leaderless as they were surrounded by the masses. The leaders of Les Amis were climbing the hearse… the blood red flag flying proudly as the people hurried the procession on. Eponine ran along beside the black wagon, one hand clinging to the edge. She was staring up at the men standing atop the hearse, her heart so wildly full of conflicting emotions that she was no longer trying to make sense of them. She simply let herself feel it as she held her place desperately in line. 

“Will you give all you can give so that our banner may advance?

Some will fall and some will live, will you stand up and take your chance?
The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France!

Do you hear the people sing?

Singing the song of angry men!

It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!

When the beating of your hearts echoes the beating of the drums,

There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!”

An eerie stillness fell. The lone voice of an officer yelled out an unintelligible order. Enjolras handed the flag down to Boussant and drew his pistol as the soldiers levelled their rifles. For one long moment of silence, they faced each other… the revolutionaries and the French army… and then… a single gunshot echoed through the streets.

The mob erupted into screaming chaos. Combeferre rushed forward, crying out as an old woman slumped lifelessly to the ground, killed in an instant by a bullet from a frightened young soldier. 

“She’s an innocent woman!” he screamed, dragging the soldier from his hiding place as half a dozen Les Amis gathered round to lift the woman from the ground. “Murderer!” 

The soldiers had taken their cue to fire, and they shot randomly and at will into the crowd while the cavalry charged. Enjolras dropped to one knee on top of the hearse, taking careful aim, picking off the officers as they rushed full force towards the revolutionaries, swords drawn. Students fell beneath soldier’s blades… blows that would have been deadly had they been better timed. The area was too open, too unprotected for hand to hand combat… they needed shelter, and fast. Enjolras jumped to the ground, shouting over the noise of the crowd as the others looked to him for direction.

“To the barricade!” 

Eponine caught a glimpse of Marius galloping past on an abandoned cavalry horse, the flag streaming out behind him, and she took off at a run, swept along with the rest as they made a desperate break towards Rue de la Chanvrerie. Behind her, half a dozen men were overturning a wagon, and up ahead, from windows high above the streets, people were beginning to toss chairs and tables. Some of the students, led by Combeferre, had managed to commandeer a cannon, and they dragged it towards the predetermined site of the barricade… just in front of the Cafe Musain… but the soldiers were close behind. A cavalry officer, leaning from the back of his horse, slashed a man heavily across the shoulders and he dropped to the ground. Several took cover behind the tipped wagon and a few hastily thrown-together chairs, returning fire as the rest worked in the background to assemble the barricade. 

The students raced into apartments, breaking down doors and climbing through windows, grabbing whatever they could get their hands on. Chairs, tables, shelves, iron railings… they tore every room apart in a frenzy. 

“We need as much furniture as you can throw down!” Courfeyrac cried out in the street below, and eager citizens rushed to answer. A rain of odds and ends of furniture darkened the sky, a piano crashing to the cobblestones in the midst of mattresses and window shutters. 

Eponine fell to work side by side with the rest of them, snatching up broken bits of furniture and helping to pile them atop the hastily-growing barricade. She tried to keep sight of Marius, but often she could barely see him through the crowd. But it didn’t matter. She had caught the desperate urge to finish the barricade before the soldiers could organize themselves enough to attack, and for the time being, that was all that mattered. She bent to help lift a heavy wardrobe, gritting her teeth as wooden splinters pressed into her palms. Someone ran past with a table, sideswiping her in their haste, and she fell to the ground, narrowly escaping being trampled. As she struggled to right herself, she felt a hand grasp her arm, pulling her to her feet. Enjolras stood at her side, a steadying hand on her shoulder as he glanced up at the eager citizens hard at work… and the look on his face could only be described as a sort of amazed joy. Eponine smiled sadly at him. She knew that this day was everything he had been waiting for, all his life. Dear God, have mercy… if the barricade should fall…!

He never once looked at her in his haste, but squeezed her shoulder in comradely approval as he spoke hurriedly, “Good work, my friend, and hurry! We don’t have much time.” 

The barricade was growing larger still… a carriage was shoved in front… an elegant black one, obviously belonging to a member of the bourgeoisie. Entire walls were pulled from a nearby stables to fortify the sides. A lone cow, turned loose by the destruction of the stalls, wandered aimlessly through the wreckage. Some of the students had found axes, and rapidly chopped a staircase from the cafe, carrying it to the back of the barricade. 

And there it stood… the makeshift structure that was to be the barrier between these daring few and death in the form of the full force of the French army. The barricade was complete now… let the soldiers come, they were ready for them! The crowd parted, the students lining the sides as Enjolras raced up the barricade to take his place atop it, planting the flag for all to see, in proud defiance of tyranny. Eponine’s heart thrilled to see it… the lion of liberty, and the blood red flag of freedom. She may die that day… but suddenly she felt her little life wouldn’t have been in vain. She had fought for a noble cause.

Red… the blood of angry men!

Black… the dark of ages past!

Red… a world about to dawn!

Black… the night that ends at last!

Chapter Eleven

Darkness fell, punctuated by the flickering light of torches, as the student rebels settled themselves behind the barricade, tense with anxiety. Any moment could bring the attack they awaited. Eponine had huddled herself into a corner at Marius’ feet, her head down. He hadn’t seen her… or if he had, he hadn’t recognized her. She couldn’t think… wouldn’t let herself think. It hurt too much. Enjolras crouched beside her, rifle clenched in his hands… he hadn’t recognized her either. Eponine was glad of it. She pulled the brim of her cap farther down over her eyes, wrapping her arms tight around her body. 

A cry was raised by Joly, who was standing guard, and Enjolras leaped to his feet, rifle at the ready. The volunteer spy that had gone out hours earlier had finally returned with a report of the enemy. The army was enormous, he told them… and growing steadily. The danger was too much… there was no way they could possibly stand against such a strong foe.

“Have faith!” Enjolras cried as the others faltered. “There are ways that a people can fight… we shall overcome their power!” 

But the spy shook his head. Useless, he told them. The army knew what they were doing. They wouldn’t attack that night… they intended to starve the revolutionaries out before letting the battle begin. 

He would likely have said more, but a little figure popped up from behind the barricade, and a high-pitched voice cried out, “Liar!” 

Eponine started at the familiar voice and then smiled. Gavroche sat atop the barricade, legs dangling, as he spoke triumphantly.

“Good evening, dear Inspector! I know this man, my friends, his name’s Inspector Javert.” Scarce had the words come out of his mouth than Enjolras jumped at the spy. A dozen men surrounded him, pinning his arms behind his back as Gavroche went on, almost gleefully. “Don’t believe a word he says! Ha… this goes to show what little people can do!” 

“Bravo, little man,” Eponine whispered proudly. She wanted to snatch him up and hug him fiercely… dearest little brother. But she couldn’t let them know she was there. 

“Bravo, Gavroche!” Courfeyrac unintentionally echoed her quiet words. “You’re the top of the class!”

“What do we do with this snake?” Prouvaire narrowed his eyes as he held a rifle level with Javert’s eyes. 

“Tie him up,” Enjolras snarled. “Put him in the tavern over there… the people can decide his fate.” Already he was building on his republican ideals. A fair trial by the people… this was unheard of under the monarchy. Javert only sneered at him.

“Shoot me,” he hissed. “Schoolboys playing with guns. Death to each and every traitor! I renounce your people’s court!” 

They managed to drag him into the cafe and then he broke loose, flinging Grantaire against the wall and whirling to land a punch on Enjolras’ jaw. He unleashed wild fury on them all as he snatched up the broken leg of a table, fighting furiously as they struggled to regain control. Eponine hovered at the door, clutching the rifle Marius had dropped. The scuffle only lasted a few moments, ending when Enjolras seized the makeshift weapon from Javert’s hands, knocking him unconscious. The blow seemed to stun them all. Combeferre flinched and Enjolras stared at the man at his feet, his face chalk white. 

In the distance came the sound of hundreds of tramping feet. The students turned to the door as one, listening intently. The army was coming. Only a moment did they hesitate… and then they scrambled breathlessly to the barricade to take their places. Eponine reached out as Marius passed her, pressing the rifle into his hand. He took it and moved on, never looking back. She stared after him longingly, her heart suddenly twisting with fear. 

In the buildings surrounding the street, frightened women hastily pulled shutters closed. Eponine found a place behind the barricade, crouching down to load a pistol that Prouvaire had hastily handed her. The army was getting closer… they could hear the shouts of the commanding officer…

“To the right! Right! Heel!” 

“Hold your fire,” Enjolras ordered. “Save your gunpowder.”

“Front rank, kneel!” the army captain commanded. “Take aim!” And then, more loudly… “Who’s there?”

Silence. Enjolras turned to glance round at those behind him… and then his voice thundered through the stillness.

“French Revolution!”

“Fire!” The guns of the soldiers roared a wave of deadly flame. It was heavier than they had ever expected. Those at the top of the barricade threw themselves down as a hail of bullets whistled over their heads. It seemed to be coming from all directions at once.

“Move back!” Joly cried in horror. “Get back!” Courfeyrac was sobbing, terrified… but still he fought. When the first bullets had been fired, he had shoved Gavroche into an empty space at the bottom of the barricade and stood before him protectively, clutching a pistol with both hands. Half a dozen fell away, nearly ready to flee. Prouvaire grabbed Eponine’s arm and dragged her back with him, but she jerked away, running recklessly to Marius’ side. If they died… they would die together. 

“They’re coming over the barricade!” Marius shouted and tossed his gun to Grantaire. Eponine tried to follow as he scrambled higher, but she couldn’t reach him. She grasped at the furniture, pulling herself upward, but a broken chair came loose and she slipped back. Enjolras was just above her, locked in hand to hand combat as he struggled to wrench a rifle from a soldier’s grasp. But the soldier was gaining the upper ground and had almost succeeded in moving the barrel to point directly at Enjolras’ chest. Gripping the pistol in both her trembling hands, Eponine squeezed her eyes tight shut and pulled the trigger. She cried out as she felt the gun fire and slumped down wearily, gasping for breath as the weapon slipped from her fingers. 

The soldier had fallen back, dropping the rifle as he clutched his arm in pain, and Enjolras ducked behind the barricade. Eponine lifted her head, searching desperately for Marius… and caught sight of him climbing to the top, a torch in one hand and a barrel of gunpowder in the other. He was out in the open now… a perfect target in plain sight. They were going to shoot him… she couldn’t let him die… no matter what happened to her, Marius must live… there was no chance of happiness for her anymore, it was best if she died… but Marius must live on. She must do this for him, no matter the cost… 

Her heart racing, she climbed to the top of the barricade, reaching out to the man who never saw her… a soldier was aiming straight at his heart… Eponine grabbed the barrel of the rifle, covering it with her hand as she wrenched it away from Marius…

It exploded in her hand. A blinding flash of fire… thunder, lightning, bright sparks of pain… Eponine lost her grip on the barricade and slid back to the ground. She felt numb and dizzy… her eyes couldn’t seem to focus. Unseen, she crawled back into an empty corner, curling herself into a tiny ball as she clutched her bloody hand against her heart. There seemed to be a hole in her side… she realized dimly that she was dying. She glanced up, catching a glimpse of a bright red coat in the darkness and she whimpered in pain.

“Enjolras…” It was nothing more than a trembling whisper. He couldn’t hear her. 

As if in a dream, she could hear Marius’ voice in a savage yell… “Fall back! Fall back, or I blow the barricade!”

“Blow it up and take yourself with it!” another voice shouted back. Eponine trembled where she lay. She wanted to scream… No, Marius… don’t… you can’t… you must live… you must live… for… Cosette…

She could hardly believe what she was thinking. But sudden guilt flooded her heart. With her good hand, she reached painfully for the slip of paper hidden in her pocket. It was crumpled now, dirty, and bloodstained. She looked at it as if it was poison, tears flooding her eyes. She couldn’t keep it from him. She owed this to him… with her dying breath, she would make Marius happy. And that was worth everything. And perhaps, with this letter, she would save his life again. Marius would go to Cosette… and he would be safe.

Chapter Twelve

Enjolras rushed to Marius’ side as the captain called the order to retreat. Gripping the torch, he pulled it gingerly from his friend’s hand, gasping in relief as he realized what could have happened. He didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful. 

Rain had started to softly fall. The torch flickered a moment longer and then went out with a wisp of smoke. Enjolras cast it aside and it clattered to the cobblestones. He watched as the students thronged around Marius, some yelling in anger, some in relief. It had been a foolish, risky move… and yet it had saved their lives. But Marius wasn’t listening to them. He pushed them away as he  hurried towards a figure who lay trembling in the corner.

A vague memory flashed across Enjolras’ mind. In the tension of the moment, he hadn’t realized… but he had seen out of the corner of his eye, the gun pointed at Marius… and a boy who cried out as he rushed to pull the gun away… 

Only it wasn’t a boy. The cap had fallen from the dark head as she slumped to the ground, long hair cascading around her shoulders. She looked up as Marius approached her, tears streaming down her cheeks to mingle with the rain. Enjolras started as he recognized her, his eyes growing wide with horror.

“Patria…” he whispered, moving forward almost involuntarily. He wanted to run to her, to scoop her up from the ground, to hold her close…  

But Marius was kneeling beside her as she reached out to him, a slip of paper in her hand. He barely glanced at it as he bent over her, pulling back her arm to reveal blood seeping through the fabric of her shirt. Enjolras felt his heart stop beating. Patria dying… it couldn’t be… Dear God, was it a nightmare? 

He could hear her voice from where he stood. It was feeble, and yet she was smiling as Marius wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“Don’t you fret,” she murmured. “I don’t feel any pain. A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now…” she laughed weakly. She had never looked this happy… and yet, she was dying! And suddenly, it was all so clear… Marius’ shadow… the girl that followed him everywhere… the look of pain in her eyes just the night before… and the golden-haired girl that Marius had fallen in love with so quickly. Eponine loved Marius. And Enjolras felt only fury. Marius was a fool. How could he be so blind? 

“You’re here,” Eponine sniffed, letting her head fall on Marius’ shoulder. “That’s all I need to know.”

The stunned look on Marius’ face as he gathered his friend close revealed that at last he knew. And it was too late. He spoke frantically, looking around as if searching for help.

“No, dear God above, ‘Ponine, you will live! If only I could close your wounds with words of love…”

Eponine smiled again and let her eyes fall shut. There was nothing that could be done now. Let her fade away… she would die… and all would be well. 

“Let it be,” she whispered. “It’s better this way. Just hold me… comfort me… and the rain… Marius… the rain will… will make the flowers… grow…” She muttered on about the flowers as Marius bent his head over hers, weeping. “You know…” her eyes suddenly flew open, and she lifted her bloody hand to his face. “I… I was a little bit… in love… with you…” her voice trailed away as her body went limp. Choking back a sob, Marius kissed her, giving her this precious gift in death that could have changed her life. 

Enjolras moved to kneel in front of them, pushing Marius’ hands aside impatiently as he gathered Eponine close against his heart. A single tear rolled down his cheek as her head lolled against his shoulder. She was beautiful… how had he not realized it before? He would have given anything in that moment to see those laughing brown eyes of hers open again. He glanced up at Marius almost scornfully as he stood, cradling that tiny, fragile body in his arms. He felt a sudden angry feeling of possession steal over him and he clutched her tighter. In life, her heart had belonged to Marius, however little he deserved it… but in death, Enjolras claimed his Patria.

The others were staring at him now, some in curiosity, some in confusion. Joly offered a sad smile as he wiped tears and rain from his face. He understood. Perhaps even more than Enjolras himself did. 

Turning his back on them, Enjolras carried Eponine toward the cafe, his head bent low in the rain. Something was stirring inside of him… something that had twisted its way into his marble heart long ago and stubbornly remained. He had fought it, ignored it, hated it… but now he let himself feel it. And it hurt with a cold, aching, empty misery. 

The minutes ticked slowly by as he knelt on the floor of the Cafe Musain, not wanting to let her go. But it was over now… and he had his duty to France. This was all that mattered now… it was the only thing that had ever mattered. He would fight till his last breath, aye, and die fighting if he must… and with every blow, every shot he fired, he would fight for the men and women and children of France whose lives had been destroyed. She was just one more tiny life that had been swallowed up in this darkness.

Gently, he laid Eponine’s body on the floor, his fingers brushing against her cheek. She lay so still and silent… this girl who had been so full of vivid, laughing, sparkling life. Before he realized what he was doing, he bent to press a kiss on her forehead. She deserved the kiss of a man who had not rejected her. Poor girl, to die without love…

When Enjolras rose, there was an unquenchable fire burning in his eyes. Patria would be avenged. 

Chapter Thirteen

They were schoolboys, never held a gun… Fighting for a new world that would rise up like the sun…

No one ever told them that a summer day could kill…

The sun rose once again, as it always had and always would, to look down emotionless on a cruel world. The morning brought the news that the other barricades had fallen. Enjolras spoke to Les Amis calmly, but his shoulders slumped and his eyes were shadowed.

“We’re the only ones left,” he shook his head. “The people have abandoned us. They still live in fear. It is foolish to waste life. If you want to go, then go. Save yourselves.”

“Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men! It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again…” Gavroche’s voice, pure and fresh, rang out unafraid. The men around him lifted their heads, courage anew surging through their veins. They would fight on. It was their leader now who needed them, and they rallied around him, determined to stand strong until the very last.

Perhaps they tried to change the world too fast.

 

Gavroche was the first to fall that day. Brave little boy who would never grow to be a man. Courfeyrac clutched the tiny body as he knelt on the cobblestones, sobbing like a child. 

The soldiers came from everywhere. There must have been hundreds of them. One by one, the members of Les Amis fell. Enjolras knew his time would come. But there would be no surrender. He fought like a tiger, determined to give his all for the country he loved, although there was no longer anything he could do to save her. After all… lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.

He did his best to save them… when the ammunition was gone and the barricade falling, he shielded them with his own body. But all he could do was buy them a few more moments of life. And in the end… he was the only one left. As he stood there before the window of the Cafe Musain, surrounded by the bodies of his brothers in the very room where they had planned what was to be a glorious revolution, the soldiers advanced towards him, guns at the ready. He looked at them sadly… a broken man. It was over… he had failed. And here he stood alone, waiting to die.

At the very last moment, a figure came stumbling across the room. Grantaire was a man who believed in nothing… but something new was alight in his eyes. He pushed past the soldiers and took his place at Enjolras’ side. And the lion of liberty lifted his head, his eyes flashing. He raised the flag high as he faced his executioners, unafraid. The last shots of the revolution echoed eerily across the deathlike stillness of the fallen barricade. 

Where’s that new world now the fighting’s done?

oOo

A lone woman moved slowly down Rue de la Chanvrerie, walking as if she was in a dream. Restless eyes searched the bloody streets as she held her trembling hands clasped against her heart. She was only one of many who would come to search that day… only one of many whose hearts would break.

The smoke had barely cleared from the final battle and the soldiers had retreated, realizing that there was no one left to fight. Only a few remained, moving among the carnage, looking for survivors and finding none. They paused before the Cafe Musain, staring up at the shattered  window in silence that seemed almost reverent. They recognized the leader of the rebellion… the man who had fought so fiercely even when all hope was gone. His body hung limply from the window, the flag still clutched in his hand.

 

The woman watched from afar as they lifted his body down from the window… just a flash of bright red in the hands of the soldiers. Bright red… it had been his favorite color. She had made that coat herself, a tribute to the days before she had met the Baron Guillaume, when she had only been a thin wisp of a girl, sewing desperately to eke out a miserable living. A woman of the bourgeoisie did not need to sew, but she had done it for her son because she wanted to, and she had put love into every stitch. He had been so proud of that coat. 

They stretched his body out on the cobblestones. She could see his face now… the golden curls just like hers… and remembered the blue eyes that were now closed forever. And she shattered inside. Sinking to her knees on the bloody street, she covered her face with her hands and wept. Those who stood nearby could hear her heartbroken cries…

“My son, my son… oh God, my son…”

Chapter Fourteen

If he was dead, he must be in hell. All around him was a searing, burning blackness… pain unlike any he had ever known. He had thought death would be a welcome relief… but this… this was torture. He couldn’t even tell where the pain was coming from, it seemed to roll over him in waves. He couldn’t move, he didn’t have the strength to cry out, he couldn’t even open his eyes. And yet it was madness to lie there and suffer!

To this had his glorious revolution come… naught but the blackness of night and the hideousness of unimaginable pain. God forgive him, he had tried… was there no mercy?

Summoning every bit of strength in his body, he managed to shift feebly to the side. The pain shot through him again worse than ever, rippling like dancing flames. It dulled his mind so he could not think… scenes were flashing through his memory but he could put no sense to them. Faces he must know, words he must have spoken… where had they all come from and where had they gone? And why could he not shut them out and be left in peace? 

And now a blinding light… ah, this was it… this the moment! He was not dead yet… but there was the light of heaven shining down towards him… never mind that it drummed even worse pain into his skull, it was there, it was so close, he must reach that light… 

In desperation, he tried to lift a trembling arm, but it fell back limply… and his fingers brushed against something lying close beside him. He lay still for a while, watching as the light faded into shadows. Only when it was gone did he dare to move again. If he could not see, then he must feel something… It was a human hand. The only tangible thing in this horrible darkness. He touched it gingerly at first and then wrapped his fingers around it. 

It was a small hand… a woman’s hand. And it was covered in something wet and sticky. Blood. Of course it would be blood. Surely this woman, whoever she was, was dead. Was there no one left but him? God have mercy, why could he not die? 

He tried so hard to focus on the things around him… sounds and feelings… but all he felt was pain, and all he heard was silence. There was nothing… nothing… on which he could pin reality, but that small hand that now lay in his. He clung to it a moment longer and then drew back, tracing his fingers over the shape of it. Something was wrong with that hand… it wasn’t just bloody, it was crushed. He could feel a ragged wound in it… a bullet hole, straight through the center of the palm. It chilled him to the bone and yet… he closed his fingers around the hand again… more gently this time, and yet clinging to it… as if it was the only thing in the world left to care about.

“Patria!”

He thought he screamed it… but no sound escaped his lips. She was dead. Dead. And here he lay at her side, living still. It was cruel to leave him alive. What had he left to live for?

It was then that the hand lying in his moved. Just slightly. He almost missed it… just the mere suggestion of movement… and it was still again. Was it possible…? How could she have lived, wounded as she was? But for that matter… there were eight bullet holes pierced through his body…

Some mysteries of life must go on forever unsolved. If for no other reason than that the pondering of it hurt too badly to go on. He let it slip from his mind and sighed wearily as unconsciousness slowly crept over him again. It shut out the pain, bit by bit, and left nothing but the feeling of that small, broken hand in his.

oOo

Did you see them going off to fight? 

Children off the barricade who didn’t last the night. 

Did you see them lying where they died? 

Someone used to cradle them and kiss them when they cried. 

Did you see them lying side by side?

Carts rattled over Rue de la Chanvrerie, hauling away the debris of the barricade and carrying off the bodies of the dead. The soldiers had been ordered to look sharp for the survivors. Any of the revolutionaries who still lived were to be shot on sight. They had been declared traitors to their country… forfeiting their right to live in it.

And so the soldiers worked, sick at their task, guilt and horror washing over them as the realization of what happened sank in. Citizens joined in as they were ordered, helping to clear the rubble. And in the background, an elderly woman in the habit of a nun drifted unnoticed through the ranks of the dead, her hands clasped and her lips moving in silent prayer. A young man followed not far behind her, now and again bending swiftly over a body. Sometimes he spoke briefly to the nun.

“This one,” he whispered urgently as she again paused to pray, standing before him like a barrier to hide this work of mercy from the eyes of the soldiers. “In the red jacket.  He’s still alive. And this one next to him. A girl. She lives too.”

“God be praised,” the nun smiled gently. “Fetch Monsieur Martin, quickly. He has promised his cart if we should need it.”

Keeping an eye out warily for the soldiers, the young doctor helped Monsieur Martin carefully load the survivors into the back of the cart. 

“Hand in hand, they lie,” he mused softly. “She must have come to the barricades to be with him. Willing to die for love…”

“Here, there’s no time for poetry now,” the cart driver glared at the doctor in annoyance. “Quickly, before they get suspicious!”

It took some force to get the girl’s hand away from the boy’s, and when at last his fingers were pulled from hers, they grimaced to see the bloody hole in her palm. It wasn’t a common wound. Swiftly, the doctor wrapped her hand in a clean handkerchief and laid it gently on her breast. And the cart rattled safely away from Rue de la Chanvrerie with its precious cargo, right under the noses of the officers.

Chapter Fifteen

“Rosalie! Where have you been?” The Baron Guillaume strode forward as the door opened to reveal his wife standing trembling on the doorstep. Her face was ashen, her eyes red and swollen, her dress crumpled and… stained with blood. The annoyance on his face changed swiftly to concern. “Are you hurt? Rosalie… what has happened?”

“I’m… not hurt…” she whispered, her voice strained as she reached out to grip the doorframe. Her husband wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her gently inside and closing the door with a firm bang.  

“Don’t you realize what is happening? Paris is under siege, there are barricades in the streets, people shooting everywhere… you can’t go out there, you could be…”

“Henri, please.” Rosalie held up a hand to silence her husband. “I need you to listen to me. I know you told me never to speak his name again…” She didn’t have to look at his face to know it was growing red with suppressed rage. “But you must hear it. Enjolras… our son. I’ve seen him.”

“Fool boy, is he at the barricades?” Henri’s eyes narrowed. “Why should you speak of him? I have no son!”

“For the first time, you speak that phrase in truth,” Rosalie sighed, too weary for tears. “You have no son.” 

Enjolras had gotten his golden hair and blue eyes from his mother, and his tender, gentle side so often overshadowed by his more ferocious nature… this last and everything else he had from his father. He had his father’s face, his stature, his quick temper… his stubbornness. Rosalie looked at her husband, and she saw her son mirrored in him. She turned away, shaking her head as she pressed her hand against her mouth, choking back a sob. She tried to take a few trembling steps, but her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her strength gone. 

“You mean…” Henri’s face darkened into a frown. 

“He’s dead, Henri,” Rosalie cried out. “I saw him… at the barricades.” 

“Dead…” he echoed her in a whisper. 

“The revolution is over,” she murmured brokenly. “They’re all dead. Every last one of them. The streets are red with blood. Oh, my boy, my boy…”

“If he had listened to me… ha!” Henri scoffed, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced the length of the room. “Ungrateful child… traitor to his family. If he had listened to me, this never would have happened.”

“You forget that you were not without fault!” Rosalie turned on him in anger. “The things you said… you broke his heart!”

“He renounced me, his own father!” Henri shot back, his eyes shooting sparks. “He left of his own free will.”

“He would never have renounced you if you had not disowned him first. Your temper, Henri, your dreadful temper… it will be the death of you yet… as it has been the death of your son.” She drew herself up, stretching to her full height… but the top of her head only reached her husband’s shoulder. He was looking down at her in fury and suddenly she felt that she despised him. Strange how love and hate can be felt at once. She dropped the beseeching hand that she had held out to him.

“You dare to accuse me of that?” his voice trembled with rage, but for the first time, Rosalie did not bend beneath his will. 

“Yes, I dare. You killed him as surely as if you had pointed the gun at his heart.” Tears wavered in her eyes but she valiantly blinked them back. “And you cheated me out of the last few years I could have had with my son. I will never forgive you that, do you hear me? Never!” She turned her back on him, rushing to the door. He caught her arm before she could open it, pulling her back.

“No, Rosalie… you can’t go out there… where are you going?”

She looked at him scornfully.

“I’m going to bring him home, Henri. You sent him away from me while he was living… but not even you can deny me his body. He deserves the burial of an honored and beloved son.” 

oOo

“You say you can identify the leader of this rebellion?” The police inspector looked up in interest at the pale young army captain who stood before him. The captain nodded.

“Yes, Monsieur. I know him. I… we were children together. I recognized him during the final attack on the barricade. He was killed at the end of the battle.” 

“And his name?”

“Guillaume. Enjolras Guillaume.” 

“Hm…” the inspector sorted through the papers on his desk and drew forth a neatly written list. Rows of names had been written in black ink and he consulted this document for a few minutes, murmuring names under his breath… “Combeferre, law student; Courfeyrac, law student; Joly, medical student; unidentified boy of nine or ten years…” At last he tossed the paper aside and looked up at the captain skeptically. “His name is not among those who were found dead on the scene. Unless, perhaps, he is this unidentified boy…” his lips twisted in amusement.

“No… no, monsieur… I… I shot him myself… I and a squad of my men. He fell through the window of the Cafe Musain.”

“Tell me what you know of him,” the inspector drew a blank sheet of paper from a desk drawer, filled an ink pen, and looked at the captain expectantly.

“He… he would be twenty-five or twenty-six years old by now,” the captain faltered. “He was a student of law at the University of Paris. I… I’m afraid I don’t know more. We hadn’t corresponded at all over the last several years.”

“Enjolras Guillaume, you say?” The inspector quickly jotted down a few notes. “Guillaume is a well-known name here in Paris. A wealthy and respected family. Is he any relation to the Baron Henri Guillaume?”

“He was the baron’s son.”

“I see. Physical description?”

“About six feet tall,” the captain was twisting his hat nervously in his hands and growing paler by the second. “Blond hair, blue eyes…” he paused. “Monsieur, I do not understand…”

“If his body was not found at the barricades, then he must have survived somehow,” the inspector answered curtly. “He is a traitor and must be dealt with accordingly. I will have a warrant drawn up… if he is seen, then he is to be shot on sight. You understand this, of course, Captain Dupont?”

The captain hesitated, staring down at the hat in his hands.

“Of course, Monsieur.” 

“Good. I thank you for your information, Captain. You have been most helpful.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Shh, dear, don’t try to move. Just lie still.”

The voice echoed through a black void, coming from far, far away. Eponine tried to force her eyes open, but she couldn’t find the strength. She was spinning in blackness… trying to claw her way out of it… but slipping farther back. Pain seemed to swirl around her… but in the midst of it, this gentle hand on her head…

“You’re going to be just fine, child. Just fine.” The voice was comforting. And it was drawing nearer. Eponine focused on it, drawing deep, gasping breaths as at last she managed to open her eyes. The light was so bright, she couldn’t seem to see. She caught a blurred glimpse of an elderly woman in the simple habit of a nun before she let her eyes fall shut again.

“Now then, dear, a sip of water, and could you just try telling me your name?” The nun gently lifted the girl’s head as she held a glass to her lips. “Don’t strain yourself though, dear, don’t speak if it hurts too much.”

Eponine did try to speak, but it wasn’t her name that came out.

“Enjolras…” she whispered, forcing her voice out although it hurt like fire. “H… he… he was… with me…” The bandaged hand shifted over the covers and her face twisted in pain.

“Enjolras?” the nun repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that your name?”

“I’m… I’m Eponine…” she faltered, gasping for breath. 

“Eponine. A lovely name.” The nun’s face crinkled into a kind smile. “I am Sister Agatha.”

“Where… am I? Where… where is he? I… I…”

“If you mean the boy, he’s here too, in another room.  Not doing so well as you, though, I’m afraid. I don’t mean to alarm you, not in your condition, but I can’t lie to you… it’s not likely he’ll make it.” 

“He’s here…” Eponine muttered breathlessly. “He’s… dying?”

“Aw, you poor dear,” the woman shook her head sadly. “Don’t cry now. Just rest. Try to get your strength up. Tis a sad, sad thing that’s happened… another black mark to add to the sins of France. But you’ll be alright, child. And we’ll pray for him. You know, when they found you, it was all they could do to take your hand from his.”

Eponine closed her eyes, trying to sort out the tangle of scenes that flashed through her head. They hardly seemed real. Marius on top of the barricade… the gun exploding in her hand… and Marius holding her close… and suddenly Enjolras had been with her. She remembered it like a faraway dream. She hadn’t seen him, not really… but she had heard his voice. He had been carrying her. Had it been imagination? But she could still feel it somehow… his gentle kiss lingering on her forehead. 

She tried again to think of Marius… but something was different. Something was slipping away from her… and what it was, she could not say.

oOo

“Red… black… it goes on… it’s not… it’s not over yet… we must… we must fight…” He tossed restlessly, gasping for breath as he reached out into space… grasping at something only he could see. “Patria!” he choked back a sob, his hand falling limply to his side. “Patria… forgive me!” 

The muttered ravings of a delirious man. The nurse on attendance, a timid young woman, only shook her head solemnly when the doctor came in. 

“He’s been going on like that for hours,” she cast a worried glance at her patient. 

“The Lord only knows what he suffered out there,” the doctor sighed. “Poor, foolish boy.” He moved to stand at the bedside, and the patient turned wild, fever-filled eyes towards him.

“The revolution…” he gasped out. “Let me go… I must fight.”

“The revolution is over, my boy,” the doctor said, not unkindly. “You must lie still.”

“And the others!” he cried. “We must rally again… where have they gone… Combeferre… Courfeyrac… Grantaire… where have the others gone?” He pushed himself up desperately, fighting against the doctor’s restraining hands as his voice rose to a shout, tears spilling down his cheeks. His eyes were glassy and yet filled with a wild horror. “What have I done? Dear God, what have I done? They trusted me… Patria… forgive me!” 

“You need to keep still,” the doctor repeated, forcing him to lie back. Any more sudden movements like that and he would surely tear apart from the wounds that crisscrossed his body. “Can you tell me your name?”

“The girl,” the wounded man choked out the words. “Her hand was shattered… she wasted her life on him… wasted it, d’you hear me? He didn’t love her… and I… I…” his voice trailed off wearily and he lay silent for a moment. The doctor worked quickly, pulling away bandages stiff with dried blood to check the bullet wounds trailed across the boy’s side.

“Nurse,” he spoke grimly as he worked to dress the wounds. “He’s regressing… this constant movement is no good for him. Try securing him to the bed, anything to keep him still. Even just a few days would do him a world of good. And as soon as the girl is able, let her see him. That would help him more than anything, I believe.”

Chapter Seventeen

“You’re doing well, child,” Sister Agatha smiled encouragingly as she gently wrapped Eponine’s injured hand in clean bandages. The girl kept her face turned away, her eyes clenched shut. She hadn’t looked at her hand yet… she was too afraid to see it. “It will heal,” the nurse continued. “You will never be able to use it again quite the way you used to, but it will heal, thank the Lord.”

Eponine nodded dazedly, biting her lip as the pain grew sharper, even beneath Sister Agatha’s careful fingers. She moved her arm as the nurse let go, cradling her bandaged hand against her heart with her good hand. She always kept it there, as if hiding it from the world… protecting it. It worried Sister Agatha, the way the girl would sit there for hours on end, staring unseeingly into the distance, rocking back and forth. She rarely spoke. 

The nun settled into the chair at Eponine’s side with a weary sigh, tucking a stray lock of graying hair beneath her covering. She watched the girl for a moment, her head turned to one side as if she was thinking… and then she smiled. 

“You know, my dear… the young man that was with you when we found you… he’s been talking about you.”

Eponine stirred, lifting her head. 

“How is he?”

“He could go either way at this point,” the nurse shook her head. “But we are praying. I wonder if… if it would help him… and you… if you went to see him. Sometimes he seems to think you’re dead… and other times, he begs to be allowed to see you.” 

“I… I don’t even know who he is…” Eponine faltered. The last person she remembered before waking up in the hospital was Enjolras… but this mystery man… he could be anyone. 

“We were hoping you could identify him,” Sister Agatha smiled sadly. “He speaks, but it is only in a fever, he will not answer any questions.” She paused and Eponine glanced at her searchingly. She felt suddenly desperately curious and afraid all at once. 

“Please, Eponine,” the nurse urged her. “I think he needs you.”

“Then I will go,” Eponine whispered.

oOo

She realized who he was the moment she entered the room, leaning on Sister Agatha. With a gasp, she pushed away from the nurse and fell to her knees at his bedside, her eyes flooding with tears. He lay still just then, sleeping at last as weariness overruled his tortured mind. Just a shadow then of the man he used to be, his features contorted into a troubled expression, his cheekbones standing sharply out in a face that seemed sunken in… as if he had aged ten years since that night on the barricades.

Dear God, what had he suffered? There was no one left who could recount the horrors of those final moments behind the barricade. She found herself staring at a thin red line curling around his shoulder, neat black stitches holding the torn flesh together, and she shuddered. A sabre cut.

“What is his name?” the nurse looked questioningly at her and Eponine opened her mouth to answer… but something held her back. Such a man as this… if the authorities knew he had survived…

“I… cannot say…” she paused to draw in a shaking breath.

“You’re not well, my dear, let me get you back to bed.”

“No… no… not just yet…” She reached out with her good hair, gently brushing back the tangled hair that fell over his forehead. “He… he carried me…” She frowned. She didn’t know what she was saying… and yet there was something there, tugging at the corners of her memory… something she had forgotten. “The rain… and… and blood…”

“She knows him,” the nurse whispered to the doctor, bewildered, as he quietly entered the room. “But she sounds almost a bit delirious right now, I wish you’d make her go back to bed.”

“Let her stay a while,” the doctor shook his head and advanced toward the girl, dropping his hand on her shoulder. “Pardon, mademoiselle, I know you had asked about a Marius Pontmercy.”

“I… I thought…” the girl looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

“I have news of him.” The doctor smiled sympathetically at her. “What is he to you, this Marius?”

Eponine’s eyes dropped and she turned her face away.

“Just a friend.”

“I see.” the doctor’s voice grew more gentle yet. “I thought you might be glad to know that he is well now. A friend of mine, he is also a doctor… he cared for this Marius of yours… it seems he was also wounded at the barricades. He is making quite the miraculous recovery… not unlike you, my dear mademoiselle. He… he is to be married. To a Cosette Fauchevelent.”

“I know it,” Eponine’s voice could barely be heard. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against Enjolras’ limp hand. 

“And you say you don’t know the name of this man?” 

“I cannot tell you,” Eponine choked back a sob. “Please… and if Marius lives… he will want to see him. But don’t… don’t tell him I’m here. Let him think me dead.”

Chapter Eighteen

Somehow, Eponine could not find it in herself to be bitter towards Cosette. Although she felt it strange how the tide had turned… once, and long ago, she herself had been pampered, while Cosette had been made to work like a slave. Eponine had pitied her then… had not seen any sense in why a little girl like herself should be so abused. She had secretly prayed that one day, Cosette would be given her chance at happiness. But the scales had tipped too far… and Cosette had stolen the heart of the man that Eponine loved, with only one glance of her beautiful eyes. 

Nary the slightest of regrets had filled Eponine’s heart when she lay dying in Marius’ arms. For that one moment, in the gently-falling rain, with him close beside her… she had found happiness. And she had died there, she believed it. Eponine Thenardier, the girl who had loved Marius Pontmercy and been willing to sacrifice her life that he might live… she had died that night behind the barricade. And the woman who rose from the ashes of that miserable night was someone new and different. She had strangely felt little pain when she heard of Marius’s engagement to Cosette. Somehow that seemed so far away and long ago.

Days slipped by endlessly, never stopping… she wanted to hate the monotony of those days, and yet as she lay there staring at the ceiling, hour after hour, her mind spinning, she wondered at this deadly calm inside of her. And in the midst of it, an empty hole in her heart… as crippled as she knew her hand was.

Her hand… Enjolras had been holding her hand when they were found, lying side by side behind the barricade. She lifted it now, trembling slightly as she unwrapped the bandages. There it lay in her lap… thin and white and twisted. She stared at it with a kind of horrified fascination, her eyes wide as she traced the deep scar in her palm, wincing at the touch on the sensitive skin. She tried to move her fingers, biting down on her lip to hold back a whimper of pain. 

“Ah, my dear, sitting up and doing well, are you?” Sister Agatha stood in the doorway, beaming down on her. “How is your hand? Oh, you poor thing…” she moved briskly across the room and bent to wrap Eponine in a warm embrace. “Don’t feel too badly, love, you’ve still your pretty face. And I’m sure your young man won’t mind.”

“He’s not…” Eponine didn’t know what she was trying to say… and so she stopped speaking a moment before trying again. “Is he doing any better?”

“That’s why I came to get you, dear. He’s in a bad way. I thought maybe you could help calm him. He gets quite wild at times.” She smiled sadly. “I’ve told the doctor that I don’t know but he won’t pull through, with the strength he’s got… at times, he fights anyone who tries to touch him. That’s not the strength of a dying man, I told the doctor. But he’s still badly hurt, dear. Please come and see him, won’t you?”

“Why should I?” Eponine scoffed. “He is nothing to me.” Liar. She winced.

“Are you certain of that?” The sister chuckled. “Child, I don’t know anything about the mysterious two of you, but I’m sure of it that he loves you. Give him a chance.” 

“That’s silly,” Eponine whispered. “Who would love a wasted cast-off nobody like me?” But she slipped from the bed and followed Sister Agatha, not even pausing to wrap her hand again. 

She could hear him yelling even before the door was opened and she hung back. But he saw her standing there in the doorway and raised himself halfway up, his eyes tortured as he searched her face. How could they say he was dying? There was fire in him yet… raging fire. 

“It’s not over yet,” he hissed. “I tell you… it’s not over… the revolution… we will rise again…”

Eponine took a stumbling step forward as the sister nudged her from behind. As she moved closer, his face changed… from angry to bewildered… and then recognition began to dawn and he fell back, forming words with his lips, but not speaking them aloud. 

“The revolution is over,” she spoke forcibly as she stared down at him, her face void of expression. She was suddenly wanting to cry… but she would force it back somehow. “It died with all of us.” 

“It cannot die,” he murmured, shaking his head restlessly. “It is so much bigger than us mere mortals. The Republic, it is all that matters in this world… and I have failed it.”

“It only wasn’t meant to be.” Eponine knelt beside him. “Trust me. I know of things that aren’t meant to be.”

“You know nothing,” he spat out the words, his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” He was whispering now, drawing in gasping breaths as if it was difficult for him to speak. She bent over him and suddenly, his anger seemed to evaporate. A single tear rolled down his cheek and fell on the pillow.

“Patria…” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Eponine murmured. “You gave your all.” And she lifted her injured hand to lay it gingerly on his. He pulled away… and then gently touched the disfiguring scar.

“You did that for him.”

Eponine swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that were every moment threatening more to fall.

“I did it for love.”

“What is love but a distraction from the things that truly matter?” He scoffed, turning his face away. “It means nothing.”

“You are wrong.” Her voice grew firm and she drew herself up with all her strength, her eyes narrowed. “Love is everything. And if you would ever let it… it would touch even your stony heart.”

He turned back with such a ferocity that suddenly, Eponine was afraid of him. He looked angry… maybe he was. But Eponine continued on bravely, her voice rising.

“You claim not to understand love, but you lie. Wasn’t it for love of Patria that you were willing to give up your life? Why then can you not believe that love that strong can be felt in other ways?”

For a moment he glared at her, a thousand angry things filling his eyes… but then his face changed.

“For love of Patria,” he breathed. He closed his fingers around hers, bringing their clasped hands to rest on his heart.

Eponine sighed… a weary little sigh… and let her head fall to rest on his shoulder. Her hand had hurt badly these long weeks in hospital… a burning ache that kept her from sleeping. But the way he held it, so gently, almost caressing… for the first time, she didn’t feel any pain. 

Chapter Nineteen

One long, slow deep breath after another. He focused on that, forcing calm through the pain. Above him, the plaster of the ceiling was cracked and chipping away. Minutes slipped away, stretching into eternities, as he traced the patterns of the ceiling with his eyes. For the most part, he was left alone. Occasionally a nun would slip into the room to feel his pulse or make sure his fever wasn’t running high again. They never spoke, these silent figures in black and white. Usually he just ignored them… but sometimes their silence angered him and he would ask desperate questions or shout at them when they approached, their eyes downcast. 

No one seemed to speak about the revolution here. And it was all he could think of… those last moments at the barricade playing over and over in his mind until he was certain it would drive him crazy. They simply deflected every word he said, chalking it up to delirium, or pretending he wasn’t saying anything at all. He grew desperate, almost insane, as he tried to make them listen to him. How could they act like nothing had happened? And then they would leave him alone again with his thoughts… and the guilt that washed over him until it grew worse than the pain itself. Sometimes he prayed to die. 

The only relief he ever got was when Eponine came to see him. She was doing so well, and he thanked God for that. The bullet meant for Marius had shattered her hand and passed through her body, but it had missed her vital organs and the only serious damage was in her hand. He wanted her to recover, but he dreaded the day that she would leave the hospital… and him. And yet he never would have admitted that. Outwardly he pretended to be the same as always, although his heart skipped a beat whenever he heard her voice.

“Good morning, Monsieur,” she spoke from the doorway and he turned his head to see her. “How are you feeling today?”

He held out his hand and she moved to take it, limping just slightly as she walked. The wound in her side still pained her, but she bore it bravely, never once complaining. She looked better these days… dare he think… more beautiful than ever? Sister Agatha had found her a proper dress to replace the torn and bloody men’s clothing she had worn at the barricade. It wasn’t a fancy dress, but it was clean and neat. And somehow, the simple garment seemed to fit her much better than luxuriant lace and ruffles would have. She kept her hair carefully brushed now, sometimes pinned at the nape of her neck, but usually falling around her face in soft, dark waves. Once it had brushed against his cheek as she sat beside him, her head bent over his. She hadn’t seemed to notice… but it had left his heart racing. 

“Have you tried sitting up yet?” she added as she took her place beside him. “Or does it still hurt?”

“It’s not too bad,” he smiled faintly. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t you worry about me,” she laughed. “And you can’t fool me either, saying you’re fine. Sister Agatha told me they found eight bullets in you. You’re a living miracle.”

“It’s a curse,” he muttered, his eyes darkening as he turned his face away. “It was cruel of fate to let me live.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Eponine’s voice shook suddenly. “Perhaps it’s a gift! You…”

“Listen to you…” he grinned. “I’ve made an optimist out of you.”

“And you’ve turned cynical,” she shot back. “Please, Enjolras… you need to want to live again.”

“What is there left in life for me?” He spoke bitterly. She laid her hand gently on his cheek, turning his face back to her. 

“Remember what you fought for in the first place,” she whispered. “The reason is still there.”

He squeezed her hand wearily and let his eyes fall shut. He didn’t want to think anymore. Just for a while, he wanted only to feel her presence there beside him, and to feel her hand in his. But she was speaking again… asking a question he had never thought she would ask.

“Do you know what happened to Gavroche?”

“Do you hear the people sing?” The voice echoed through his memory… so young, so full of life and hope… Gavroche waving a red flag, his eyes alight with excitement… Gavroche riding on Courfeyrac’s shoulders and crying out a jubilant “Vive la France!”... Gavroche lying still on the barricade, his eyes staring unseeingly at a merciless sky…

“How do you know him?” He choked out the words, trying to block the memories.

“He is my brother,” Eponine spoke with tenderness. “I need to find him.”

Enjolras groaned. Dear God, must he tell her? He’d rather face the entire French army single-handed. She was looking at him in sudden alarm, fear dancing in her eyes.

“What is it? Enjolras… what… what happened? What’s wrong? Is he…”

He looked at her, distraught… and her face crumpled. She knew. For a moment he thought she was going to bolt and run. But she didn’t move. She didn’t even cry out. She simply closed her eyes, one tear and then another trickling slowly down her cheeks. He almost wished she would go… the silence stretched out uncomfortably, and he turned away again.

“Patria…” he breathed, his heart aching. “Forgive me. I’m to blame.”

“No,” she murmured. “It’s not your fault.” And she slipped from the chair to kneel beside him, hiding her face in the blanket. She stayed there a long time, silent, trembling. Helplessly, he shifted sideways, enough that he could lay his hand on her shoulder. And with all his heart, he wished that he had died too.

oOo

It is those who hide in broad daylight that never seem to be found. One can hardly expect a mastermind criminal to go marching boldly up the steps of the Parisian police headquarters. And yet that is exactly what Montparnasse did one morning, dressed to dandified perfection and oozing oily charm from every pore. He handsomely tipped the guard who led him to the office of the chief inspector of police, tucked his silk top hat grandly under his arm, and swept into the room with an air of perfect confidence.

“Ah, good morning, Monsieur Inspector,” he bowed as the inspector glanced up with a bored expression. “Allow me to introduce myself… my name is Auguste Moreau. I believe I have information that would be of a highly valuable nature. Information to do with the recent student rebellion.”

“Please, Monsieur Moreau,” the inspector showed genuine interest for the first time as he indicated the chair opposite his desk. “Take a seat and tell me what you know.”

“I apologize that I am in a bit of a rush,” Parnasse seated himself elegantly on the edge of the chair, clasping his gold-tipped walking stick in both hands. “Business matters, you know. Everything is so pressing right now… recovery from the rebellions, you know. My employees have all been in such an uproar.”

“Quite understandable,” the inspector nodded sympathetically. “We’ve had so much trouble ourselves trying to set everything to rights again.”

“The information I have,” Parnasse leaned forward confidentially. “It has to do with the leader of the rebellion. Enjolras Guillaume, I believe his name is.”

“We have a warrant out for his death,” the inspector raised an eyebrow. “Do you know where he is?”

Montparnasse smiled triumphantly with the satisfaction of revenge that would soon take place. This revolutionary would pay for the insult Parnasse had suffered with his life.

“Indeed. He is at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital. I believe one or more of the doctors might be sympathetic with the rebel cause. They have been sheltering him. I have it on good authority of more than one reliable witness that he was seen there.”

“Excellent,” the inspector nodded. “I will dispatch some of my men and ensure that he is taken at once. Should he be found, then we shall be in touch with you and see that you are compensated with the appropriate reward.”

Chapter Twenty

Sister Agatha moved briskly through her ward, supervising with calm capability. The young nurses under her charge scurried about, always in the background, working with the efficiency that the older nun prided herself on. Here on her side of the hospital, everything always ran like clockwork, and her patients thrived. She smiled as she brushed past the little corner where Eponine sat at Enjolras’ bedside, her hand clasped in his. The girl had a calming effect on him that no one else ever could… and when she was with him, he seemed to rest easier. The nurse whispered a little prayer for the both of them as she always did, and moved on. But her name was being called and she turned to see the doctor rushing towards her, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Sister, please…” his tone was urgent. “I must speak to you. Quickly.”

“Of course, Doctor, what is the matter? Is there anything I can do?”

“I’ve come with a warning,” the doctor kept his voice low. “I’ve received information concerning the man we brought in from the barricades. It seems he was the leader of the revolution. Word is getting around that he is here… and they want his life.”

Horror filled the nurse’s face.

“Why surely you can’t mean…” her voice swiftly turned angry. “They would kill the poor boy, and after all we’ve done to bring him back to life again?”

“I’m afraid so. They say they won’t even bother with a trial, there are those under orders to shoot him on sight. I’d hide him, if there was any way of… I mean… they’d kill us for it if we sheltered him. He’s getting stronger though, perhaps it would be best to tell him of the danger and let him go.”

“Not on your life are you letting him go,” Her eyes narrowed. “He needs more time to recover. You’ll ruin all the progress we’ve made, Eponine and I. He wanted to die, I tell you, still does… it’s that girl, she’s the only one who can make him stop talking about death and revolutions. If he finds they’re after him, he’ll just wait for them to come and kill him.”

“Young fool,” the doctor growled. “If he cares that little for his life, maybe we should leave things as they are.”

“I’m an old woman now, and life here is not so dear to me that I would betray that boy to the authorities. We’ll hide him, and I’ll take the blame.” She put her hands on her hips and raised her chin in defiance. She was a short, stout little woman with a wrinkled face, but at that moment, she looked just as fierce as the young revolutionaries had when they stood atop the barricade and awaited their doom.

From somewhere beneath came the sound of commotion… heavy boots clattering on the stairs and a loud voice, too far off yet for the words to be distinguished. A nurse’s alarmed voice was answering… and another young nun came rushing down the corridor, seizing Sister Agatha’s arm as she struggled to catch her breath.

“They’re here, Sister… the soldiers! They are looking for one of the rebellion leaders…” Scarce had she gasped out the words when the soldiers entered the ward. Sister Agatha lifted her chin in angry determination and moved forward to meet them.

“Can I help you, monsieurs?” She spoke firmly as she stood in the corridor, barring their path. The captain glanced at her, his eyes fidgety and nervous.

“Yes… we’re looking for a man named Enjolras Guillaume. We have been told that he is here.”

“None of my patients go by this name,” the sister answered, confident in that she spoke the truth. The boy had never told her his name, and the girl refused to reveal it, as had the young Baron Pontmercy who had stopped by often over the past few weeks. 

“He would likely be under an alias,” the captain shook his head. “We will find him. Please stand aside, Madame.”

There was little the elderly nun could do. In spite of all her efforts and all her protests, the soldiers simply brushed her aside and forged on, ducking behind the curtains separating beds to scrutinize the faces of each patient. Frightened voices cried out as the soldiers moved past them and Sister Agatha gathered up her skirts to rush after the intruders, determined to make her most valiant effort to stop them.

“This is a hospital!” she pleaded. “These people need rest and quiet… you cannot upset them! You must leave, now. Surely even in these dreadful days a hospital must be considered a place of refuge!”

But they paid her little heed. At last they entered the last room of the ward, startling the girl who sat at the bedside of the patient. She jumped to her feet, her eyes wide in her pale face.

“There is no refuge for the enemies of France,” Captain Dupont spoke in answer to the sister’s protest and then he turned to the girl. “Mademoiselle, I would advise you to leave this room, we have business with this man.” But Eponine stood motionless.

“You…” Enjolras hissed, struggling to push himself up in bed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to finish what I’ve started,” The captain spoke with conviction, but his eyes were sad. “Would that you had given it up when you had the chance. I have here a warrant,” he flourished the deadly paper with its royal seal. “It’s not for your arrest… but for your death. I was ordered to have you shot on sight…” He almost whispered the last words. “God forgive me, I must do my duty.”

“Then do it,” Enjolras’ voice was deadly calm. “You can kill me, but you can’t kill the spirit of the revolution. It will live on, long after I’m gone.”

“Can you walk?” The captain’s voice shook slightly, but he stood his ground. 

Eponine caught her breath in horror, her eyes darting from the trembling captain to the calm resignation written on Enjolras’ face. A quiet order from the captain sent a soldier to the bedside, but Enjolras shoved him aside, scorning the offered assistance. He dragged himself from the bed and stood to face his enemy, his head thrown back in defiance, although he pressed his hand against his wounded side, gritting his teeth to hide his pain. The captain nodded and turned to give orders to his men. They gave him a few moments only to pull his boots on before the soldiers fell in around him to march him from the building.

Eponine stood at his side, thrusting her crippled hand into his. He didn’t look at her, his gaze pinned steadily on the captain… but he curled his fingers around hers and didn’t let go.

The condemned man was taken to an alley behind the hospital. It was a pitiful scene, the way he leaned heavily against the brick wall of the building behind him, struggling to stay upright and hide the pain as he faced a full firing squad. The soldiers hesitated, ashamed at the thought of executing someone already so wounded. And the girl… she stood stubbornly at his side, her face white but her chin lifted in the same spirit of defiance, her eyes shooting angry sparks at the lot of them. It was unnerving somehow, and the soldiers seemed to back away.

“Send the girl away,” the captain ordered and Eponine only moved closer to Enjolras, as if daring them to tear her away.

“Go on, get out of here, Eponine,” Enjolras muttered, his eyes fixed on his executioners.

“I won’t leave you,” she spat the words out angrily. The captain shook his head.

“Then stand aside.”

Eponine drew a ragged, gasping breath. Her mind was spinning… and she couldn’t quite distinguish the spoken words from the roar in her head… Enjolras was suddenly gripping her hand so tightly that it hurt. “If you kill him,” she spoke dizzily through a haze of fear and confusion, “You’ll have to kill me too.” She turned, hiding her face against his shoulder, waiting. She could feel a firm hand on her arm, pulling her back, and she fought it, struggling with all the feeble strength left in her body. 

But the sound of the captain’s pistol clattering to the cobblestones stunned her into stillness. He was ordering his men away… and they were letting her go. The captain was staring at Enjolras as if terrified.

“I can’t do it, old friend,” he whispered, looking away. Enjolras made no answer. Eponine had returned to stand beside him and she could feel him wavering. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and he pressed a hand against the wall behind him as if trying to find support. He buckled suddenly, bending nearly double as he gasped in pain. Alarmed, she reached out to slip her arm around his waist, knowing she could never support his weight if he went down, but desperate to at least try. He clung to her, his head bowed as he fought for control. Eponine caught a glimpse of fresh blood seeping through the bandages that wrapped his torso.

“The law must be upheld,” the captain spoke again, as if arguing with himself. “I can’t let you go free.”

“So shoot me,” Enjolras snarled at him, stifling a groan. “Coward.” 

But the captain made no move to retrieve his fallen gun. “I am sworn to follow justice, but some things stretch a man’s limit too far. I refuse to kill a helpless and wounded man without a trial.” The captain’s voice rose, gaining conviction. “I will bring this matter before the court.”

Sister Agatha met them breathlessly at the doorway, tears sliding down her cheeks when she saw Enjolras. He had refused help from the soldiers but was leaning heavily on Eponine. The sister ushered them inside quickly and stood in the door as if to forbid the soldiers to enter. A quiet order from the captain and his men stayed put, the captain alone following Enjolras inside.

Under Eponine’s steady glare, the captain slipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt, snapping one cuff around his prisoner’s wrist, and locking the other to the bedframe. As he stepped back, Eponine rushed forward to clasp Enjolras’ bound hand in both of hers, bending her head to hide her tears.

“I’ll try to get your sentence reduced. Prison time, instead of death. But that’s all I can do for you. You see… when you get involved in this madness… you throw your life away.”

“And yet, at the end of the day, it is I who have truly lived, and you who are dead!” Enjolras cried, struggling angrily as the captain retreated from the room.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Enjolras… bourgeois boy… you’re a mystery… tell me who you are…”

She was laughing at him. He could see her eyes sparkling with fun. He reached out to catch her hand, but there was nothing there. She had turned to dart away, vanishing in and out of the mist, always ahead of him, never where he could catch up to her, although he ran with all of his might. Only now and again could he catch a glimpse of her in the darkness. Her laugh floated behind her, echoing around him. He pushed himself faster, desperate to catch her…

But he could go no further. He stopped still, staring up at the giant obstacle that loomed in his path. It seemed to be a mountain of useless objects… shattered fragments of shattered lives… a table, a chair, a broken piano… he shuddered, the night suddenly grown icy cold. The barricade. And there atop it, the flag that he himself had planted. But the flag wasn’t flying. It had fallen, tattered and torn… dripping with blood.

Frightened voices seemed to call to him out of the darkness. They were sobbing, screaming his name. Faces etched with terror, hands reaching out in desperation. Faces he knew, faces he loved. Friends who had followed him into battle, friends he had failed to protect. They were here now, before him, reaching out to him still…

“Enjolras… please… can you hear me?”

Her voice was closer than the others. He felt someone touch his hand. He pulled back violently, crying out as pain shot through every fibre of his being. He didn’t know where he was and he didn’t understand what was happening… but he knew that he belonged on top of that barricade. He had to make it there… he was meant to die fighting on that barricade. They were waiting there for him… all the friends he had left behind… he had to reach them…

“Enjolras! Listen to me! It’s Eponine, do you hear me? Eponine!”

The darkness before him seemed to shatter… not completely, just cracking enough to let the light through. He caught a glimpse of her face hovering above his, her eyes wide with concern… and she was gone again. He was trapped between the darkness and light… pulled both ways… both sides calling his name. And he couldn’t move.

“Enjolras, please…” Eponine’s voice broke. She glanced at the doctor in helpless desperation, but he only nodded grimly. Go on. Keep trying.

The fever had returned, worse than before. The doctor had enlisted Eponine’s help, confident that she could calm Enjolras when nobody else could… but he was so far away this time that she couldn’t seem to reach him. He was struggling wildly, crying out jumbled phrases that made no sense. She bent over him, wiping the sweat from his forehead, trying to take his hand in hers, trying to make him open his eyes and look at her… but he never seemed to realize that she was there. It only grew worse… and he was fighting so hard against the metal cuff locked around his wrist that blood was trickling down his arm. 

With strength born of sheer desperation and a fear that was swiftly turning to anger, Eponine managed at last to seize his hand, clinging to it when he tried to pull away. She was shouting at him now, pouring out Argot phrases that made no more sense than his delirious ravings as she fought to hold onto him. The doctor stood by, merely watching in sudden amused interest as the girl’s rage grew with every passing moment. 

“Stubborn fool,” she snapped, bending to force the weight of her body onto his arm to hold it still. “You’re only hurting yourself worse. Hold still, idiot, or I’ll… I’ll…” she muttered furious things under her breath as the doctor passed her a roll of bandages. Shoving the metal cuff out of the way as best she could, she swiftly wrapped the bandages around his bleeding wrist. This one task accomplished, she pushed bedraggled strands of hair back from her face with shaking fingers  and prepared to do battle once more. 

He could feel her touch… real, warm, alive. Something was calling him back… the light was flooding the darkness now, the barricade fading before his eyes. He tried… tried so hard… clawing his way toward the light… but he slipped and fell, crying out in frustration. She was so close… so far… 

She stayed with him long into the night…. Long after he lay still at last, exhausted by his struggle. Clutching his hands with both of hers, she let her weary head drop onto his shoulder… and she cried. Heartbroken, wrenching, gasping sobs. She cried because he was hurting, cried because she was so tired, cried because her world was still crumbling into dust although there hadn’t been anything but shattered pieces to begin with…. 

She cried because she loved him. And they were going to take him away.

oOo

It was a dismally gray world that rolled slowly past the carriage window as pouring rain streamed down. Rosalie stared through that rain-streaked window, transfixed, as Paris slipped away from view. The dull ache in her heart grew until it was nearly unbearable. Somewhere in that vast maze of a city lay the body of her son… and she didn’t know where to find him.

On the day she had argued with her husband, she had left her home, not to return for several weeks. She had returned to the site of the barricade to find them clearing away the rubble… and she had joined the women who knelt on the cobblestones to scrub away the blood. There was so much blood that the streets had run red. She had worked until her hands were raw… until she was so tired that she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She would have slept out there in the streets, had not a ragged, heavy-set woman with sad eyes offered her a place to stay for the night. It was only a straw pallet in the corner of a dirty room, but she had taken it without complaint.

And the day after that, looking more like a pauper than a noble woman of the bourgeoisie, she had stumbled into police headquarters, her eyes swollen and rimmed with red. 

“I’m looking for the body of my son,” she had murmured, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “He died at the barricades. His name was Enjolras… Enjolras Guillaume… he was wearing a red coat…” and she described him, tears streaming down her cheeks. The police only shook their heads. No one seemed to know where he had been taken… or where he was likely to be buried. At last she was told that those who had died at the barricade were buried in a mass grave at Père Lachaise Cemetery. She had gone there to weep and pray… and back to spend her nights with the woman, whose name she had learned was Marie Martin. Her husband drove a cart for hire and worked in local stables in between times. Marie told Rosalie of her role in the revolution… how she had sewn the red flag for the cause… the one that had flown on top of the barricade. And how she had watched as the students fell one by one.

“Each one that died, it struck a blow right to my heart,” she said softly. “Those boys… they were so young, so full of hope… I was so sure they would win. The leader… the one with the golden hair and the red jacket… he kissed my hand the night before the fight began.” She smiled proudly, tears wavering in her eyes. “No one ever kissed my hand before. I’m not a lady, you know. Just a poor pauper who nobody ever bothered to notice before.”

Rosalie never once thought of going home again. Not that she never meant to… it simply never crossed her mind, as full of pain as it was. Somehow it made her feel closer to her son to be out there, among the people who he had loved and fought for… the people she had grown up with.

Henri found her, weeks later, crumpled on the ground beside the mass grave, weeping. His hair had turned nearly white in the past weeks and the lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth were deeper. But he didn’t scold her, or even seem angry. He simply gathered her up and carried her home. And the very next day, he had taken her away from Paris, to their estate in the country. They didn’t speak of what had happened… they simply went in silence.

They never knew as their carriage rolled out of the city gates that at that very moment, their son was standing trial for treason.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Eponine felt herself die inside on the morning when Enjolras was pronounced well enough to go… and the soldiers came to lock his wrists in chains. He didn’t seem to see her standing there while they explained the conditions of the trial and read the arrest warrant the captain had managed to get in place of the defied death warrant… and yet still he held her hand, as if it was the only thing tying a dying man to life.

They brought him before a Paris court to hear the accusations. Captain Dupont argued against the death sentence, stammering over his reasons for not shooting the rebel on sight as ordered. He pointed out that the young Baron Marius Pontmercy, who had also taken place in the uprising and survived the battle, had been acquitted of treason. But this, the court decided, was a different case… since this prisoner had been the leader of the rebellion, and, according to all accounts, had single-handedly incited the riot that began in the streets during the funeral of General LeMarque. And as for the Baron Pontmercy… well, his grandfather had valuable connections in high political places.

“Your father is also a wealthy and influential man,” the judge spoke at last to Enjolras. “If you request it, we will send for him… although we cannot guarantee that anything can be done to help your case.”

Enjolras lifted his head, his eyes flashing.

“I have no father,” he thundered. “The oppressed people of Paris and the men who died on the barricade… they are my family. I accept no other.”

“What about your mother?” Captain Dupont spoke suddenly, and Enjolras trembled where he stood, his face ashen. The judge looked at him, waiting expectantly… but there was no answer from the prisoner. The judge shook his head and rose to face the court.

“Enjolras Guillaume,” he spoke firmly, his voice ringing throughout the room. “Hear now the sentence of this court.”

Eponine had been dragged from Enjolras’ side when they arrested him, but she had followed him to the trial. All this time she had stood on the sidelines, her eyes riveted on his face. And now she jumped to her feet, interrupting the judge and earning the angry glares of the entire room.

“He does not deserve to die!” she cried out. “He has done no wrong but to stand against tyranny. He is the people’s hero! I, a beggar from the streets, I can speak to this tyranny, this injustice…”

“Silence!” Enjolras thundered. His eyes shot angry sparks and yet there was a wild fear behind them. “Do not listen to her, she doesn’t know what she is speaking of. Kill me if you must, but let her go free.”

“I will have order here,” the judge bellowed. But Eponine, turning, had caught sight of a figure standing in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest, a triumphant smile on his lips… the mouse who had cornered the cat. Reckless of her own safety and hoping a sudden distraction would somehow make a difference, she pointed an accusatory finger.

“Here is the man who ought to be standing trial! This is Montparnasse, leader of the Patron-Minette! He should be arrested…”

“Guard, see to that girl,” the judge ordered. “And now, the sentence of this court. Monsieur Guillaume, because of the wounds you have already endured, this court will repeal the death sentence. Instead you will serve out your time with hard labor… for life.”

It was a sentence worse than death. They all knew it. The prisoner’s face had gone white when he heard it. But he made no protest, only rattled the chains that bound him as he cried out fiercely, “Long live the Republic!”

Eponine struggled in the grip of the guard who was gently but firmly leading her away. They meant to cast her out into the street and leave her there. But she couldn’t leave yet… and she pleaded tearfully with him. He didn’t even bother to answer. But she caught a glimpse of Enjolras being marched from the courtroom and she managed to break free, darting after him as the guard shouted angrily. A dozen hands reached out to stop her and were too late. The door at the end of the corridor was unlocked, she burst through it, and was dragged to the side by another guard before she could even see where she was…

Enjolras was standing there, staring defiantly at the soldiers, almost sneering at them, but they went about their duty with cold clockwork-like regularity. They had left his hands bound, chained behind his back, and now a guard stepped forward, roughly unbuttoning his shirt and yanking the fabric down to bare his shoulders. Nearby was a fireplace into which an iron had been thrust… Enjolras threw back his head, teeth clenched, hands curled into fists behind his back as they withdrew the glowing iron from the coals and pressed it against his shoulder. The stench of burning flesh was enough to make Eponine sick and she clung to a pillar, willing her knees not to buckle and carry her to the ground. 

He did not cry out or even struggle, but when she turned to look at him she saw in his eyes such a look of despair as if his spirit had been crushed. And she felt her heart break. The iron was pulled away and he dropped his head, his chest heaving with gasping, ragged breaths. She could see the angry red letters standing starkly against his skin, across the scar left by a soldier’s sabre. TFP… Travaux Forcés à Perpetuité… hard labor for life. She knew it was never the fate he had imagined… dying a hero’s death on the barricades or achieving a glorious victory. This… this was a living death… long, slow, torturous, painful… lonely. They were even now locking an iron collar around his neck. She broke through the guards and rushed to his side.

“A few minutes!” she cried, her eyes blazing with a hundred conflicting emotions. “A few minutes, for God’s sake, I beg of you!”

“Granted,” a guard answered with something akin to pity in his voice, and at his order, the others fell back. She turned to Enjolras, gentle fingers on his arm, horrified eyes on the disfiguring burn. There was nothing she could do for him. She glanced up with hesitant eyes, as if seeking his permission, but he did not look at her… did not speak.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, gingerly pulling his shirt up over his shoulders, trying not to let it touch the blistered skin. “I had to say goodbye.” She choked on the words. Still he did not speak, although he flinched, hissing in pain as the fabric covered his wound. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she did the buttons, her eyes downcast. It was difficult for her crippled hand to complete the simple task. When she glanced up at him again, her eyes fell on the iron collar and she grazed it with her fingertips, heart heavy with horror. He jerked back, his eyes suddenly flashing. Pitiful as it was, it was at least a sign of life in a man who was standing in his grave. She let her hand fall, and then raised it again, this time to his cheek. She stood on tiptoe, taking his face in her hands.

He wanted to pull away, but he didn’t. Instead he bent awkwardly to her level, ignoring the unfamiliar pressure of iron on his neck, and let her kiss him. He had never kissed a woman before and at first it almost frightened him, the soft pressure of her lips against his. He tried to remember his determination in his country-love… but without knowing why, suddenly he was kissing her back and all he could think of was Eponine, his whole heart was full of Eponine, everything in him cried out for Eponine. He hated his chains because his arms ached to hold her, hated his sentence because it held no hope of a future with her. In that moment, with that kiss, the marble exterior of Enjolras’ heart shattered and the real heart burst through… raw, human, broken, and bleeding. But in his eyes burned a steady flame, somehow reignited... hope and faith shining in the darkness of despair.

The guard was saying something… but she wasn’t ready to let go yet. She wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging desperately to him. She had given so much love… but she had never felt it before… and was this how it felt? Dear God, she didn’t want to let go! He hid his face against her hair, his body shaking with muffled sobs. And then they tore him from her arms and led him away. She cried out in anguish, trying to run forward… but the guards dragged her outside and left her there on the streets.

Alone, Eponine huddled on the cobblestones. Was the rain only falling in her imagination or was the sky truly as dark as she now felt inside? She lifted her crippled hand, staring at it blankly.

“Love is cruel,” she muttered.

She saw him only once more on the following day, when those who had been unlucky enough not to die at the barricades were marched from Paris, chained together with common criminals and petty thieves. It hurt something deep inside of her to watch him go… and yet she marveled at the way he held his head high. She called after him, ignoring how the guards glared when she followed. He had turned, as if he heard her voice, and yet he never saw her. And then he was gone… forever. 

Chapter Twenty-Three

Three days had they been travelling together, and still Rosalie had not spoken a word to her husband. Three days of rattling slowly down rough country roads, stopping at wayside inns for the night… it was a long time to sit together in such silence. Henri used to complain about the inconvenient distance between Paris and the fashionable rural neighborhood where the family grounds were… but this time, he said nothing. He was glad to be going so far away from the city. Perhaps it would help Rosalie to forget. He wished she would at least look at him… for so long she had huddled there in her corner of the carriage, as far away from him as she could get, her head bowed low as she picked nervously away at the lacy edges of a handkerchief. 

“We’ll be there in just a few hours,” he remarked calmly. She made no answer. It was frightening him, the look on her face. He had nearly died of worry when she had disappeared. It seemed as if his life was crashing down on him, all at once. And his son… but no, he would not think of the boy! All that mattered right now was Rosalie, and somehow getting her back to the way she used to be. 

She lifted her head suddenly, her brow furrowed. Henri turned to her in alarm. She reached out, gripping his arm.

“Stop the carriage,” she spoke timidly. “Please.” They were the first words she had spoken since he had found her.

Biting back a sigh of impatience, Henri reached up to knock on the window in the roof, and the driver slid it open. He hesitated, glancing back at her.

“Rosalie… why? There is nothing here to stop for.”

“Stop the carriage,” she repeated, her lips set in a firm line. As the carriage slowed to a stop, pulling to the side of the road, she clambered out, ignoring the hand Henri offered in assistance. The road was wet from the recent rains and the hem of her elegant traveling suit trailed in the mud, but she didn’t seem to notice. She stood there in the middle of the road, staring at something in the distance, her eyes wide and her face paler than ever. Henri stood at her side, and as he looked down the road, he felt a chill run down his spine. The group of men on foot that was slowly approaching… it was a chain gang. Criminals being marched to the prison in Toulon. 

“Rosalie, we need to go. Those are dangerous men out there. Please, we need to move on.” He tried to move her towards the carriage, but she shook off his touch and stood firm. Her gaze never wavered as the prisoners drew nearer. 

An officer rode at the front of the miserable procession, and behind him, nearly a hundred men flanked by a dozen more officers, shackled and chained together by the iron collars around their neck. They walked slowly, as if in pain, their heads down, faces hidden. Rosalie stepped back then, pressing herself against the side of the carriage as she stared, her body trembling violently, her breath coming in short gasps. One man walked with his head held high, and it was at this man that she stared. His face was streaked with grime, his blond hair cropped short… but she knew him. He never turned his head, marching forward forcefully. The procession passed by before she could tear herself out of her shock… and then she screamed, straining forward. 

Henri grabbed her, dragging her back from the road, picking her up to put her inside the carriage. She was hysterical, struggling wildly, fighting him as hard as she could. She could scarcely breathe. He climbed in beside her, closing the door hastily and turning to catch her arms as she flailed in desperation, determined to jump out. 

“Quickly, driver, double time!” he called and the carriage lurched forward, rattling down the road at an almost terrifying speed. Rosalie was still screaming and Henri fought to control his wife, pulling her close against him, hoping he could calm her through sheer force. She would exhaust herself and then she would be still. He couldn’t imagine what it was about the prisoners that was making her act this way… he hadn’t looked at them the way she had… hadn’t seen the young man with the face exactly like his.

The carriage rushed madly past the chain gang and Rosalie half broke away from her husband’s grip, fumbling for the door as she cried out.

“Enjolras… Enjolras! Please… Henri… let me go…” she burst into tears, crying so hard that Henri was actually afraid. She seemed to have gone completely mad. “He’s alive… I saw him…”

“Rosalie, please…” and suddenly he was weeping too. “He’s gone, Rosalie, he’s gone. Listen to me!”

But she couldn’t listen… she couldn’t hear his voice… all she could hear was her own heart thudding wildly in her ears. She didn’t know what to think… was she losing her mind? Had she seen him or had she imagined it? But the carriage was speeding far away… and she slumped to the seat, weak with crying, too weary to pull away as her husband held her.

oOo

Eponine somehow found herself stumbling her way blindly back to the hospital that night and wondering why she was there. But there was nowhere else to go. Sister Agatha welcomed her warmly, drawing her inside with a sympathetic smile. Her usual busy self, she sat the girl down by the fireside in the nurse’s quarters and placed a mug of steaming broth in her hands before she spoke.

“You will stay, won’t you?” she reached out to wrap an arm around Eponine’s shoulders. “There is work for you here, but it’s not hard work. A place to stay, food to eat. We’ll keep you safe.”

“I can’t be a nun,” Eponine whispered dully and the nurse shook her head, laughing softly.

“No, no, dear, that’s not what I’m saying. You don’t have to join us… just stay and let us shelter you.” She turned her head sideways, looking closely at the girl for a moment, and then sighed, shaking her head. “You love him, don’t you.”

Eponine whirled to face her.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, I love him. Laugh at me now, fool that I am! Love is a curse.”

“Dear child,” the sister clasped Eponine’s hands. “Don’t speak so. Love is a gift. I know… I know how black it looks. But it’s not the end. While there’s life, there’s hope.” She moved to a trunk that stood beside the fire and pushed up the lid. “With God’s help,” she whispered as she pulled something from the trunk and laid it on Eponine’s lap. “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will shine.”

Eponine reached down with a trembling hand, touching the bright red fabric gingerly. The bullet holes had been carefully mended and the bloodstains washed away. The tricolour cockade of the revolution was still pinned to the lapel and she ran her fingers over it, tears spilling from her eyes. She gathered the coat up, burying her face in the folds of fabric, her hands shaking as she held it tightly. She could feel Sister Agatha’s hand on her shoulder but she didn’t look up.

“Keep it for him,” the nun added gently. “I believe it with all my heart… you will see him again someday. Now… I must go attend to some work, but you stay here and make yourself at home. I’ll be back soon.” And she was off, leaving Eponine alone. 

The room was silent and still, but for the crackling of the flames on the hearth, sending flickering shadows over the plain white walls. Eponine clutched the red jacket against her heart as she slid out of her chair to kneel beside it on the rough floor. “God,” she whispered. She didn’t know what to say. The jacket still in her arms, she folded her hands together a bit awkwardly and bowed until her forehead rested on her clasped hands. “Lord. I… I do not know much about praying. Forgive me if I… do not know what to say.” She glanced up uncertainly at the ceiling and then bowed again. “I was not raised to pray, Lord. But I… I know who Thou art. In a way. I wish… that I knew more…” her voice faltered. “Teach me, Lord. So… so that I know how to pray. Because… God… I’m in a bad way. Enjolras… You know him. He’s been… taken away…” her voice broke. “God, please… please… help him. Show me what… what can be done… show someone, Lord! Let there be someone, somewhere who can help him…” her voice trailed away. “I love him, God. I love him. More deeply than I ever thought I could love. I know I said I loved Marius, and I believe I did… in a way. But God, I love Enjolras in a way I never knew love could be felt. I didn’t know it was possible to love so much. Dear God, help me!”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Baron Henri Guillaume sighed heavily as he sank into a chair. He felt old. He felt a failure. 

Rosalie had cried herself to sleep in the carriage, not long before they arrived at the estate. He had carried her inside, refusing the assistance of the staff, and put her gently to bed. So weary she was that she slept through it all, stirring only slightly as she murmured unintelligible words. He caught his name… and his son’s name more often…

And as he sat there in the semi-darkness, watching his Rosalie toss in troubled sleep, he let his mind go to places he hadn’t let it go in so many long and weary years. Once, and long ago, he had been so proud of his son. There had always been such fire, such brilliance burning in those blue eyes. Enjolras had been so full of life… of dreams and big ideas. Dreams far beyond his years. 

As a boy, he had been difficult to control. Henri had been a stern father, always gruff, always demanding explanations. Enjolras ran wild in the streets of Paris and had to be dragged back to his studies by an angry father. Henri had been determined above all else that his son would grow to be a great man. And a good education was vital. Somewhere in those teenage years, Enjolras had changed. Or perhaps… not really changed but rather his personality had become stronger. More defined. Education suddenly became as important to him as it was to his father and it wasn’t unusual that he’d sit up all night poring over law and philosophy. He stood up to his father now… they so often disagreed, and their arguments were fierce. Henri would have died rather than admit how much sense Enjolras made in those fiery debates.

He seemed to have become intoxicated with the ideas of liberty and equality. He was especially fascinated with the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States. They had won their liberty… won it nobly, he declared. Why could France not do the same? America had set the example for the rest of the world… had carved a path where none had ever been before. He dreamed of the same for his own beloved country. A France that would shine in the darkness of the world like a bright beacon of freedom.

And then he would use the Bible to back up his beliefs… and Henri felt his own arguments weaken, although he clung to them desperately. 

“God never intended us to crush the rest of the population for our own comfort!” Enjolras cried. “Don’t you see? Man was created to be equal. ‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free’ ‘There is no respect of persons with God’...” He slammed his fist on the table, leaning forward as he quoted his favorite verse. “ ‘The rich and poor meet together: the Lord is the maker of them all.’ How can you be so blind?” He turned on his father accusatorily. “France is committing grievous sins against mankind.”

Rosalie was quiet and timid, and yet somehow she seemed to encourage her son in these ideals. They were good and true and noble, she told her husband softly, her gentle smile managing to reach his heart as it always did. “He’s a good man, our son,” she said proudly, her eyes shining. “He will do great things in this world.”

“But not the things he was intended to do,” Henri retorted. “He will turn to treason if we don’t watch him carefully. The boy is young. He does not understand what he is doing. He’s a foolish child.”

“He’s a genius,” Rosalie murmured. “He sees so much farther than so many men professed to be wiser than him. It isn’t wealth and political power that matters… it’s what is in the heart… and his heart is good, Henri. It shines like the sun.” 

Henri tried to change his son… but he soon found he might as easily turn back the tide or change the course of the wind. They hit heads so often in those years… and father and son grew farther and farther apart, in spite of all Rosalie could do. 

It came to a climax the year Enjolras turned twenty-one… and became involved in secret meetings of those who opposed the French monarchy. Rumors were whispered that he had started his own rebel group. Henri decided then and there that they were leaving Paris, and for good. But his son was a man now… and he couldn’t stop him. And one night that Henri never could forget, no matter how hard he tried, they had their final conflict. Long into the wee hours of the morning they had stood in Henri’s study, arguing… shouting at each other… Rosalie hovered in the doorway… and at last burst into the room in tears in a feeble attempt to intercede when Henri ordered his son out.

“I never want to see your face again!” he had cried and Enjolras lifted his chin stubbornly, his eyes flashing.

“Then you never will. I will no longer be associated with the bourgeousie. You’re all the same… corrupt, selfish, uncaring. You don’t even care about your own son.”

“I have no son!”

“And I have no father!”

Enjolras had left that night. And Henri had forbidden Rosalie to ever mention his name again. Everything Enjolras had left behind was put in his room in the Paris house and locked up. And Henri set about trying to forget his son had ever existed… a task harder than anything he had ever done before. He was haunted by the memory of those fiery eyes and that voice that had thundered out passionately a thousand times, echoing through the rooms that were so quiet now. 

Rosalie had slipped out a hundred times in those years to see her son. Henri stopped confronting her about it after the first year. It was simply an unspoken, accepted thing between them. A mother could not so easily give up her child. But she respected his wishes and never spoke of Enjolras in all those long years… except once after the July Revolution of 1830 when he had fought and been wounded. Henri didn’t hear of him again until the day the barricades fell in what would come to be known as the June Rebellion of 1832.

And now he was dead. Henri shook his head in disbelief. It was so impossible to him somehow to think of his boy, so vivid, so full of life… lying dead on the barricades. The thought filled his heart with an almost unbearable pain as bit by bit, the hidden love he carried for his son was reawakened… too late. Life seemed very empty now.

oOo

“Prisoner 7604!” The number was repeated twice with no answer. Frustrated, the officer signalled the guards and the prisoner bearing the number 7604 was seized and dragged forward. “You will answer when called,” the officer snapped curtly. He was worn out with this. The chain gang had arrived nearly at midnight and the prisoners must be processed before he could rest… separated from the chain, entered into the prison registry, and assigned their places.

“You called me?” The prisoner looked bitterly down at him. “I did not hear my name.” 

“State your name for the last time,” the officer snarled as he bent over the open register. “After tonight, you have no name. Your number is 7604, and you will answer to it or risk the lash!”

“My name is Enjolras Guillaume,” the prisoner threw his head back proudly. “I am a man, not a dog. Men have names.”

“You think you’re a man,” the remark was delivered with a mocking laugh. “Quickly, I do not have time for this. They will soon beat the impudence out of you. Why are you here?”

“For fighting against tyranny and injustice.”

“Accused of treason,” a guard said quickly as the officer’s face reddened with rage. “A leader in the recent uprising in Paris.”

“And the sentence?”

“For life, monsieur," the guard answered. The prisoner only stared, his eyes hard. It unnerved the officer and he looked away. 

“Block seventeen,” he muttered. “Leave him chained. Warn the guard overseeing that area.” And he added a note to the entry in his register: Insubordinate.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Days dragged by endlessly and Eponine was restless. The summer months had faded away, the year turning to autumn. And autumn was going quickly, winter coming in on its heels like a snarling wolf. She had stayed on at the hospital at Sister Agatha’s invitation, simply for lack of another place to go. She scrubbed floors and changed sheets and served food to the patients… but every once in a while something would waken in her like a wild thing and she would flee the stone walls to take to the streets again, pacing endlessly through the alleys as she sought to forget her pain through sheer exhaustion. She could be gone for days at a time… and when she returned to the hospital, Sister Agatha would only smile sadly and welcome her back. 

All through those dreary months, Eponine was saving francs, one by one. She was paid for her service at the hospital, and although the salary was a pitiful one, it was more than she ever had before. She had been given a tiny room in the sisters’ quarters, with a cot, a table, and a small trunk. It was in this trunk that she kept her spare dress and beneath that, Enjolras’ red jacket… and under that, her precious little hoard of francs. When she had enough, she would take them and go to him, wherever he was.

In her spare moments, she became a shadow again… haunting the courthouse and the jail, ever asking questions and never getting any answers. Until one day an officer she had stopped outside the prison told her what she craved to know.

“Ah yes, the rebel leader Enjolras.” he pressed a franc into her hand, scanning the girl’s disheveled appearance in condescending pity. “He was sent to the coast to serve his time. The Bagne of Toulon… it’s a good place for scum such as he. Did you know him?”

“The Bagne of Toulon?” Eponine repeated. “What kind of a prison is that?”

“One a young girl like you shouldn’t be asking about,” he shook his head. “The prisoners work on galley ships. It’s not a pleasant place.” His grin was mocking. “What is it you want to know?”

“How are the prisoners treated?” Eponine’s voice was shaking, but she made a valiant effort to control it. How she hated this man! She wouldn’t speak to him at all, if she didn’t need to know what he could tell her.

“Like the criminals that they are. Why, what are you asking such things for? It will only give you nightmares. They keep the prisoners chained, they are forced to do heavy labor, they whip them if they do not follow orders, is that enough or shall I tell you more?”

But Eponine had fled, casting the franc at his feet in scorn.

oOo

Toulon. It was so far away from Paris… a journey of several days. And once she got there… what could she do? Eponine realized the need to think about this logically. The situation really was as hopeless as it seemed. He was in prison for life, far away… and there was nothing she could do about it. And yet… she yearned to be near him. What was Toulon but just another city anyway? Might as well while away her miserable little life there as here.

Sometimes she wondered if perhaps there was someone who could help her. She laughed at the thought. There was no one in the world who cared enough about her to help. Her parents… she never wanted to see them again. And the students, Les Amis… she had considered them her friends… and they were all dead. Except… one.

Eponine pushed the thought from her mind as quickly as it came to her. Go to him for help? She would rather die. It was impossible. Not likely he could do anything anyway. And then something from long ago resurfaced in her memory… something that had been said at the trial…

“Your father is also a wealthy and influential man. If you request it, we will send for him…”

Of course… Enjolras’ parents… surely they could help! They likely did not realize their son was still living… she would bring them the news. She flew into action quickly, asking around in her usual haunts and learning the Faubourg Saint-Honoré address of the Baron and Baroness Guillaume. It was the wealthiest residential street in Paris. 

But when she went to the house itself, an elaborate towering mansion ten times the size she had imagined, she found it dark and empty, the windows shuttered, the gate chained shut. She asked a random passerby and learned that the baron and his wife had left for the country, with no plans on when they would return.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It wasn’t unusual for Eponine to stay out most of the night… even as cold as it was. The stars were her friends and she stared up at them as she wandered. There was something comforting about the stars… in a cold sort of way. They were always there… they never changed. Like… like God, she supposed. Sister Agatha had reminded her of this countless times over the past several months. But God felt as distant as those stars did. Always there, perhaps… but did He see her? Did He care?

“You always were one for moonlit strolls, weren’t you, ‘Ponine,” a lazy drawl followed by an eerie chuckle met her ears. Eponine shook her head and kept moving. She supposed she should be running. The last time she had seen Montparnasse, she had tried to turn him in… it was likely he was out for revenge. But she didn’t care right now.

He sidled out from the corner he had been standing to walk along at her side. It infuriated her, but she gave no sign that she even saw him there. 

“So, how’s the little Jezebel today? Tried to betray me, did you?” His tone changed from casual to deadly threatening. She stopped, turning to face him.

“You’re the one who renounced Enjolras, aren’t you.” She matched his tone… cold, calm, accusatory. His eyes narrowed.

“And sent your bourgeois lover to his living death,” he laughed. “Yes, I did. And it gave me great pleasure to see him marched out of Paris in chains. He was a fool to cross me. And to kill Claquesous.”

“He’s not my lover,” Eponine snarled, clenching her fists. “And Claquesous was justly executed for murder.” The scene flashed through her memory… Enjolras’ face white in the moonlight as he forcibly bent the thief to his knees… Claquesous had shot an innocent old man unprovoked, thus earning the righteous wrath of the leader of the barricade.

“The kitten has claws,” Parnasse grinned in delight. “Deny that you love him. Go on, ‘Ponine, tell me you don’t love Enjolras Guillaume!” 

Epoine threw her head back, facing him in defiance. “It’s none of your business, Parnasse, now leave me alone! I’ve nothing to do with you and your kind anymore.”

“You’ve turned high and mighty now since a wealthy man condescended to notice you. Well I have news for you, wench… once a street rat, always a street rat. And don’t you think you can cross Montparnasse and get away with it.” He clapped his hand over her mouth, pinning her arms to her sides as he held her close against him. She struggled wildly, trying to bite his hand. Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught sight of dark shapes behind him… surely the other members of the Patron-Minette. She fought like a wildcat, hoping someone would hear her muffled cries. But a lone girl was no match for four men and she was dragged away without much difficulty.

oOo

“Well, we have your rebel daughter now, what shall we do with her?” Parnasse grinned wickedly as he knelt by the fire in the squalid little room. His shadow rose like a giant on the wall behind him. Thenardier was draped across a chair, nearly in a drunken stupor. He only laughed at Parnasse’s question and didn’t answer. Eponine made a weak attempt at another struggle, but the ropes binding her hands held firm and she was worn out with fighting. She didn’t feel frightened… only riotously angry. The cloth they had gagged her with reeked with a foul stench and smoke from the cramped little hearth was getting in her eyes. If she didn’t get out into the fresh air soon, she would surely be sick.

“Hasn’t told you, has she?” Parnasse continued. “Your darling little Eponine has been doing pretty well for herself. Look at the dress she’s wearing. And real boots! They’re hardly worn. I say we make her show us where she’s getting her fine feathers.”

“Struck it rich at last, eh, ‘Ponine?” Thenardier laughed, his words slurred. “Probably drained that bourgeois boy of hers for everything he had before he was sent off to prison. Good girl, I knew you had it in you… you’re a Thenardier through and through.” 

Eponine let out a muffled cry of rage and Parnasse grinned. 

“Yes,” he spoke slowly, as if to himself. “I’ll make you pay, ‘Ponine. Thanks to you, I had to run from the police. They know my face now. Oh, you’ll pay alright.” He leaned back, chuckling to himself as he tipped back his mug to take a long swig of brandy. “I think I’ll start with that pretty face of yours. Even if your Enjolras could get out of prison, he wouldn’t want to look at you after I get through with you.”

“Aw, leave her alone, Parnasse,” Thenardier grunted. “She’s a fool, that I won’t deny, but no need to get violent. Why do you always get so violent?”

“The only way to get ahead in life is to be ruthless,” Montparnasse regarded his bound captive coldly. “No one wants to follow a weak-minded soft-livered coward.” He crossed the room to where Eponine was seated in a rickety chair and stood looming over her, his lips curled into a sneer. “What do you think, ‘Ponine? Haven’t I made a strong leader of myself? See how they fear me! You fear me, don’t you, girl?” 

She looked away, focusing her eyes blankly on the wall. She would show no weakness before this monster. Her calmness angered him. With a swift motion, he grabbed her chin and tilted her face up, bending to kiss her roughly. Eponine recoiled in disgust, crying out as she struggled to pull away from him. 

“Montparnasse!” Thenardier lifted his head, showing actual signs of emotion for the first time. Eponine stared at him in shock as Parnasse, startled, let her go. “I said leave her alone! She’s my daughter, I’ll be the one who deals with her, alright?”

“Drunken fool,” Parnasse hissed, but he backed away from Eponine and she slumped in her chair, weak with relief. She’d rather die than let Parnasse touch her again. She blinked back angry tears. It was so horrible… so… different from… Enjolras’ kiss… 

Silence fell, of a sort… punctuated by the snores of drunken men. Eponine shuddered in the firelight as she felt Parnasse’s eyes on her. Here she sat helpless… and the Lord only knew what that man would do if he got angry enough. May the Lord have mercy… Eponine breathed a silent prayer, a desperate plea for help.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Eponine was startled from a troubled sleep by a thunderous pounding on the door. She came to herself quickly as she remembered where she was… still bound to the chair in that horrid little room, her limbs aching dreadfully. She felt faint and thirsty and half-suffocated. And the rattle of the door was only making her head hurt worse.

“Open in the name of the law!” a voice bellowed and Thenardier shot out of both drunken sleep and his chair with impressive speed.

“Quick!” he hissed at the others. “On your feet! Hide the girl!” 

And Eponine braced herself… but the door flew open before any of the members of the Patron-Minette had time to move. Half a dozen soldiers poured into the room and for the first time, she was glad to see them. The officer in charge was shouting orders as his men struggled with the thieves… and then Eponine recognized him as a shudder ran down her spine. Captain Dupont… the man who had nearly shot Enjolras in front of her eyes. He whirled to glance at her and then yelled to one of his men,

“You there, get the girl.”

Eponine gasped for breath as the soldier pulled the gag from her mouth and then freed her hands. He helped her to her feet, and she clung to his arm for a moment, wavering. She hated to accept help from one of them. But she couldn’t seem to stand upright just yet.

The scuffle had lasted only a few minutes, and the soldiers were now busy securing their prisoners. The soldier at Eponine’s side beckoned to one of his comrades. One on either side of the girl, they marched her quickly from the room and out into the street… while the captain’s back was turned. Eponine noted this in surprise, but she said nothing as they hurried her through the alleys. Whatever was happening, she couldn’t begin to puzzle it out… but something inside of her said it was alright to trust these men.

They didn’t stop until they were far away. Eponine looked up at her rescuers curiously… and the first one doffed his hat to stand beaming down at her, his eyes sparkling in amusement. She stared at him transfixed, hardly daring to believe her eyes.

“Don’t you recognize me, Shadow-girl?” he laughed and Eponine gasped.

“Courfeyrac? How on earth… you… you’re dead!”

“That’s funny… that’s exactly what he said…” and he nodded to his companion, who likewise removed his hat and made a sweeping bow.

“Pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle,” and Joly was smiling at her. “But I protest against this conversation in the streets… it is too cold, and you are not wearing a coat. Come on, Courf, let’s get her somewhere warm and I must check her to see if she is alright.”

“I’m fine,” Eponine protested, dazedly.

“He’s right. You look like you’re going to faint…” Courfeyrac began, but his sentence was cut short as the girl flew at him, hugging him tight.

“I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in all my life,” she whispered and he nodded, the laughter gone out of him as he hugged her back.

“You’re going to be okay now,” he assured her. “We’ll see to that.”

“I just can’t believe it…” and Eponine choked back a sob as she turned to hug Joly. “I have a thousand questions…”

“And so do we, but first we are getting you out of this snow,” Joly protested and they moved on again. And Eponine found suddenly that praying was easy… and God felt near. He must care… or such miracles couldn’t possibly happen.

oOo

“Everything happened so fast, I guess the soldiers never had a chance to make sure we were properly killed,” Courfeyrac smiled bitterly as he poured a glass of water and passed it to Eponine. They were in the back room of Joly’s shabby apartment, the door bolted and the windows shuttered. “There was a nun and a doctor… they snuck us to a hospital and we recovered alright. Of course, Joly has a dreadful limp and my arm is pretty stiff,” he grimaced. 

“We found right off that Marius somehow survived,” Joly added as he bent to wrap Eponine’s scraped and bleeding wrist in a bandage. “We tried to let him know that we made it by way of secret message, but we dare not go to Rue Plumet in the open.”

“From what we’ve heard, they’ve rounded up all the survivors and sent them off to prison,” Courfeyrac glowered at the loaf of bread he was sawing at. “Some got the death sentence… particularly anyone they thought was a leader. Shot on sight… not even a trial. Hungry?” he offered Eponine a plate of bread and cheese and she took it, gratefully.

“That’s all, then?” she looked at them questioningly. “Marius is the only one from our barricade who lived, besides you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Courfeyrac lowered his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Gavroche… wish I’d died instead…”

“Yes,” Eponine swallowed hard, trying to push the pain away. If she could have somehow traded her life for his, she’d have done it in a moment. “I… there is something you both need to know. Things have happened since the barricade…”

“You’re telling us,” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “Things… lots of things. The whole city is in an uproar… we’re lucky they think we’re dead. One of the soldiers was sympathetic to our cause… he made sure our names were confirmed among the dead.”

“He’s the best luck we ever came across,” Joly added. “He’s the one who lent us these uniforms today. We happened to recognize you in the street last night and saw you were in trouble…”

“Enjolras…” Eponine interrupted, and both men started at the sound of their leader’s name. “He’s alive,” she finished quietly. A stunned silence fell. Joly dropped his roll of bandages and Courfeyrac sank into a chair.

“Where is he?” Courfeyrac spoke at last.

“In prison,” Eponine grimaced.

“Prison where?” the question was thundered back at her.

“Toulon.”

“Good grief, Toulon? That’s hundreds of miles away…”

“What is his sentence?” Joly broke in, scrambling for the bandages.

“Hard labor for life,” Eponine spoke weakly. “They were going to shoot him… and they changed the sentence at the last minute.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Joly asked the question of Courfeyrac rather than Eponine, his eyes searching his friend’s face for any sign of assurance. Courfeyrac only shook his head grimly.

“I… don’t know.”

“They pardoned Marius.”

“Yes, but…” Courfeyrac turned to Eponine. “The whole story, Mademoiselle, please. And then we look at facts. If only Combeferre…” a shadow crossed his face. “We’ll have to do the best we can.”

“If I know Enjolras,” Joly smiled faintly. “He’ll have the entire prison in uproar. He’s likely leading a revolt against the prison guards.” 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The sound of the cannon shot rang out across the vast stone courtyard of the Toulon prison and the yellow alert flag on the Amiral battleship in the harbor was lowered… the signal that the escapee had been recaptured. The commissaire, who had been standing in the prison’s watchtower awaiting the news, sighed with relief and descended the stairs to meet the guards in the courtyard. 

The prisoner was marched across the cobblestones and thrown to his knees before the commissaire. There was something about this man that never failed to strike the officer with a sense of awe, in spite of his disgust for the prisoner’s repeated defiance. Most recaptured men would have been dragged across the courtyard, struggling and cursing all the way… but this man walked of his own free will and with head held high. Now as he knelt in chains at the feet of the guards, he still held himself with the grace and confidence of a natural-born leader.

“A spirit that refuses to be broken,” the commissaire spoke aloud, his expression thoughtful. “There is fire in your eyes, boy. How has it not been quenched yet?” There was no answer from the prisoner and the commissaire shook his head in disbelief. This marked the third time this man had tried to escape since his arrival at the prison. What could be done to break a man who was already sentenced for life and who did not fear death? His back already bore the marks of the lash and even that had failed to bring him into submission.

“I don’t understand what it is that keeps you going,” the officer went on, avoiding the prisoner’s steady gaze. “You know you can’t get out of here, no matter how hard you try. What is it? Love? Insanity? Some sort of twisted false hope?”

“Not false hope,” the prisoner spoke slowly. “Faith.”

“Faith? In what?” The commissaire scoffed. “You think God bothers to listen to the prayers of a criminal?”

“God sees all men the same. Kings, peasants, masters, slaves… it doesn’t matter in the face of eternity.”

“Ah yes. I’ve heard of your passionate republican speeches. They won’t do any good here. You’re nothing but a traitor.”

“What I did, I did for my country.”  

“There always is an excuse,” the commissaire sneered. “Guards, take this man away. You know what to do.”

The prisoner grew pale as the guards dragged him to his feet, but he showed no other signs of fear. He shook off the hands of the guards and stood alone a moment, staring boldly at the commissaire. 

“Faith can carry a man far,” he spoke. “And faith creates hope… and both are sustained by love. You see, as long as I believe in all three… I cannot be crushed by this tyranny.”

“Faith and hope are hard enough to hold onto in a place like this,” the commissaire replied almost sadly, as the guards seized the prisoner again. “And love is impossible. What have you to love, you who stand in your grave?”

“Patria,” came the answer… and he smiled as they led him away.

oOo

Enjolras slumped on his bunk, resting his chin on his arm as he stared unseeingly into the darkness. All around him men were snoring and above, a pouring rain was pounding heavily on the roof.

He couldn’t sleep, as exhausted as he was. He was too hungry, too weary, too in pain… and every time he moved, the chain holding him to the bunk rattled ominously. Over and over he ran the scenes from that day in his mind, trying to pinpoint where it had all gone wrong. He didn’t view his escape attempts as failures… rather as trial and error. He’d figure it out someday. The problem was that every time he tried to escape, the guards were harder on him… and if he wasn’t careful, he’d be chained to this bunk for the rest of his life, if not crippled by the beatings.

The thought of escape, the whole impossible problem of it, was a challenge he gladly welcomed. He needed something to occupy his mind, else he would go crazy. Every waking moment that wasn’t spent on trying to find the perfect escape route took him places he didn’t want to go. The memories of the barricade and of the friends he had failed tortured him constantly. The guilt was enough to kill him. And then there was Eponine… but it was so hard to think of her!

And yet he did anyway… sometimes daring to let his mind wander… and he would let himself picture her smile and her laughing eyes… and her kiss. Those last few moments with her  haunted him.

Thunder echoed outside and the rain fell harder. The chain felt suddenly heavier than before, pressing down like a burden he wasn’t strong enough to bear. He was lonely… horribly, miserably lonely. There in the dark, his confidence faded away and he hid his face and wept.

oOo

Rosalie sat before the window, watching the rain fall. She hadn’t stirred from her chair in well over an hour. She looked almost like a wax figure. Henri slipped up behind her, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head. She didn’t move.

“He’s alive, Henri,” she whispered quaveringly for what must have been the ten thousandth time in the past few months. It was all she talked about… when she wasn’t in dazed silence. 

“Dear Rosalie,” he whispered back, wishing he knew what to say to pull her out of this… whatever it was. He wanted her back. He felt so alone. Drat it, he wanted his son back too, although it likely would have killed him to admit it. He wished it was true, this strange raving madness of hers, this unquenchable belief that somehow, somewhere, Enjolras really was alive. She had seen him in the chain gang, she claimed. He was in prison, she had told Henri a thousand times over. They must do something, quickly! But there was nothing to be done. And so he never told her how he felt, how badly his heart was aching. 

Henri was certain that what Rosalie had seen had been merely a figment of her imagination… brought on by exhaustion and heartbreak and stress. But in order to prove to her that he cared, he sent messages to several of the largest prisons, inquiring after a prisoner by the name of Enjolras Guillaume… some had sent back no answer, and the rest had replied that they never had heard the name. Rosalie had sobbed bitterly over each hopeless answer. Henri had not thought of the prison in Toulon, so many hundreds of miles away.

“All the tears in the world won’t bring him back,” he told her gently and she turned her face from him.

“He’s lonely tonight,” she murmured, reaching out to touch the window, tracing the patterns of the raindrops with her fingertips. “He’s crying. And I can’t go to him.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“If we’re going to do anything… that is do it effectively… we’re going to need help,” Courfeyrac was pacing in front of the fire. Joly was sprawled in an armchair, pretending to page through a medical treatise, and occasionally offering rather outrageous suggestions. Eponine sat on the floor by the hearth, hugging her knees to her chest as she stared into the flames. She spent her days and nights at the hospital, but her evenings with the two students. The three of them had somehow formed a fragment of Les Amis all over again. Courfeyrac took position of leader and together they worked to devise a plan… not for the freedom of all of France, they didn’t believe themselves capable of that… but at least for the freedom of one man.

Eponine was both awed and grateful by the way they had accepted her. They had told her she was one of them now. It was as close as she could get to a real family. She had needed that so desperately for so long… just someone to look out for her. And they truly did. Just a few days before, Joly had presented her with a woolen shawl… to prevent pneumonia in this dreadful cold weather, he had told her. And every night when she returned to the hospital, they would escort her… which was ridiculous, she told them, she didn’t need escorting… but she was glad they did anyway. It felt safer that way. And less lonely. She was remembering how it felt to hope.

“For the hundredth time, Joly, it’s completely ridiculous to think of digging tunnels under the prison walls, you know that’s not going to work,” Courfeyrac groaned. “We need to take a legal approach.”

“Good.” Joly flipped a page in his book. “It would be too unsanitary anyway, we’d probably all die of cholera.”

“Agh, I can’t think,” Courfeyrac crossed the room to plunk himself down at the table. “Eponine, help me. Is there any earthly way that two men who are believed to be dead and who would be condemned if they were found, and one woman could possibly bust a high security prisoner out of a high security prison?”

“I’m afraid my unfortunate expertise is confined to petty thievery,” Eponine grimaced. She had already explained her past to the both of them. Courfeyrac grinned.

“Perfect. Exactly what we need. An Enjolras thief. You can sneak into the prison, stuff him into a sack, and sneak back out again.”

“A foolproof plan,” Eponine nodded solemnly. “I’ll do just that.”

“Bravo, Eponine!” Joly cheered. “A toast to your success!” and he raised his mug of cider jovially. Eponine glared at him.

It surprised her sometimes… the way they were able to joke and laugh and smile… as if the world hadn’t been turned upside down. And then she found herself doing it every so often. But she could see the shadow in Courfeyrac’s eyes, and the way Joly looked away as if hiding his face, every time a fallen friend was mentioned. They suffered silently… and presented a brave face to the world.

“I’ve been researching every case I can find with even the slightest scrap of similarity…” Courfeyrac paused. “Why haven’t we talked to Marius yet?”

“Because you told him to stay put,” Joly answered dryly. “Remember? You thought it would be dangerous for him to get involved with us… we all know he’s being watched. Besides… we never had a chance to tell him Enjolras was still alive. Also he doesn’t know where we are and we didn’t even give him a way of answering our letters.”

“But his grandfather managed to get him pardoned…” Courfeyrac’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” he cried, snapping his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Eponine! You can get to Rue Plumet without being noticed… you can talk to Marius.”

Eponine’s head shot up and she stared at Courfeyrac in horror. She couldn’t possibly… no… Marius thought she was dead… she wanted to leave it that way…

“Explain the situation, see if there’s anything he can do… or his grandfather, perhaps,” Courfeyrac went on. “Maybe he’ll know how to get in touch with Enjolras’ family. You can go tomorrow, of course…” he looked at her and frowned. “Are you alright?”

“The girl’s pale as a ghost,” Joly tossed his book aside and sat up. “When is the last time you’ve eaten, ‘Ponine?”

“I… I don’t…” she stammered as Joly rose to pour her some cider. She accepted the mug in silence as he searched amid the clutter on the table for the supper leftovers. “The last time I was in public was when… well…” she looked pleadingly at Courfeyrac. “What if I’m recognized by the police? Perhaps they think I was involved with Patron-Minette since I was there when they were arrested…”

“Musichetta,” Joly answered firmly, as if that explained everything. 

“Your fiancee?” Eponine questioned. “How can she help?”

Joly grinned sheepishly, in the way he always did whenever anyone made the slightest reference to the fact that he was going to get married. Courfeyrac had related the story to Eponine how, as soon as Joly could walk again, he had marched straight from the hospital to Musichetta’s apartment, gone down rather stiffly on one knee, and insisted that she marry him. In going to the barricades, he had nearly lost her forever and he wasn’t about to risk losing her again. Since then, Musichetta had spent a few evenings with the remainder of Les Amis, and she and Eponine had formed a sort of friendship, although Eponine was slightly wary of the elegant and feminine young lady. She wasn’t used to such girls.

“You’re about her size,” Joly went on, looking at Eponine appraisingly. “We’ll get her to lend you some things… a very large bonnet ought to help, and whatever else it is that women disguise themselves with. You can go all the way to Rue Plumet in perfect safety, and anyone who happens to see you will simply think you one of Madame Pontmercy’s fashionable friends.”

“It is strange how life seems to always go round in circles,” Eponine murmured faintly, gripping her mug of cider with both hands. “I will try.”

“And in the meantime,” Courfeyrac smiled. “We research…” he tapped a large law book lying on the table. “And we pray.”

Chapter Thirty

The morning invariably began with the guards screaming and cursing as they roused the prisoners from their bunks. It was bitterly cold now even inside and snow drifted in through narrow chinks in the walls. Enjolras dragged himself to a sitting position on his narrow bunk, almost eager to be out and working just to get his blood moving. But he couldn’t get up until the guards came to unlock his chains. Per his escape attempts and his involvement in the Paris rebellion, he was considered a dangerous man, and never left unchained for more than a moment. The fact that he had managed to pick the locks on the chains the last time he had escaped had the prison guards more than a little wary. And the fact that he had almost managed to lead the prisoners in revolt the time before the last had them terrified.

It took an average fifteen minutes for the guards to make their rounds to his bunk… Enjolras had every second of the routine down and nothing ever seemed to change. In ten minutes more, they would unfasten his ankle chain from the bunk, drag him to his feet, handcuff him, and chain him to another prisoner to be sent out for the day’s twelve hours of heavy labor. He wondered vaguely how much longer he would live in this hell on earth. He was young… perhaps thirty years yet before the exhaustion and horrible living conditions finished him off. Thirty years of days exactly like this. Likely he would lose his mind long before then. He groaned in frustration, running his hands through his cropped hair, and snatching up the red cap on the bunk beside him, part of his prison uniform. The cap was crude irony… a bright red phrygian cap… used during the first revolution as a symbol of freedom. He crushed it in his fist, hating it.

One thing would change today… the man he had been chained to and working with since his arrival in prison had been freed on the day before. He had gone bearing a message for a girl far, far away in Paris, from the fellow prisoner he left behind. Today there would be someone new. The guards were dragging him over now… a tall, lanky, middle-aged man with shockingly carrot-colored hair. He sneered at Enjolras, offering his hand with an almost mocking air.

“Can’t say I’m pleased to meet you, but here we are all the same,” he laughed rudely. “Who are you?”

“My name is Enjolras,” came the quiet answer. Enjolras eyed the stranger with contempt. There was something in his manner of speaking and carrying himself that was rather disgusting.

“Thenardier,” the man replied briefly. He couldn’t have stunned Enjolras more if he had punched him in the jaw. The younger man stood staring, his jaw dropped. The guards were yelling at them to move, shoving at them from behind, and they stumbled forward, the heavy chain holding them together rattling with its usual deafening clatter.

“Thenardier…” Enjolras managed to gasp out as they followed the rest of the prisoners out into the icy winter morning. “I… knew someone of that name… in Paris.”

“Oh yeah?” the man smirked. “Perhaps you’ve been to my inn, the finest establishment in Montfermeil. Ah, it was grand in those good old days… and I, the master of it all… so generous and kind to the poor wayfarers…” his laugh sent shudders down Enjolras’ spine. “May God have mercy on the miserable fools who stole my livelihood away…” and he contrasted this last statement with a streak of curses. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes at the man and turned his face away. It wasn’t possible that Eponine could have any link whatsoever to a man like this. But the name wasn’t a common one… and curiosity drove him to the question…

“Do you know a young woman named Eponine Thenardier?”

“Young woman?” Thenardier laughed raucously. “Eponine’s my brat, yeah, how do you know her?”

“What? Your… what?”

“My daughter,” Thenardier clarified. “And a lousy, no-good kid she is too… betrayed her own father…”

“You are Eponine’s father…” the words came out in a whisper. Enjolras could scarcely believe his ears… was this some kind of a nightmare? Yes… a nightmare… every bit of it… of all the strangest coincidences in the world…

“I say, how do you know her?” Thenardier demanded, looking the younger man up and down skeptically. 

“We crossed paths a few times…” he shrugged. 

“What’s your name again?” 

“Enjolras Guillaume.”

A slow smile spread over Thenardier’s face, displaying a row of crooked, broken teeth. “I know you. You’re the rebel. The man who killed Claquesous. You… You’re that bourgeois boy ‘Ponine fell in love with. She’s a stupid brat, but at least she had the sense to go after a wealthy man. Pity she picked a traitor.” And again, he cursed, letting out a long string of offensive epithets regarding Enjolras, Eponine, and life in general.

Enjolras stood still, turning to face his fellow prisoner. Something was burning in his eyes… something ferocious and terrifying. Thenardier almost shrank back, unnerved by the steady glare.

“So help me, if you speak of Eponine like that one more time…” he hissed between clenched teeth, raising his bound hands threateningly. “They’ve whipped me before, and I know I can stand it… so beware… I’m not afraid to suffer the consequences of beating you, if I have to.”

Thenardier wanted to protest… a hundred mocking things to say crossed his mind, but he couldn’t seem to make himself speak them. The impudence of this stupid boy… he wanted to laugh in his face. But he couldn’t. It made him feel like a miserable coward, and he hated it.

“Eponine is a lady,” Enjolras went on, every word forceful. “And she deserves respect. As her father, you of all people should understand her value.” He would have said more, but the guards had noticed the argument and were moving forward, shouting orders. The prisoners had no choice but to move on together.

oOo

“I need to find someone who can write.” The odd request was made by a rather disheveled man of indeterminate age who sat hunched at the tavern counter. A yellow passport was stowed away in his coat pocket, the symbol of his convict status. “I have to send a letter to Paris.”

“Can you pay?” a young man in the uniform of a naval officer but with the air of a student pulled notebook and pencil from his coat and laid them on the counter. “For a few sous I will write and mail your letter for you.”

The convict nodded. “It’s to be sent to an Eponine Thenardier, care of Sister Agatha at the hospital Hôtel-Dieu,  Île de la Cité, Paris. From Enjolras Guillaume at the Bagne of Toulon. A fellow prisoner of mine,” he explained. “I was freed yesterday, but he’s serving out a life sentence.”

“Poor man,” the officer spoke briefly but with sympathy. “I’ve got the address. And the message?”

“I have it here, but it will need rewritten… it’s a mess…” the convict shrugged as he handed over a crumpled scrap of paper with words scrawled on it in smudged charcoal. The message could just barely be made out.

“Dearest Eponine… I had to take the chance to send you a few words, although I hardly know what to say. I pray you find happiness in your life… only think of me a little and remember what I tried to do. Do not worry for me… God is with me even here. And remember that He loves you. Thank you for the little bit of sunshine you gave me. Enjolras.”

The soldier read the message over twice and then quickly scrawled it out again in his notebook, his face grim. The convict withdrew a few coins from his pocket and offered them, but the soldier pushed his hand away.

“Keep them,” he spoke brusquely. “France owes men like you much for the crimes she has committed in the name of the law.”

Chapter Thirty-One

You’re that bourgeois boy ‘Ponine fell in love with.

Enjolras told himself a hundred times over that he was a fool to take into account anything that slimy creature said. After all, Thenardier had spoken such dreadful things about Eponine… he clearly didn’t know his own daughter. So how could he possibly know who she loved? Enjolras knew better than to give in to such weakness. That kiss… he had thought of it a thousand times a day ever since… but could it be anything more than pity? Perhaps it was only her way of telling him goodbye. It didn’t matter anyway… he would never see her again. There was no use in escaping. His life was over. And yet he must go on existing… forever in this nightmare.

His breath hitched in panic and he sat bolt upright in his bunk, yanking desperately at the chains. The sound was deafening in the stillness of the dark room. He clawed at the iron cuff on his ankle almost frantically, his fingers shaking. He couldn’t think straight. Desperation was closing in on him from every direction… it was suffocating him. He had to get out… had to see her again… he was going to die here… The world seemed suddenly to close in on him and he cried out in wild fear.

Lantern light flooded the dark room. Someone was shouting orders in the distance. Prisoners were sitting up in their bunks, blinking warily in the flickering light as guards rushed to see the cause of the commotion. 

“It’s 7604,” the guard at the door explained to the commissaire. “He’s lost it. Funny… they don’t usually go insane until a couple more years of being here… it’s only been a few months for him.”

“He’s young, and it’s a life sentence,” the commissaire glanced from the guard to the barracks as the shouting inside reached a feverish pitch. Brushing past the guard, he moved to the bunk where the prisoner who bore the number 7604 was struggling wildly, tossing his head and yelling in frantic desperation. He was going on and on about barricades and Patria and freedom… names such as Combeferre and Courfeyrac jumbled up with Latin phrases and pleas for forgiveness. The guards had forced him down on his back and were trying to hold him still as he twisted his body violently. One of the guards was shouting down at the prisoner to shut up, his face red with anger. He swung back to hit him… but the commissaire caught his arm.

“There’s no call for that,” he glared at the guard. “Secure him, but don’t hurt him.” At his orders, the guards chained the prisoner down, stretching his arms out spread-eagled to cuff him to the bunk. He wasn’t fighting them anymore and he lay still, trembling, gasping for breath. 

“Trying to escape again, eh?” the commissaire’s face twisted into a crooked smile. “I should think you had at least enough sense to be more subtle than that.”

“Can’t… gotta… get out…” Enjolras gasped, sweat trickling down his forehead. “I…” he shook his head. 

“What’s wrong?” the commissaire’s tone changed. He looked almost concerned as he bent over the young man. 

“I… need to… see her…” he choked back a sob. “I’m never… never… going to… see her again… gonna… die here…”

“See who?”

“Patria…” he struggled to sit up, barely able to lift himself more than a few inches, and fell back again with a groan. 

“Patria…” the commissaire frowned, confused. “Homeland… Do you mean France?” He turned to glance at the guard who stood behind him. The others had withdrawn at his order. “I think he’s delirious… perhaps the doctor…”

“No…” Enjolras strained in attempt to raise himself again. “Eponine. I… I never told her… I… love her…” He turned wild, pleading eyes to the commissaire. “Please…”

“There’s nothing I can do,” the commissaire answered, holding his hands out in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry. You’ve done your crime, you must serve your sentence.”

“Mercy… please… I’ve done no wrong…”

“That’s what they all say,” the commissaire sighed and rose to go. 

“No… you’ve got… got to listen to me…” he tried to reach out. “I need to… need to tell her…”

“Listen to me,” the commissaire turned back, his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I know. Believe me, I know. But there is nothing I can do, do you understand? Nothing. I didn’t sentence you, I have no legal authority to let you go, even if you hadn’t done anything. You’re going to have to tough it out, do you hear me? You’ve got to bear it. This is your life now. I’m sorry, believe me, I’m sorry. No one should be condemned for life, especially someone with their whole life ahead of them. But there is nothing I can do.” He straightened up, muttering something under his breath. “Just try to breathe,” he commanded, his voice firm. “Rest. Don’t think. I’ll make sure you’re not sent out to work tomorrow.”

oOo

“This may just be the smartest thing you’ve ever done,” Thenardier chuckled from his bunk. He was leaning forward, crossing his long legs, his chin propped up in his hands. He looked like some madman from a deranged fairy tale. “Wish I’d thought of that… pretending to go crazy to get out of work. Very smart, kid. Lucky I’m stuck with you so I don’t have to go anywhere today either.” 

Biting his lip to keep back an angry retort and clenching his hands into fists, Enjolras turned his face to the wall. He’d give anything just to get out in the fresh air and be able to move. The commissaire had thought he was being generous in allowing a day off, but being pinned down to this bunk all day would surely take the bit of sanity Enjolras had left. 

He couldn’t understand what had happened last night. It wasn’t like him to lose his calm like that… in fact it had never happened to him before. Not that he could remember… although he had been told he was delirious in the hospital, he couldn’t remember a moment of it. As far as he knew, he had always managed to just forge on through, regardless of what hit him. He had just panicked somehow… and he hadn’t been thinking straight. He was angry at himself for slipping that way. It served him right to be stuck here.

“Do you even know your daughter?” he asked abruptly and Thenardier raised his eyebrows.

“Huh?”

“Eponine. Do you know her? Anything about her?”

“Still playing delirious, eh?” Thenardier laughed. 

“You’re crazy,” Enjolras muttered, tossing restlessly as he tugged at his chains. “You’re her father and you don’t even know how wonderful she is.”

“Go on,” Thenardier leaned back. “I’m listening. Tell me what you think is so wonderful about her.” 

“She… she knows how to think for herself,” Enjolras closed his eyes as he pictured her. “She’s brilliant. She cares about things… important things… and she’s willing to sacrifice for people she loves. She understands more about life than some people will ever know.”

“Aw, you’re just talking fancy. ‘Ponine is selfish… doesn’t even care about her family.”

“Or perhaps her family never cared about her,” Enjolras snapped. “You’re blind and deaf. You’ve never even seen her… no one ever has. Patria, suffering in the shadows… in silence. She deserves to be seen… to be loved.”

“Bourgeois gibberish,” Thenardier folded his arms behind his head with a long, drawn-out sigh. 

“She was at the barricades the night of the revolution. She saved my life. She saved two lives… grabbed the gun of a soldier just as he was about to shoot someone. Have you seen her since then? Her hand… it’s disfigured from the wound she got doing that. You would never put yourself in front of a gun for someone, would you?” He laughed bitterly. “She’s a treasure, Thenardier… and she ought to be valued as such. If…” his voice broke and he swallowed hard. “If it wasn’t for all of this…” he rattled his chains. “Had we met under different circumstances… I’d be asking for your blessing to marry her.”

“You would, eh?” Thenardier displayed a gap-toothed grin. “What if I said no?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d marry her anyway. If she’d have me.”

“What do you see in her?”

“You haven’t been listening, have you? When I look at her… I see everything I’ve ever fought for… everything I’ve ever needed.” 

“A treasure, eh…” Thenardier murmured to himself. A long-forgotten memory flashed through his mind… a little girl with rosy dimples and laughing brown eyes, running to meet him. That tiny figure with arms outstretched, pressing kisses to his face and setting his hat all crooked on his head… that little voice calling him “Daddy”... When had it all gone wrong? Something stirred deep inside his heart, under a hundred crusty layers of greed and hatred and apathy… the same something that had somehow caused indignation when he saw Montparnasse kissing Eponine so roughly. “My little girl…” he almost whispered, tears filling his eyes as Enjolras twisted to look at him in surprise. “My darling little girl…” 

And now here was a young man professing love for Eponine. That dirty, bedraggled scarecrow his daughter had become in the past several years… he had forgotten who she was. His daughter… a girl worthy of love… He turned to look at his fellow prisoner and was suddenly angry. Here was a man who loved Eponine… a good man… and he was chained flat on his back in a prison hundreds of miles away from her.

“You’re a better man than me,” Thenardier mused. “If my blessing was worth anything… I’d give it. You’d take good care of her, wouldn’t you.”

“I’d gladly give my life for her,” came the answer, spoken fiercely.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Eponine stood on the doorstep of the grand house in Rue Plumet for a long moment, staring at the bell pull as if it was a snake. She felt uncomfortably foreign here in this bourgeois street, even if she did look the part of a fashionable woman. Musichetta had cheerfully lent her the necessary outfit… she would have given it without reserve, but Eponine turned down the offer. She had no use for such clothes in her life anyway. 

She had accordingly been laced into a corset for the first time in her life, wrapped in several layers of petticoats… she flatly refused to wear a crinoline… and buttoned up in a lovely gown with ridiculously full sleeves and skirt. Gloves, a lace fichu, elegant boots with pointed toes, and a warm coat were added, and the very large bonnet Joly had requested fitted over top of the elegant hairstyle Musichetta had insisted on. When Musichetta had proudly displayed Eponine to the boys, with a dainty “Monsieur Joly and Monsieur Courfeyrac, may I present Mademoiselle Thenardier…”, they both declared that she would never be recognized.

“Mademoiselle Thenardier,” Courfeyrac bowed grandly and kissed her hand. “You look lovely.”

“Indeed,” Joly smiled. “I wonder what Enjolras would think, eh?” He winked and elbowed his friend while Eponine looked away, wanting to cry. She was so overwrought, so afraid that all their efforts in the end wouldn’t be enough and that she would never see Enjolras again… and she wondered what on earth made Joly suspect… but it didn’t matter now.

Taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, Eponine reached for the bell. But before she could ring it, an elegant carriage pulled up outside of the front door and she found herself wishing she could disappear. She felt somehow almost guilty to be caught on the doorstep of such a house by a true member of the bourgeoisie, and not an imposter such as she.

“Ah, good afternoon!” a delighted voice was crying out as an elegant young woman stepped out of the carriage with the help of the driver. She darted gracefully up the steps, extending a hand. “And have you come to call on me?”

Eponine fidgeted nervously with her gloves as she drew herself carefully up, determined to show no weakness before this girl. “Cosette,” she murmured. “Cosette Pontmercy. Do you not know me?”

“You know my name?” Cosette’s brow furrowed. “You seem familiar…”

“My name is Eponine Thenardier,” she threw her head back proudly. “Surely you remember that.”

“Eponine. Of course I remember…” At the sound of that name, the first shadow of pain crossed Cosette’s face. But she smiled graciously. “Dear friend, it’s been many a long year.”

“Friend?” Eponine repeated the word in irony. She wanted to laugh. But somehow, she could not manage to feel the scorn that she was certain she ought to be feeling.

“It is too cold to stand in the street,” Cosette beckoned in welcome. “Come inside, please.” 

A maid met them at the door, taking their coats and bonnets while glancing in curiosity at Eponine. But she said nothing. Someone was calling Cosette’s name from somewhere above, and then rushing down the stairs to greet her. Eponine recognized Marius with a dull pang as he pulled his wife into his arms. It wasn’t pain… it was just a memory of the old pain. She had suspected it for a long time, had marvelled over it… and now she knew it… she no longer loved him the way she once had. He belonged to Cosette… and that was how it should be.

He turned to Eponine with a polite bow, glancing at his wife as if awaiting an introduction… and then started in shock. “Dear God, is it Eponine? Can it be? Or am I only dreaming?” He reached out to her, snatching up both of her hands. She pulled her crippled hand away, hiding it in the folds of her skirt. “Dear Eponine, you are alive?”

“By the will of God,” Eponine forced a vague smile. 

“And I thought you were dead… all these months…” he beckoned his wife. “Cosette, I have told you so often of my old friend, my angel of mercy, the one who led me to you… and here she is…” his joy seemed ecstatic and Eponine could not help but smile just a little bit wider. “Because of two people, Cosette, I lived that night at the barricades to come back to you. Eponine took a bullet meant for me.” His voice trailed off at that, and his eyes filled with tears. “It is a debt I can never repay.”

“I ask for nothing for myself, Monsieur,” Eponine lowered her head. “You were always kind to me.” She felt the words fall flat. But she could never tell him the truth, that once she had loved him with all her heart. She was glad to find it had faded away. 

“But you must let me help,” he urged. “Is there nothing I can do? Oh, but… ‘Ponine… you…” He looked mightily confused, and as if he would like to say something, but didn’t know the most tactful way to put it. Eponine answered for him.

“Yes,” she laughed faintly. “These are borrowed clothes. They were lent me so that I might come here in daylight without drawing attention from… well… it is a long story.”

“It is a story I would love to hear,” he smiled. “You must stay for tea… for dinner, if you have the time!”

“Please…” Eponine interrupted. “One thing I must ask. Monsieur Marius. You remember your friend, Enjolras.”

“Yes, yes!” Marius leaned forward eagerly. “Where is he? Is he well?  I’ve searched Paris to find him… I supposed he had gone into hiding…”

“Search away, you will not find him here,” Eponine’s voice turned bitter. “They have sent him to Toulon, as a prisoner. There he stays for life.” 

Marius simply stared, his face gone white. Eponine turned away, blinking hard. It wouldn’t do to burst into tears now.

oOo

Eponine went to see Courfeyrac and Joly that evening with the assurance that Marius would go to Toulon as soon as he could possibly make the arrangements… hopefully within the next few days. And although no one was very hopeful that anything could be done, at least it was something. She returned to Rue Plumet every day for the next three days before returning the dress to Musichetta… and on the third day, Marius left Cosette with a kiss and Eponine with the promise that he would do his best.

A few more days passed… and then a letter arrived at the hospital bearing Eponine’s name. It was the first letter she had ever received and she stared at it for a moment as if bewildered, looking askance at her name in elegant script on the front and the militant wax seal on the back. She opened it carefully to find a neatly written message in black ink… and gasped when she saw Enjolras’ name at the end of the letter. Her heart was racing. Folded up inside of the sheet was a crumpled, torn scrap of paper with singed edges, one side bearing something that looked like a supply list, and on the other side in an altogether different handwriting, words scrawled in smeared charcoal. She scanned both messages, finding them to be word for word the same. Somehow he had managed to get this message to her… he had cared enough to try… choking back a sob, she pressed the letter to her lips and then slipped it into her pocket as she flew out the door in search of Courfeyrac and Joly.

“I have to go to Toulon,” she cried breathlessly as Courfeyrac scanned the letter, Joly looking over his shoulder. 

“This one…” Courfeyrac held up the charcoal-covered scrap. “This is Enjolras’ handwriting. Someone must have rewritten the letter for him and put his original note in with it…” he handed it to Eponine as she reached out with trembling fingers, holding the paper close to her heart.

“I have to see him somehow,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I… I have to… I have some money saved… surely it would be enough to get me there…”

“How much do you have?” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, and she told him. Hearing the sum out loud made her confidence fail in her little pile of francs. Joly actually grimaced.

“Toulon is pretty far,” Joly ventured. “You’ll need food and lodging and transportation all the way. It wouldn’t be safe for a lone woman to…” 

“We’ll take you to Toulon,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “We’re in this together, right? No use trying to argue with me, ‘Ponine, this isn’t charity. It’s probably best if we get out of Paris anyway… any day now the wrong person could recognize us and we’ll end up joining Enjolras in prison.”

Eponine bit back her protests and sighed in relief instead. She had no idea what she was getting herself into or if there was anything good that really could come of going to Toulon… but at least she would be closer to him. His letter didn’t say much… but it meant that he had thought of her… and that was more than anyone else had ever done. She wouldn’t give him up without a fight. 

Chapter Thirty-Three

Eponine paced the length of the room nervously, her hands clasped behind her back. Joly and Musichetta sat in the corner, speaking in low tones, and Courfeyrac was in the opposite corner, frowning at a newspaper. He glanced up at Eponine, shrugged, and tossed the paper aside with a restless sigh. They were set to leave for Toulon within the hour and both were growing impatient. But Joly was reluctant to leave. 

At last Courfeyrac stood, looking meaningfully at his friend. “I’m sorry. We need to get going.”

The young couple stood together, her hands clasped in his. Tears stood in Musichetta’s eyes as Joly bent to kiss her cheek.

“I’ll send for you as soon as I can,” he whispered and she smiled at him.

“I hope it won’t be too long.” She squeezed his hands and then moved to Eponine, reaching out to embrace her. “Wishing you the best of luck, dear friend,” she murmured. “I’ll be praying for the safety of all of you. And for Enjolras. Godspeed on your journey.”

“And now we worry about getting out of this city,” Courfeyrac remarked as they left Musichetta’s apartment. He glanced down the street warily. “The hard part will be at the gates… once we’re out of Paris, we should be safe.” 

The carriage they had hired stood at the door and Courfeyrac extended his hand to help Eponine in, he and Joly clambering in after her. They were travelling as light as possible, prepared for the possibility of having to abandon their ride in case of emergency. Last minute changes to the plans were a definite concern. And they came much sooner than expected.

“Where to, monsieur?” the driver had asked, quite professionally, and Courfeyrac had directed him towards one of Paris’s older gates… one that they had deemed would be a lower risk.

“Of course, monsieur,” the driver spoke through the window in the roof of the carriage as he started the horses off at a quick trot. “But you’ll be wanting to stop at the police office first, of course.”

“The police?” Joly frowned, turning to Courfeyrac in alarm. “No, we want the city gate.”

“Why, yes, but…” the driver called back in a tone of triumph. “You’re not leaving the city the way you ought to be… as rebels… in chains.”

It was a foolish thing for the driver to say, revealing his plans so soon. A whispered conference was held as the horses sped up… and as the carriage careened around a corner of the Rue Plumet, the door was forced open and the three occupants jumped to the ground. Eponine tripped as she landed, crashing to the sidewalk with a cry, and Joly dragged her up again as they ran wildly down the street, dodging the fashionable occupants thereof. Halfway down the block, Eponine managed to shout that it was madness to stay in the open, and pulled the others toward a narrow alley between gardens. Stumbling around garbage cans and tripping over crates, they managed to scramble over the elegant iron fencing of the house Eponine led them to and fell panting against the back door.

“Please!” Eponine cried out, pounding on the door with both fists. “Please, help, let us in! Help!” The door opened abruptly and she nearly fell in. An elderly woman in a voluminous apron stood there, hands on her hips as she glared at the intruders. 

“And what do you ruffians want?”

“Please,” Eponine gasped. “We’re friends of the Baron… Marius Pontmercy… I know his wife, Cosette… we need help, please, let us in.”

oOo

“Just stay here,” Cosette urged in a low voice as she led the fugitives down an upstairs hall and opened the door to a tiny sitting room. “If anyone’s followed you here, I’ll do my best to turn them away. Here…” she pulled a heavy ring of keys from the sash around her waist and fumbled to remove one. “Lock yourselves in and stay as quiet as possible,” she pressed the key into Courfeyrac’s hand as the bell rang downstairs. “I am grateful,” she added with a sad smile as the bell rang again, more urgently, “to be able to do something for some of my husband’s close friends.” And she gathered up her skirts to dash gracefully down the stairs, calling out to the maid to wait and not answer the bell just yet. 

Courfeyrac locked the door from the inside and slipped the key into his coat pocket as the others sank breathlessly into chairs. There they sat in perfect stillness, like marble statues, as they listened to the door open downstairs. Cosette’s voice floated up to them, laughing nonchalantly as she replied to someone with a deep, coarse voice.

“Delighted to have you stop by, officer! It has been a rather quiet day. My husband is away on business, you see, so it is just I and the Baron Gillenormand. Perhaps you would like to speak with him? He is in his study, and does not usually like to be disturbed, but I am certain he would be happy to see you if…”

“We’re here on official business, Madame,” came the brusque reply. “We’re looking for some of the traitors from the recent uprising. I just received the report that they were seen here.”

“Here?” Cosette sounded surprised. “Do you mean on the Rue Plumet? I have seen no traitors here. Surely, monsieur, you would not think me capable of consorting with traitors to my beloved country.”

“We are already aware of your husband’s role in the uprising,” the officer spoke blandly. “The men we are looking for are a Monsieur Courfeyrac and a Monsieur Joly, do you know the names?”

“They seem familiar,” Cosette answered slowly. “Perhaps it would be best though if you speak with my grandfather in law… he knows much more about such things than I. I concern myself only with matters of my household these days. You see, I am planning a grand dinner for…”

“Yes, yes,” the officer sounded bored. “Perhaps I will speak with Baron Gillenormand, if you would be so kind as to send for him.”

It seemed ages before the door closed behind the officer again. During that time, no one in the sitting room even dared to move, let alone speak. They simply sat there, staring at each other in grim silence, hoping their pounding hearts wouldn’t give them away. Eponine could scarcely remember a time when she had been more terrified. If Courfeyrac and Joly were taken, she’d be left completely without hope. She needed them desperately. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that every time she looked at Joly, he would make faces at her. She would think he’d be more serious about the fact that their lives were in danger… and she was mad at him for making her want to laugh in the middle of this. She turned her face to stare at a pair of ornate silver candlesticks on a side table.

At last Cosette’s gentle knock came on the door and Courfeyrac leaped to unlock it. Both Cosette and the Baron Gillenormand stood in the hallway, their faces mirroring the others’ concern.

“It is safe for now,” Cosette said quietly. “But you need to leave Paris tonight.”

“Under cover of darkness would perhaps be best,” the baron added. “You see, I’ve just realized I have urgent business with a friend of mine who lives in the country a few days drive from Paris. I’ll need a manservant to accompany me, of course, and my carriage driver…” he looked significantly at the students. “And a maid, of course, to attend my granddaughter,” he smiled at Eponine. “You see? A perfectly normal business venture… nothing suspicious whatsoever. Cosette, dear, please take Mademoiselle Thenardier to find some suitable things for the journey. I shall see that these young men are outfitted with the proper livery.” 

Cosette beckoned to Eponine and they started off down the hall when the baron called after them.

“I neglected to mention the name of my friend,” he added, winking at Eponine. “He is the Baron Henri Guillaume. Perhaps the name is familiar to you?” He smiled as the girl’s jaw dropped. “Hurry, ladies, please… we must leave as soon as darkness falls.” 

Chapter Thirty-Four

In the Toulon harbor, the Amiral was again flying a yellow flag… warning the townspeople that a prisoner had escaped. The fourth escape attempt of Prisoner 7604… he had been missing since early that morning. The commissaire received the news quietly and gave the usual orders. He rather hoped the prisoner wouldn’t be found this time. The boy was like a wild thing… untameable, unbreakable. He deserved to be free. The look that crept into his eyes at times… the commissaire shuddered just remembering it. Prisoner 7604… whoever he was… he was born to be a leader… born to lead men towards freedom… not to die in a prison.

The prisoners were out at their usual work. There were several ships at harbor that must be unloaded… tedious, exhausting work that would take all day long. The supply crates were heavy and the work of lifting them was difficult and slow.

Several of the guards had been dispatched to search for the escapee… never knowing that the man they sought was right under their noses… crouching in a hollowed space in the stone wall of the docks. He meant to wait it out till nightfall and then swim to safety across the harbor. He would still have to make it past the patrol boats, but it was much less risky than attempting the city gates.

It was a miserable little hole that he had crammed himself into. The stones were damp and covered with slippery moss. He was bent nearly double, his back pressed against the top of the hiding place, his knees already sore. They had neglected to cut his hair again and it had grown back to its usual length… now it hung over his eyes in tangled, unruly curls, and it was frustrating him. But he didn’t dare move his hand to brush it away. From where he waited, he had a fairly clear view of the dock where the prisoners worked to unload a cargo ship and he was dreadfully afraid they would see him, in spite of the efforts he had taken to block up the open hole in front of him. Sometimes they moved past him so close he could have reached out and touched them. 

Now and again he caught a few words yelled out in Thenardier’s loud, brassy voice, and he grimaced. There was a good enough motive to get out of here… if only to never be chained to that man again. Thenardier worked alone today… they had simply shackled him and sent him to the docks by himself. Enjolras still found it as hard to believe that man was Eponine’s father as the first day he had met him. He saw no resemblance in looks, spirit, or personality between father and daughter. Although Thenardier had had a few moments in the past couple of months in which he displayed a spark of humanity, he was for the most part a disgusting, filthy, altogether detestable creature.

The prisoners shouted orders back and forth across the dock as they worked to hoist crates from the hold of the ships, secure ropes, and crank the giant pulley that lifted the cargo onto the wharf. Some of the prisoners who had been labelled as well-behaved had been promoted to positions of foremen, working to oversee the others. Perhaps none of them saw what the man in hiding was watching all the while… the frame of the pulley bending unnaturally, threatening to snap at any moment.

By the time the danger was detected, it was nearly too late. A warning shout sent men scrambling wildly over the docks, chains rattling as they tried to move out of the way. An enormous crate hung suspended in mid-air… and it would fall any moment. One man was still on the deck of the ship, unable to move. His ankle chain had caught on something and he tugged at it desperately, alternately crying for help and cursing the others.

It happened so fast that no one afterwards could say exactly what it was they saw… the crate fell, crashing to the deck to fly into splinters almost at the same moment a lone figure clambered over the side of the ship and flew at the doomed captive, knocking him out of the way. 

Silence fell for a stunned moment. Thenardier lay flat on his back on the deck of the ship, staring wide-eyed at the sky as Enjolras bent over him, gasping for breath. The realization came slowly to the older man that he was not dead. Bit by bit he pieced it all together as he looked up at the prisoner who had gone missing hours earlier… his lips moved as he tried to speak… to say something… anything… but no sound came out.

The alarm had been raised, dozens of voices crying out that 7604 had been found. Guards rushed onto the deck of the ship, dodging the debris left from the crash. Enjolras was dragged to his feet, his arms twisted behind his back as the guards shouted at him. His eyes never wavered from Thenardier’s face… and Thenardier writhed under that steady gaze. Guilt, shame, rage… a thousand emotions twisted inside of him. Something about those eyes was terrifying. 

oOo

“You saved my life.” Thenardier glanced at the man in the bunk next to his. He wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. “Why didn’t you let me die?”

Enjolras still slumped where they had thrown him when they brought him back to the barracks, bending forward, head bowed, blood seeping through the back of his tattered shirt. He didn’t lift his head when Thenardier spoke. The commissaire had warned him before… one more escape attempt and Enjolras would be confined to the barracks indefinitely… and today they told him he had forfeited his right to work. It could be months or even years before they let him venture out again. And in addition to the ever-present ankle chain, his hands would remain bound. They were no longer taking any chances with a prisoner who had proved himself insubordinate time and time again. He bent forward until his head rested on his clenched fists, trying to shut out the noise that echoed around him. He was suddenly so weary.

“I don’t understand,” Thenardier ventured again. He seemed to have lost his usual cockiness… his voice held a timidity that had never been there before. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras whispered, closing his eyes. 

“I… I’m not worth it…” Thenardier shook his head. He seemed almost to be speaking to himself. “I’ve done horrid things. Horrid things. All my life. Men like me, we don’t change. Why… boy, you could have gotten away, why’d you do it?”

There was no answer. Thenardier flung himself onto his back, staring up blankly at the bunk above his head. The boy was a mystery… none of it made sense. For someone to reject a life of wealth and nearly get killed in the streets fighting a revolution that could never win… and to fall in love with a street gamine… Thenardier couldn’t comprehend anyone doing such things. Where he came from, you took what you could get and only scraped by in squeezing the life out of others. Love, sacrifice, selflessness… these were things he knew nothing of.

“We’ve all done horrid things,” Enjolras muttered at last. “We’re all human, all the same.”

“If that is so, then why did you destroy your life for others?” Thenardier looked at him, bewildered. “I know who you are. You could have had a perfect bourgeois life and here you rot in prison. If no one is worth it, why would you throw that away to fight for the people?”

“The Son of God died for us, that is proof enough. That’s all I need to know that the people are worth fighting for.”

“Ha.” Thenardier scoffed. “Not for no-accounts like me, He didn’t. We’re the cast-offs, God-forsaken rejects.”

“He created us equal. All men, women, and children. It’s only our circumstances in this world that separate us. That’s why I fought. To remove those man-made barriers so that we’d be equal on earth as God intended us to be.”

“And you failed.”

“I know.” Enjolras hid his face. It was a long time before he spoke again. “I failed. But not completely. We helped pave the way… and others will rise to take our place… until the whole earth is free.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The carriage rolled slowly down the long, winding country lane lined on both sides by towering shade trees. The sun had set hours ago and they cast eerie shadows in the moonlight. Eponine gripped the windowsill as she leaned out head and shoulders, straining to catch a glimpse of the house. It loomed before her in all its grandeur… three massive stories of grey stone with balconies and a tower rising on the side. She had never seen its like, not even in the most fashionable streets of Paris. It frightened her.

The carriage pulled to a halt and Courfeyrac moved round to open the door and help her and Cosette out. She clung to his hand a moment after her feet touched the ground, her neck craning as she stared up at the enormous manor house.

“Oh dear,” she breathed, and her voice trembled. Courfeyrac glanced at her in concern.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s too much,” she murmured, ducking her head. “I don’t belong.”

“Oh, stop it,” he took her hand again and tucked it under his arm. “You’re as grand a lady as ever graced this place, now hold your head up, ‘Ponine, and be proud.”

The house having been alerted of their arrival the day before by a dispatched rider whose horse was much swifter than the baron’s carriage, the door was opened and servants drifted out to greet the guests. The baron swept on ahead with Cosette on his arm, much in his element as he gave his hat to the maid and bowed politely to the man who stood in the center of the foyer.

Eponine hung back in the doorway as she caught sight of Henri Guillaume. She had turned white as soon as she saw his face. It was Enjolras’ face… but older and harder. The man looked stern and commanding, a powerful presence… and Eponine, who was never afraid… feared him. She might never have found the courage to cross the doorstep had not Courfeyrac practically dragged her.

“My grandson’s bride, the lady Cosette Pontmercy,” the baron was saying proudly as he presented his granddaughter-in-law to his old friend. “And her travelling companion, Mademoiselle Eponine Thenardier,” he gestured to the silent newcomer. Courfeyrac and Joly, being supposed servants, were not formally introduced… but then a woman swept through the foyer with a gasp of surprise.

“Frédéric?” she cried out, her voice quavering with emotion. “Frédéric Félicien de Courfeyrac, is it you?”

“So you remember me,” Courfeyrac grinned sheepishly as Eponine shot him a startled glance. And Henri stood staring in disbelief. Rosalie hadn’t shown such signs of life in many a long month. “Madame Guillaume.” He took the hand she held out to him and bowed grandly. 

“Oh, never mind the formalities, I am so glad to see you,” and she threw her arms around him. “Dear boy, I thought perhaps…”

“It takes more than the French army to finish me off,” he laughed humorlessly as she stepped back. “Baroness, please… this young lady…” he broke off as Rosalie turned to stare at Eponine, a strange expression on her face. Eponine dropped her head under the steady gaze of those familiar blue eyes.

“You are…” Rosalie whispered, tilting her head to  one side. “You are the… the girl from the rally… the girl who was with my Enjolras… What is your name?”

“I am Eponine, Madame,” came the halting reply.

“And you know my son?”

“Yes.” Eponine glanced up in a moment of boldness, her eyes flashing with emotion. Rosalie caught it and smiled sadly.

“And you love him…” it was stated, not asked. Eponine dropped her eyes again and twisted her hands together to hide their shaking.

“You are perceptive, madame.” She faltered, wanting to step back, to disappear into the shadows, but Rosalie swept her into her embrace and held her close for a long moment.

“I am glad,” she whispered. “So glad.”

At first Eponine stood stiffly, unaccustomed to such shows of affection. Particularly from a stranger. But she felt a tear slip down her cheek, and then another and another. With a sigh, she yielded, and when the older woman let her go, she drew the back of her hand across her eyes with a shuddering sob.

“I have something to tell you,” She lifted her head and drew back all of her courage, somehow managing to stand tall. “About your son.”

“He is alive,” Rosalie answered. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes,” Rosalie breathed, catching up Eponine’s hands and clutching them tightly. “If he were dead, I would know… part of me would have died with him. Do you know where he is? For God’s sake, tell me, if you know anything at all.” 

“He… he is in prison,” Eponine faltered. “In Toulon.”

Rosalie turned to look at her husband, an odd sort of triumph flickering in her eyes.

“I told you, Henri,” her voice was calm. “He is alive. And we will go to him at once.”

Henri stood silent, as still as a marble statue. His face showed as little emotion as if it had been sculpted. It would have taken a keen observer to notice the look of pain that flickered in his eyes and vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Rosalie.” He spoke almost mechanically. “I am glad for your sake that the boy survived. But he has betrayed not only his father… he is a traitor to his country. A criminal. And for that, I am ashamed to call him my son. He is as dead to me now as if he was in his grave. We will go on as we are, and forget him, do you understand?”

Rosalie turned from Eponine and moved slowly towards her husband. She clenched her fists at her sides as she lifted her face to his. Her cheeks were suddenly scarlet with rage, and in her eyes burned the same fire that had burned so many times in Enjolras’ eyes. It startled Henri, although he did not move or speak as she stood before him.

“You,” she spoke slowly through clenched teeth. “You, Henri Guillaume, are a coward.” And she lifted her hand as if to hit him… it hovered threateningly in the air for a moment… and he did not flinch… but the strike never came. She dropped her arm, spun on her heel, and stalked away from him, out of the room. A few moments later, a door slammed from somewhere in the manor.

Henri seemed to wake as if from a trance, and he glanced apologetically at his guests.

“I am sorry,” he spoke to the baron Gillenormand. “I’m afraid this situation…” he hesitated.

“I understand,” the older man said gently. “Much more than you know. But he is your son, and you are losing a rare treasure by letting him go. Believe me, I have been just as stubborn in the past. And I nearly lost my beloved grandson forever. God in His mercy restored him to me, and he is the pride and joy of my old age. Life is short, my friend. Do not waste it away in your anger.”

He gave Henri no chance to answer, but turned to Cosette. “My dear, you are tired from the journey. And you, Mademoiselle Eponine. Perhaps it is best if we retire for the night.”

“Yes, yes,” Henri said vaguely. “And Courfeyrac, son of my old friend,” he beckoned to the young man standing hesitantly by the door. “I cannot have you lodging in the servants’ quarters, in spite of your livery. I shall have rooms made ready for you. As for…” he glanced uncertainly at Joly. 

“My friend, Monsieur… Andre,” Courfeyrac said quickly. “A medical student at the University of Paris.”

“And taking a job as a manservant, eh?” Henri looked askance.

“Tiimes are hard,” Joly offered. “I am taking a rest from my studies and working to gain funds.”

“Very well,” Henri waved a dismissing hand. “A room for you as well. There are certainly plenty in this cursed house,” he glared surlily at the ceiling. Since he had banished his son, he had always hated this place. It seemed to haunt him, the ghost of boyish laughter still echoing from the walls, the vision of a golden-haired child lying on his stomach by the fireside, an open book before him. “We will have further discussion in the morning, perhaps.” And he left them to the attentions of the butler without so much as a ‘good night’.

oOo

Eponine shifted nervously in her seat as the carriage rolled back down the lane of the Guillaume’s country estate, headed for the coast… and Toulon. Nothing had gone the way she had hoped. One day had they stayed, and all of them had done what they could to convince Henri to go to his son. The man would not be moved. She could scarcely think of anything that had ever made her so angry. 

Rosalie had planned on going with them until the very last moment. She had left herself locked in her room, deaf to Henri’s voice at her door, until that morning, when she had appeared in traveling suit, requesting of Joly that he take her trunk to the carriage. But Henri had stopped her. For a moment she had seemed as if she would defy him and go anyway… and then she had turned to Eponine.

“Go to him, my daughter,” she whispered urgently, gripping the girl’s hands. “Go to him and assure him of my love… and yours. Kiss him for me, won’t you? I will come as soon as I can.” 

She had pressed something into Eponine’s hand, and then gone to stand at the side of her husband, her face white and her chin lifted stubbornly, watching as the carriage drove out of sight.

Eponine slowly uncurled her fingers as the manor faded from view, to find a silver pendant on a chain lying in her palm. It was a curious design… like a coat of arms. A Guillaume family emblem, surely. A moment’s hesitation, and then she clasped it round her throat, tucking it out of sight beneath her fichu. 

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Your name, monsieur?” the guard looked narrowly at Courfeyrac. He seemed rather annoyed with their presence, as if he had a hundred more important things to do and couldn’t be bothered with them. Courfeyrac, Joly, and Eponine stood in the entry of Toulon prison at last, after weeks of rough travel. The baron and Cosette had gone to find lodging in the city, but the others decided to at least try at seeing Enjolras, although none of them had much hope that they would be able to get in.

“Jean Allard,” Courfeyrac answered, with just the slightest bit of hesitation. They had agreed on pseudonyms during the journey, in case the names Courfeyrac and Joly were being circulated as wanted for treason. 

“And your papers, Monsieur Allard?” 

Courfeyrac turned pale. He had his papers, yes… but they didn’t have the name Jean Allard on them. One glance at those papers could very well condemn him. He glanced helplessly at his companions. If only they had thought of those incriminating documents long ago!

“I… I’m afraid I don’t have them,” he answered slowly, running his tongue over his lips. “They were… uh… stolen. Bandits… on the road.”

“Why on earth would they steal your papers?” the guard stared at him. “How could they be of any use to anyone but you?”

“I suppose to… impersonate me?” Courfeyrac laughed nervously and the guard narrowed his eyes. Gesturing to a man who stood behind him, he spoke in a low voice.

“Search him.”

Courfeyrac took a step back, clenching his hands into fists to hide how they were trembling. There was no way out of this… they would find the papers in his coat pocket, discover his true identity… and he would likely be in chains within the hour. The guard had stepped forward, signalling him to follow… when suddenly Eponine burst into hysterical sobs. 

“No, no, please!” she wailed, running to Courfeyrac’s side. “Please don’t take him… you can’t… he hasn’t done anything! Please don’t…” She threw her arms around him, burying her face against his shoulder as her sobs grew louder. Courfeyrac stumbled backwards, looking wildly confused, as she held on as tight as she could, crying uncontrollably.

“Eponine… what on earth…?” he shook his head, bewildered, trying to detangle himself from her grip. The guard seized Courfeyrac’s arm in frustration, jerking him back, and Eponine turned to Joly, leaning against him as if she couldn’t find the strength to stand. 

“Get her out of here,” the guard sighed and Joly nodded in frightened consternation, wrapping an arm around Eponine’s shoulders and leading her out as she clung to him, still weeping. He turned back to look at Courfeyrac in desperation as the door slammed shut. 

“This is bad,” he muttered. “So bad. They’ll arrest Courf, and then they’ll probably take me too… Why on earth didn’t we think of those papers, ‘Ponine?” he groaned aloud, hiding his face in his hands.

“Stop whining and give me your papers,” Eponine hissed, all trace of crying gone from her face. “Hurry!” As he hesitated, she fumbled with his coat pocket, pulling out the packet of documents before producing Courfeyrac’s papers from her sleeve with a triumphant grin. “You see? No one is looking for an Eponine Thenardier, I’ll show them mine and they won’t bother searching me.” And she slipped the dangerous evidence carefully beneath the sash of her dress and wrapped her shawl tighter around her body. 

The door opened and a guard beckoned them to re-enter. Eponine had automatically returned to sad sniffles, resting her head on Joly’s shoulder and wrapping her hands around his arm as she stumbled back in at his side. She snapped her head up at the sight of Courfeyrac, giving a little cry of joy to see him standing there. The guard rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“He speaks the truth, there are no papers on him,” he turned to glare at Joly. “And you?”

“My name is Francois Andre,” he stammered. “And I fear that I, too, have had my papers stolen.”

“Search him as well,” the guard sighed. “And the young woman?”

“I am Eponine Thenardier, monsieur,” she advanced quickly, having no wish to go into hysterics over Joly, who would be perfectly fine. She withdrew her folded passport and handed it to the guard. He glanced it over and then looked up at the guard who had just finished going through Joly’s pockets.

“Send the men out,” he ordered. “I cannot allow you to come in without proper documentation. The girl may stay.” 

Eponine turned her head to watch her friends go, a little worried to be left alone, and yet with her old bravado as strong as ever. ‘Ponine had always been alone, she could be so again. Courfeyrac nodded encouragingly to her as the door swung shut in his face, and she managed a smile. When the guard posed his question as to her purpose in Toulon prison, she looked at him brightly.

“I am here to see Enjolras Guillaume, please.”

The guard consulted his registry for a few minutes, finding the entry at last… “7604–Enjolras Guillaume–Paris–treason, murder, inciting a riot–hard labor for life–insubordinate.” Four marks were made beside the name… four escape attempts, four incidents of severe discipline. The guard looked up in surprise.

“Why?”

“None of your business, if you please, monsieur. I ask only to speak with him in private.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. Turning to the man behind him, he gave a brusque order.

“Send for the commissaire.”

oOo

Eponine sat on a rickety wooden chair with a back straight as a ramrod. Time was ticking on and on and still she had been given no assurance that she would be allowed to see the prisoner. The commissaire had been busy when the summons came, and that meant long waiting. She wondered where Courfeyrac and Joly were, and wished they were with her. This waiting was unbearable.

But at last the commissaire had come, and a long conversation ensued, during which she caught only snatches of conversation, the last giving her a rush of hope.

“If he is here for life, that is punishment enough,” the commissaire had said. “We cannot deny him at least a short visit with the girl. And if you must insist on such austere discipline, think of it this way… perhaps it would sober him up to see someone from his past life, someone he can’t be with because of his crimes.” He had turned to look at Eponine, smiling vaguely. “Perhaps she is the girl he cries out for.”

Eponine had heard that, and her heart trembled. And then the commissaire had ordered, “Send for Prisoner 7604”... and she could scarce contain the wild beating of her heart. To see him at last… after so long… and again, the fearless girl was suddenly afraid. Her breath was coming short and she clutched desperately at her shawl, her body shaking all over, like a leaf in the wind. What would she say to him? How could she bear seeing him… and letting him go again? How would she…

And then there were footsteps in the corridor, and the rattling of heavy metal chains, and the guard announced, “Prisoner 7604.” She flew out of her seat to stand in breathless anticipation, her shawl falling forgotten to the stone floor.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

They simply stood there, both rooted to the spot on opposite sides of the room. Eponine couldn’t seem to find her voice, or make her feet move. She could barely even make herself look at him, terrified of what she would see. But she found him standing tall and defiant as he ever had… and the same fierce blue eyes. And yet he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He only stared at her in silence, and she could not find words to speak. She ran her eyes over him, noting that he looked so tired and hungry… and the chains made her angry. Hadn’t he suffered enough?

“What are you doing here?” he muttered at last, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

“I… I don’t… know…” she whispered. “I had to…” her voice trailed off.

“I told you to go on with your life. You shouldn’t be in this place. You shouldn’t see this.” He made an angry gesture with his head, the chains rattling loudly. The sound hurt her heart.

 

“I came to tell you… you were right.” She wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m a fool.”

A sardonic smile twisted his lips. “Are you, now?”

“Yes.” She didn’t bother to explain, not wanting to bring up that old and long-ago argument regarding love. She wanted to tell him all that was in her heart, but oh, she didn’t know how. She moved closer, tentatively, one step after another until she stood close in front of him. Lifting her crippled hand, she brushed her fingers against his arm. He shuddered, closing his eyes, and she let her hand fall.

“And yet…” she murmured. “I dared to hope.”

“Dream on, and watch your dreams crumble into dust.” He fairly snarled those words, but he didn’t open his eyes, as if he was afraid to look at her. She looked at him, catching a glimpse of a single tear quivering on his lashes… and then it slipped and fell, landing on his cheek. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed it away.

“Dreams live on, in spite of everything,” she murmured. He choked back a sob. A few moments of silence swiftly flew by. She leaned against his chest, hearing the rapid beating of his heart, and longed to feel his arms around her. He was trembling just as hard as she was, trembling all over as if he hardly had the strength to stand. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight, finding his bound hands behind his back. He curled his fingers around hers, clinging to her desperately.

“I am also a fool,” he groaned. “To dream of freedom in such a hell as this. You know, ‘Ponine… you and I are not so very different… You and I and our lost causes.” He bent his head wearily, letting it rest on hers.

“Lost causes are worth fighting for,” she whispered. “I heard you say that once.”

In answer, he squeezed her hands. She willed her mind to forget everything, except the feeling of his hands, and his head resting on hers. If only it could be this way always… without the chains, and without the fear and agony of having to let go again. But she couldn’t dream that far… she couldn’t believe that he ever would love her, a common gamine. She turned her mind to safer topics.

“I have something to tell you,” she added, hating to break the spell. “But you must not react, or show surprise. It would be dangerous.”

He murmured something in reply and did not move. She went on, urgently, her words tripping over one another. “Courfeyrac and Joly are alive. They brought me here to Toulon, along with Marius’ grandfather. They are all speaking on your behalf… Marius is already here. They think there’s a chance for you.”

“Alive…” he breathed. “God be praised. But a chance for me… tell them no, tell them to go and be safe.” He laughed bitterly. “They’ll never let me go. I’m doomed to rot in this prison.”

“No…” Eponine gasped the word out, turning her face to hide against his chest. “God cannot be so cruel. You will be free, you must be free.”

“Freedom is an empty word here.”

“I saw your mother,” Eponine rushed on. “I met her. And your father. Your mother said to send her love, and she is coming as soon as she can.”

“Tell her no.” Enjolras’ voice broke, and Eponine could hear raw pain in it. “Tell her no, she can’t see me like this.”

The guard was back, telling her time was up… how could it be? How had the minutes flown by so swiftly? She didn’t know how long they had stood there together, but it hadn’t been enough. Dear God have mercy on her broken heart… a lifetime wouldn’t be enough! She hesitated, clinging to Enjolras a moment longer. He kissed her hair and her heart nearly stopped beating. She couldn’t leave him… to expect that of her was impossible…! But she had no choice… he was being taken away, and she was led in the opposite direction, and hating every step that took her farther from him.

 oOo

The guard shoved impatiently at the prisoner and he sank onto his bunk, ignoring the jeers of the other prisoners, all of them wildly curious about this mysterious female visitor of his. Visitors were rarely allowed and caused great commotion. The guard unlocked the cuffs that held his hands behind his back, waiting a merciful few seconds as Enjolras stretched his arms, and then chained his hands in front of him.

“How was your taste of the outside world, eh, rebel scum?” the guard sneered as Enjolras covered his face with his hands. “Now you’ve seen your pretty one, and you know you can never be with her, not in this life. I  s’pose another man will get her. How does that make you feel?” And he went out, laughing raucously. 

The other prisoners grew louder, taunts and insults and laughter coming from every direction. It sounded like a roar, a miserable cacophony. Only Thenardier sat in silence, watching as the young man threw himself headlong on his bunk, face-down, and wept. 

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Rosalie slipped noiselessly into the library, clutching a worn and long-forgotten little volume against her heart. She had refused to see Henri since their guests had left the morning before. With every fibre of her being, she had longed to go with them. But she had seen the look in Henri’s eyes and it had frightened her. She was afraid that if she left at that critical moment, she would lose him too. And she couldn’t bear that. She loved her son, she loved her husband, and somehow, she was going to keep them both, no matter what it took. And so she stood by Henri’s side and watched the Baron Gillenormand’s carriage till it was hidden from sight. When it was gone, she had turned to look at her husband and spoke quietly, but her voice was fairly ringing with strength.

“For too long, you have forced yourself to forget. Now I will make you remember.”

He hadn’t answered. She brushed past him, into the house… into his private study. She knew where he kept the key, in a hidden drawer of his desk. It had always disgusted her, the way he locked up all memories of his son’s existence. Well, no longer. For the first time in years, she opened the door of Enjolras’ old room, a thousand memories flooding back.

Henri knew what she was doing. He had seen the empty drawer in his desk, and the open door in the hall. But he didn’t interfere. He was sitting by the fire in the library when Rosalie came in, an open book in his hands, but he wasn’t looking at it. There was a portrait hanging opposite his chair… turned to the wall. He had turned it himself, over five years ago, and it had stayed that way ever since. He was staring at the back of the frame. And as he sat there, he caught a glimpse of Rosalie out of the corner of his eye.

“No.” 

She heard the note of hesitancy in his voice and smiled.

“I told you I would make you remember. It is time you faced reality.” She grasped the frame with trembling hands and turned it back. 

“He has your eyes,” Henri murmured.

“And yet, don’t you see yourself in him?” Her smile turned sad. “That pride and genius and impossible stubbornness, it’s all you, don’t you see it?” She took the picture down from the wall and stared at it lovingly. Enjolras, painted for his twenty-first birthday, wearing the red coat she had made him… how he had hated sitting for that portrait. She almost laughed, remembering it. He had fidgeted in his seat, made all sorts of ridiculous faces at the poor, long-suffering artist, and bolted regularly on the hour, sometimes not to be found until after the artist had left for the day. The painting had taken twice as long as it should have. And yet it had turned out well. It was very like him. Somehow it had managed to capture all the fire and life in his eyes.

“He was just a boy, Henri,” she turned pleading eyes to his resolute face. He looked away from her, nervously shifting his book from one hand to the other. She snatched it away, replacing it with the little volume she had found in Enjolras’ room. “Voltaire. Remember? You gave it to him.” She reached to flip open the front cover. “There. Read what you have written.” 

To my son, Enjolras. 

The man who wrote this book said “You have no control over the hand that life deals you, but how you play that hand is entirely up to you.” These are wise words. Remember them, study this book well, and do great things with the life God has given you. I am so proud of the man you are becoming.

“There is another wise thing that Voltaire said,” Rosalie added softly. “Remember? Enjolras repeated it many times. ‘The darkness is at its deepest, just before the sunrise’.”

“Your eyes,” Henri whispered. “Your golden curls…” he reached out to touch her hair as she bent over him. “And your gift for words.” He glanced up at her. “I’m sorry, Rosalie. I’m sorry I took him away from you.”

“Henri, please.” Her tone became urgent. She knelt beside him, both hands gripping his. She had stated her case, she had prayed all night long… and now she was willing to beg if she had to. “Please. Bring him home. I know you can do it. I know you can get him pardoned. You have the funds, the political power that is needed to do it. Please. You… you can’t just leave him there in prison… God only knows what those prisons are like, how they must treat him… for the sake of human decency… for the sake of your son… for my sake, Henri…”

“Rosalie…” his voice broke and he reached out to her. She slumped into his arms, needing his strength. They had been like strangers to each other for so long. 

oOo

“The 1816 Proclamation of Amnesty,” Courfeyrac hissed, pounding his fist on the table. Nearly midnight and they were still gathered around the table in one of the rooms Marius’ grandfather had hired for their stay in Toulon. This particular room had been declared operation headquarters. “All the supposed “traitors” were pardoned. If they could be pardoned then, why not now?”

“You are forgetting the White Terror,” Marius groaned. “Three hundred men sentenced to death, two hundred fifty to prison, and countless others exiled. Enjolras is lucky he wasn’t shot on the spot when they found him.”

“The 1792 Avignon Amnesty, the 1794 Vendee Amnesty, the 1802 Napoleon Amnesty…”

“The Napoleon Amnesty will not count.”

“Right.” Courfeyrac glanced at Joly. “Any help here?”

“I know nothing about law,” Joly shook his head rapidly. “But I do know that if the both of you don’t get some sleep, you are likely to catch dreadful colds. That, incidentally, is where I’m headed now. Because I would rather not catch cold. And speaking of colds, do you know where Eponine is? She will wreck her health if she doesn’t start listening to me.”

“She’s still haunting the prison,” Courfeyrac flipped through a book he had pulled from the top of a tall and dusty stack. “She’s been trying to see Enjolras again, but they won’t let her. I think his health is what we should be concerned about… from what she’s heard from the commissaire, it seems he’s not doing well.”

“What has she heard?” Joly leaned forward, the danger of colds forgotten.

“He was whipped for multiple escape attempts,” Marius muttered, slamming his own book shut. “He’s weakened from the wounds.”

"And she's angry enough to take on all the prison guards with her bare hands," Courfeyrac grinned. "Frankly, so am I."

“Infection then,” Joly’s eyes narrowed. “Surely they would let a doctor see him. I could...”

“The prison has a doctor. And might I remind you that you are not yet a doctor, my friend?” Courfeyrac sighed. “There really isn’t much of anything we can do for him until Gillenormand manages to bring the case back to trial. If we could get Guillaume on our side, that really would help. But once we have a trial, most of our hope rests with you, Marius. I can’t testify in court, unless you manage to get another general amnesty.”

Joly stood, scooping up his jacket and a hunk of bread left on the table. “I’ll go find Eponine. It’s too cold for her to stay out there tonight. Also, I don’t trust prison doctors,” he added the last rather snappishly as he closed the door with a bang. 

It opened again within a few minutes, to reveal a breathless Eponine with a bewildered Joly in tow.

“Courfeyrac… Marius…” she gasped out. “They’ve come… the Baron and Baroness Guillaume… they’re here!”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“It could take months, even years to bring such a case back to trial,” the magistrate folded his hands atop his desk, eyeing the man who sat across from him. “And even if we could bring it to trial, Baron, it is highly unlikely that the sentence could be altered. The evidence against your son is undeniable.”

“I’m not denying the existence of the evidence,” Baron Guillaume replied, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I fully understand the fact that he did indeed take part in the uprising. But I am protesting the unjust harshness of his sentence.”

“May I remind you, monsieur, that his sentence has already been reduced from a death sentence? He was fortunate to receive such mercy.”

“You have only condemned him to a living death,” Henri spoke between clenched teeth, his hands curling into fists. The magistrate remained calmly unruffled.

“Not I, monsieur, ‘twas Paris who condemned him. And to Paris you will likely have to make your appeal.”

“I have sent letters already. Listen, monsieur, in the past several rebellions France has been plagued with, the participants have largely been granted amnesty. Why is this not the case now?”

“Only the king can grant full amnesty. His majesty has wisely chosen not to do so in this case. Many survivors of the uprising have been sentenced to death, others imprisoned or deported from the country.”

“Deported?”

“Yes, more than a hundred sent to our overseas colonies. They will lead a simple life there, under surveillance, of course.”

“And they are allowed to live their lives while my son is in chains,” Henri shoved his chair back from the desk, as if to leave. But he paused, looking narrowly at the magistrate. “How much?”

“How much? I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning, Baron.”

“You understand perfectly. How much to bring my son’s case to retrial?”

The magistrate let out a long, slow breath. There was no mistaking the gleam of greed in his eyes.

“I’ll tell you this much, monsieur. Get in touch with Paris. Have them send either an official order or get one of their magistrates involved. And then we shall discuss the possibilities of retrial… for an expediting fee, of course, or else your son must wait his turn, for as many months or years as it takes.”

Rosalie was waiting outside the magistrate’s office door when Henri strode out, his face grim. She turned worried eyes on him, and he attempted a smile, although it came out as more of a grimace. He held his hand out to her, pulling her close for a brief moment.

“I’m trying,” he whispered fiercely. “God knows I’m trying.” 

oOo

“Please, monsieur, please may I come in?” Eponine gripped the bars of the Toulon gate, pressing her face against the cold iron. She had been there since the sun had risen… as she had every day since coming to Toulon. Sometimes she stood near the harbor, watching the prisoners from afar as they straggled out to work… but Enjolras was never among them. Although one lanky, red-headed figure had drawn her attention and she had almost thought of calling out to him. But remembering what had happened the last time she had seen her father… she couldn’t do it. 

Mostly she stayed by the gate, trying each new guard who chanced to walk past, hoping someone would let her in. Courfeyrac and Joly had not been near the prison since the first near-disastrous attempt to get in, and Marius had taken Cosette back to Paris, where he was speaking with the authorities there on Enjolras’ behalf.

“No visitors today, Mademoiselle, I am sorry,” the guard replied. At least this one had dignified her with a response, which was more than most did. She seized that shred of hope.

“Please… I’ve been trying every day,” Eponine begged, clutching Joly’s woolen shawl tighter around her thin shoulders as a cold wind picked up. “Please, monsieur, I came all the way from Paris to see him.”

“To see who?”

“His name is Enjolras Guillaume. Surely you know…”

“Yes, I know,” the guard shook his head. “He’s a troublemaker, that one. Kept escaping so we can’t even send him out to work anymore. He’s kept locked up in the barracks.”

“Don’t they ever let him out?” Eponine’s eyes grew wide. “Even just for fresh air?”

“This isn’t the Tuileries. Disobedience is punished here.” He paused, dropping his gaze as Eponine looked pleadingly at him. Something about those deep brown eyes made it hard to say no. “I’m making no promises, mademoiselle. But wait here a bit.” And he disappeared. Eponine dropped to the ground beside the gate to wait.

oOo

“Prisoner 7604,” the guard called out curtly as he entered the barracks. “On your feet!” 

Enjolras obeyed, frowning in confusion. He hadn’t moved from the barracks in weeks. There was no reason for them to send him out, unless it was to work again. He wanted to work… staying alone in the barracks day after day with nothing to do was killing him more than the over-exertion of brutally hard labor ever had.

“Alright then, get moving,” the guard unlocked the ankle chain and shoved at his prisoner. “Into the courtyard, move it. I don’t have all day.” He paused, glaring stonily at Enjolras. “Doctor’s orders. Fresh air. Nothing more, do you understand me?” It was voiced almost as a threat… but the man looked vaguely afraid. Enjolras nodded, bewildered, and stumbled after the guard across the courtyard toward the barred side gates of the prison. He slowed his step as he caught sight of a slight figure standing on the other side of the bars. He could scarcely feel his heart beating. The guard glanced back.

“Come on, hurry up,” he snapped, seizing Enjolras by the arm and dragging him forward so quickly he nearly slammed him into the gate. “Just fresh air, remember?” he hissed. “Five minutes.” And he stepped back, glancing around nervously as Eponine reached through the bars to take Enjolras’ hands.

“Are you alright?” she whispered breathlessly.

“What are you doing here again?” he shot back, his eyes darkening. “You need to stay away from here, I mean it, Eponine Thenardier.”

“I…” she faltered, and fell silent. He looked angry. But he was clinging to her hands. Gently, she shook his grip free, her fingers tracing the raw skin that showed beneath the metal cuffs on his wrists. “They’re not treating you well.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

Why must he be so abrasive? She glared  at him. “Am I not allowed to be concerned?”

“You are not. What can I say to make you leave?”

Eponine stared, tears wavering in her eyes. She dropped his hands, putting her own behind her back, and stepped away from the bars.

“Say I mean nothing to you, and I will go,” she whispered, hanging her head. “Say your kiss, the last time I came to visit, say it meant nothing, and you will never see me again.”

Just one little phrase was all he had to say… and she would go, far away from the prison… and from him. He wanted her to be able to move on, to forget the tragedy of the Paris uprising and the fate of all involved. Her life shouldn’t have to be defined this way. But a part of him was savagely proud of the fact that she stayed with him. And he knew that deep inside of himself, he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to hold on to her forever. But that could never be. He opened his mouth to say the fateful words… “It meant nothing”... but they never came.

Eponine glanced up in the silence that followed. He was staring at her with a sort of tortured longing in his eyes. She dare not try to interpret that look.

“Well?” she prompted. He said nothing. She sighed, pressing her forehead against the bars. “I’m sorry, monsieur. I…” but her voice trailed off. He was kneeling before her on the other side of the gate, catching her crippled hand through the bars. He cradled it in his own, gently uncurling her fingers to press a kiss on the scar in her palm.

“Beautiful, selfless treasure,” he murmured, so quietly that she wondered if she had only imagined she heard it. “My Patria.”

Chapter Forty

Only when gold was liberally poured into the political coffers of France was it at last announced that the case of Enjolras Guillaume was opening for retrial. The baron had spared no expense on his son’s behalf, and it caused quite a stir in high society. The king himself heard a rumor of it and raised a critical eyebrow.

“It is an unbreakable spirit these rebels possess,” he spoke with something akin to admiration. “They fight when there is nothing to fight for. It intrigues me. I will hear news of this case.”

The trial was to be held at the Palais de Justice in Toulon, and the prisoner to be represented by a lawyer just barely out of his studies, the young Baron Marius Pontmercy. Pauper witnesses had turned up in droves to the court in Paris, eager to go to Toulon to testify in support of the controversial rebel leader. The court was rather overwhelmed with eyewitnesses to the uprising and those who claimed to have known Enjolras when he was a student. But most of these witnesses were deemed unreliable due to their supposed prejudices and social standing, and were turned away.

oOo

It took thirteen steps to cross the room. Eponine had counted them a hundred times, it seemed. She started counting seconds. It took three seconds, if she went just the right speed. But counting to three wasn’t enough. So she counted each minute that passed. It was nearly midnight. The trial was at nine o’clock the next morning. Just over nine hours to wait. She began walking faster. It made her almost dizzy, the endless pacing across the room, and a few times she stumbled against the wall. She would push herself away, reeling slightly, and keep going. Until a hand on her arm stopped her.

“You need to rest, Eponine,” Joly told her firmly. “No more of this. You’ll be too tired for the trial tomorrow.”

“Can’t rest,” she muttered, shaking her head. She tried to pull away from him, but he gripped her arm tightly. 

“I’m serious. Doctor’s orders. Eight hours of sleep before morning, do you hear me? Or you spend tomorrow in bed. I won’t have you dying of pneumonia on my watch.”

“I don’t get sick. I practically grew up on the streets.”

“You’re not on the streets anymore, and you are going to live a normal, healthy life. Enjolras would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Eponine snapped. “He doesn’t care anything about me.”

“Now you stop that.” Joly somehow managed to look fierce, an unusual feat for him. “You listen to me, Eponine Thenardier. I know my friend. He’s not the sort of man to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I know he loves you, do you hear me? Courf, help me out on this. She won’t listen to reason.”

“He knows what he’s talking about, ‘Ponine,” Courfeyrac put in, obligingly, as he glanced up from his writing. Marius had enlisted him in helping prepare for the trial although he couldn’t officially appear in court, and he was hastily making last-minute notes. 

“See?” Joly grinned. “And do you realize how special that makes you? Enjolras never looked twice at another woman in his life. Someone like Marius or… or Jehan…” he paused a moment, pressing his lips tight together as he remembered his lost friend. “They fell in love a dozen times a year. But Enjolras… it would take someone wonderful to shake him. You’ve stolen his heart away, and in that, you’ve achieved the impossible.”

“Enjolras’ marble heart,” Courfeyrac laughed, shaking his head. “I thought the man was made of stone.” 

“You can’t say such things,” Eponine whispered. “You’re just assuming.”

“Did he ever kiss you?” Joly asked abruptly, and smiled when he saw the color spreading over the girl’s face. “I rest my case.”

“Spoken like a true lawyer,” Courfeyrac laid down his pen and pushed back his chair. “You missed your calling, my friend.”

“No, a doctor I am, and a doctor I shall always be. And now to bed, mademoiselle,” Joly looked sternly at her, and stubbornly, she refused. 

“You can’t make me,” her eyes blazed. “I can’t sleep tonight, I won’t. In fact, I’m not leaving this room until the trial begins.” And she stomped her foot to accentuate her point. In answer, Joly took her arm, and Courfeyrac took the other, and the two of them silently marched her out the door, up the stairs, and down the hallway to her room. Gently but firmly they deposited her inside, closed the door… and a moment later, she heard a key turn in the lock. 

For a moment, Eponine considered throwing herself against the door and screaming Argot until they opened it. But she heard their footsteps echoing back down the stairs and she decided differently. An idea had just stolen into her mind, and she smiled grimly at it. Something she could do that would last her most of the night… she threw open the little trunk at the foot of her bed and rummaged through it until she found a red jacket, with its revolutionary cockade still pinned to the lapel. She held it close for a long moment, and then wrapped it up quickly and turned to the window. If she used the sheets from the bed, she could easily reach the ground. 

No more than ten minutes passed before she was standing on the ground, outside, in a steady drizzle of cold rain. Clutching the package against her heart, and wrapping her shawl around it to shield it from the rain, she slipped off into the darkness.

oOo

A steady stream of curious onlookers poured through the doors of the Palais de Justice, up the stairs and past the towering marble columns. Eponine was among the first to arrive, flanked by Courfeyrac and Joly who were without their papers and under assumed names… and desperately hoping that no one would bother to notice them. Eponine had arrived at the front door of Baron Gillenormand’s rented house at the first light of dawn that morning, icy cold and dripping wet. Joly had been horrified. After changing into dry clothes at the medical student’s immediate insistence, Eponine had thus been subjected to a severe lecture on the importance of sleep, warmth, and sundry other topics and made to drink what she thought was a ridiculous amount of steaming hot broth. More than that, she would not submit to. 

She knew she ought to be tired… dreadfully so. But she felt nothing but intense, throbbing energy. She couldn’t even make herself sit down, and she refused the seat offered her, preferring instead to stand on the sidelines. She leaned against one of the pillars that lined the courtroom, tapping her fingers against it, restlessly. She watched as the Baron and Baroness Guillaume came in, Rosalie pale and with head held high, and Henri as stoic as ever. She had avoided them religiously in the weeks since they had come to Toulon. Truth be told, she was afraid of them, although Rosalie had been nothing but kind. Henri she had never spoken to, although this was mostly her own fault. Before she had met Les Amis, she had never interacted with anyone remotely bourgeois. She felt so terribly beneath them that she wondered how she ever could have presumed to love their son.

But love him she did, and with all her heart… and it all came rushing back more than ever when the prisoner was called and Enjolras was led to the dock. He was wearing his red jacket, and she smiled to see it. But he was in chains, and despite the proud tilt of his head and the firm set of his shoulders, he seemed weary and in pain. He looked like a man who had given up on life. 

Rosalie rose abruptly to her feet the moment she caught sight of him, a sharp cry escaping her lips. He turned his head to look at her and the guard shoved him so hard he stumbled. He winced as the guard dragged him up again, pushing him against the dock. Henri pulled Rosalie down to sit at his side, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders.

The prisoner’s eyes darted nervously over the crowd and found Eponine. For a moment, their gaze was locked, and he drew strength from her eyes. He held no hope for the trial, certain that he would only return to prison… or else die… but here was his Patria, so close. At least he could see her one last time. 

At last he tore himself from her eyes and turned to search for his mother… but he saw his father instead. Half a dozen long years had passed since last he had seen that man, and there he sat. Eponine had told him his father was in Toulon, but he hadn’t believed it, not until this moment.

“Dad…” he murmured, staring as if transfixed. And then he shouted the word, lunging forward. “Dad!” The guard clamped a warning hand on his arm and Enjolras drew back, scorning himself for losing control. He looked stonily away, avoiding the steady gaze of the man who had hated him. He didn’t hear the whispered answer or see tears fill those stubborn eyes.

“Son.” Henri lowered his head, unable to look any longer. Rage and shame and regret seethed in his heart. Never before in all his life had he felt such a fool. 

“The prisoner will remain silent unless spoken to, or else will be restrained,” the judge spoke automatically, his tone one of boredom. “Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy will now present the case.” And he glanced vaguely at the young man in question, nodding his permission to begin.

Chapter Forty-One

“Are you alright?” 

Eponine shrugged vaguely at the murmured question. Her eyes were pinned on the front of the courtroom. 

“He’s only going to make things worse for himself,” Courfeyrac added under his breath. “He’s stubborn. Those fancy speeches of his, it’s true that they have a way of moving people’s hearts, but this is not in the right direction. Wrong place, wrong time. He’s going to get his head chopped off if he doesn’t stop.”

“He can’t betray his principles, can he,” Eponine whispered back as she stared at Enjolras. “Every word he says rings true. If people would actually listen to him, I believe the whole world would be a better place.”

The court had given Enjolras the chance to defend himself. He had answered with an outpouring of all he believed in… the reasons he had fought. The judge looked grim. Marius looked terrified. And Eponine… she was praying with all of her might. She was continuing the prayer she had begun the night before, and hadn’t stopped since. She had been learning to know God, little by little, piece by piece, and now she was taking a leap of faith. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps reckless… she didn’t know. But she had made a promise… if God got Enjolras safely through this, then she would give her heart to Him without reservation.

“This is not good.” Joly had woven his way through the crowd to join Eponine and Courfeyrac on the sidelines. “This is really not good.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac groaned. “He’s going to bury himself with this. I agree with every word he says, but the court will consider it treason.”

“No, not what he’s saying. I mean… look at him…” Joly gestured in frustration. “He’s sick. Don’t they see that? He’s as pale as ashes, and he can’t stand up on his own. Look how he’s leaning against the railing. They need to get him out of here. He needs rest and proper medical care.”

“Dear God, how much worse can it get?” Eponine pressed her forehead against the marble pillar. “Help him, Joly.”

“I tried talking to the guards already. They said the prison doctor will see to him. Ha!” Joly scoffed. “The prison doctor is a quack. He’s probably a criminal himself.”

“Wait…” Eponine gasped. She reached out, gripping Joly’s arm. “La vache, Joly… what is he doing here?” 

“Who, the witness?”

“It’s a good thing they’re moving to a witness,” Courfeyrac sighed. “Enjolras needs to stop talking. What is wrong, Eponine?”

“That’s my father up there,” Eponine faltered. “What does he have to do with Enjolras?” She moved closer, watching in disbelief. 

“I don’t know much about him,” Thenardier was saying with a shrug. “All I can say is that he’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to be in prison. He saved my life, and God knows my life isn’t worth saving.” He turned to look at Enjolras, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe his own words. “I live in darkness. And you showed me a glimpse of light.”

“Objection,” the prosecuting magistrate rose to his feet. “The witness is giving information irrelevant to the case.”

The judge nodded, and Thenardier was led away. In the audience, Rosalie half-stood, and Henri pulled her down again, holding a finger to his lips in warning. She hid her face in her hands. The judge was announcing that the proceedings would end for the day and resume the next morning, after the jury had a chance to meet. Marius sank into his chair, pale and trembling. He had fought long and hard for hours that day, but in the face of the prosecuting argument, he felt that he hadn’t made any headway. The outlook was grim.

“Eponine, come.” Courfeyrac peeled the girl’s hands away from the pillar. She was still staring at the door in front of the courtroom that had closed behind Enjolras two minutes ago. “You haven’t slept in ages. There’s nothing we can do until tomorrow, come get some rest.”

“Strong tea and beef stew, doctor’s orders,” Joly said firmly as they led Eponine from the courtroom. “No more of these disappearing tricks of yours. We’ll post a guard under your window if we have to.”

“It’s time the two of you realized something,” Eponine pulled away and drew herself up to her full height. It didn’t serve much to its intended purpose of making her look intimidating, seeing as the top of her head only reached Joly’s shoulder and just a little higher next to Courfeyrac. “I don’t take orders from anyone. Please. Don’t follow me.”

oOo

“You have a visitor,” the guard nudged the prisoner none too gently. Enjolras lay curled on his bunk, face turned toward the wall. He didn’t move, even when the guard poked him again. “The commissaire says you’re allowed to see her.”

“Is her name Eponine Thenardier?”

“I wasn’t given a name, I was just told to come and get you. Now on your feet. I don’t have all day.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Enjolras muttered. “It’s her. Tell her I don’t want to see her.”

“Guests are a privilege,” the guard shrugged. “If you’re willing to give that up, it’s no one’s fault but your own.” He stalked off without another word.

“Why won’t you see her?” Thenardier pressed. It was only the middle of the day, but he had been excused from work duty for the trial, and the barracks were empty except for the two of them.

“I love her,” Enjolras whispered. “Sooner or later, I’ll have to face it. When this trial is over, they’ll kill me. Or worse, leave me to rot in this prison forever. I won’t make it any harder for myself than it is.”

“If you love her, then fight for her. Stay alive.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ll be out of here in less than five years. I don’t get that chance.”

“No.” Thenardier shook his head. “You’ll make it through this. And when you get out, promise me you’ll take good care of her. Better than I ever did… or ever could.”

oOo

“The jury has carefully considered the evidence presented…” the judge droned on. Eponine wasn’t listening. She couldn’t tear her eyes from Enjolras’ face. And never once that morning had he looked her way. He kept his eyes downcast, although he always held his head high. 

The court had reconvened late the following morning. It seemed as if the legal proceedings would never end. Rosalie was on the edge of her seat, her fingers digging into Henri’s arm as she waited with bated breath. Documents were read, evidence summarized, and all the while her son stood there in chains, looking as if at any moment he would collapse.

“...the court has amended the sentence assigned to Enjolras Guillaume. Having been found guilty of treason, willful murder, and inciting a riot in the streets of Paris, this court feels that the death penalty would be the most just course of action…”

Rosalie stood, stumbling a few steps forward. She raised clasped hands as she cried out pleadingly, making her appeal to the judge.

“Mercy,” she begged. “Mercy, for God’s sake! My boy has done no wrong…” 

The judge demanded silence as Rosalie’s pleas were answered with a roar of noise from the audience… people shouting out protestations and cries for mercy to echo those of the broken-hearted mother. Rosalie had fallen back, leaning on her husband as she wept. He helped her gently to her seat in the midst of the chaos, his eyes searching the crowd until they fell on Eponine. He beckoned her over frantically as the judge shouted again for order.

“Help her,” he whispered urgently as Eponine reached his side. The judge’s words, the dreaded death sentence… they somehow hadn’t seemed to sink in yet. The girl felt nothing but a dead, numb calm. She nodded, sitting beside Rosalie and holding the older woman close as Henri shoved his way to the front of the courtroom. 

Silence was beginning to settle once again, and the judge rose to reaffirm his sentence. Enjolras never even flinched. There was a look of death already in his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Two

“There isn’t likely much I can say that hasn’t already been said,” Henri spoke as he stood at the front of the courtroom, facing the judge. “But this is my son you’ve just condemned to death. For God’s sake, let me say a few words before you hang him.”

Enjolras turned his head slightly, and for one moment, father and son stared at each other. 

“You have no control over the hand that life deals you,” Henri said slowly. “But how you play that hand is entirely up to you.” He turned to the court. “None of us were asked to be put on this earth. What we are born into is completely beyond our control. Some are born into poverty, some into wealth, some into misery and others into lives of ease. There is nothing we can do about where we begin in life, but where we go in life, what we do, the choices we make…” he sighed and looked again at the prisoner. “Long ago, I told you this. I told you that you were destined for great things. And you went out to do what you could with the life God gave you.”

Silence fell. Enjolras didn’t even try to speak. But his gaze locked with his father’s and neither of them wavered. The magistrate half-rose, but at a warning glance from the judge, he sat back again. The air seemed to fairly crackle with tension. 

“Son.” Henri’s voice broke. He could barely be heard. “I want you to know that I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

Enjolras seemed turned to stone. He made no sign that he heard, he simply stood there, not moving, not speaking. 

Henri turned on the court and suddenly unleashed a wild torrent of words that he never would have believed himself capable of. It was as if, finding himself unable to save Enjolras, he was determined to convict himself and die at his son’s side. He spoke of their old arguments, seeming so far in the past. He berated his stubbornness and poured out his shame. 

“Blind fool I was, never to see the truth!” he cried out, his eyes blazing. They seemed to have caught the fire that had gone out in Enjolras’ own eyes. “I was wrong all along. The land is crippled with tyranny and injustice. Yes, injustice! It is unfolding here in this very court. You would condemn a man to death, and for what? For fighting for freedom… for pushing back against the powers that have held so many in misery for so long. I am as guilty as the rest. I confess my shame here before all these witnesses. It is I and those like me who justly deserve the death penalty.”

Rosalie lifted her head. She was smiling at her husband, although the smile was twisted with an unspeakable pain. 

“You have done well, my son,” Henri spoke forcefully, his tone having gathered conviction and strength all the way through his tirade. “Never let anyone say you have done wrong. For the sake of the miserable of France, you fought. And for their sake, you die. This sin is on the head of the tyrants and not yours. Would to God I could die in your place.” He grit his teeth to keep back a half-strangled cry of rage and anguish. He fought back the feeling of desperation, forcing himself to remain calm. He was still hoping there was a chance… perhaps the magistrate could be bought off again… or perhaps somehow the prison guards could be persuaded to smuggle him out of prison… 

Enjolras still hadn’t moved. But a flicker of the flame passed through his eyes… and died away again.  Empty of words, Henri choked back a sob as he rushed forward, trying to reach his son. But the guards pushed him back. For one moment, he looked as if he was going to fight them. And then a messenger rushed down the aisle, bearing a folded sheet of paper with a wax seal on it. A bystander managed to catch a glimpse of it, and a rumor rustled across the room. It was the royal seal.

Whispered conversation buzzed through the crowd as the judge broke the seal and scanned the document. The magistrate was called over, and then Marius, and a hurried consultation was held. Eponine saw Marius’ face when he looked at the paper and a sudden stab of hope pierced her heart. Something had changed.

“The sentence of this court is amended and final,” the judge spoke at last. “His gracious majesty, Louis Philippe, king of the French, has granted partial amnesty. The prisoner, Enjolras Guillaume, will go free, under the condition that he is to leave France and never return. He will be kept in custody until arrangements can be made for him to leave the country.” 

“Dear Lord my God,” Eponine breathed. Rosalie was suddenly holding her so tightly that she felt the wind knocked out of her. “It’s true… is it true?”

“Baroness Guillaume?” a guard moved forward through the rush of people as they were cleared from the courtroom. Enjolras had already been taken away. Marius had found Courfeyrac and Joly and followed. “Come with me, please.” As the guard led the way, Rosalie gripped Eponine’s hand as if it was a lifeline, and dragged the girl with her.

oOo

“He doesn’t need to go back to the prison,” Henri’s voice could be heard from the hallway as the guard pushed a door open and beckoned Rosalie and Eponine to enter. “I will personally ensure he does not escape.” Henri and Marius stood arguing with the magistrate, while Courfeyrac and Joly looked on in helpless silence. Enjolras stood farther back, flanked by guards. Rosalie pulled away from Eponine and ran to him, throwing her arms around him as she wept with joy and relief.

“It’s going to be alright now,” she sobbed, over and over. “It’s going to be alright.” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. Enjolras stared at her blankly. She pulled away, lifting her head to look at his face, and the smile behind her tears slowly faded. She touched his face, reaching up to brush back the tangled curls that fell over his forehead, as she had a thousand times before when he had been a little boy. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it now. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. He shook his head, his lips moving, but no sound came out. She turned to the guards, her face red with sudden fury as she snapped at them.

“Get these chains off of him! Now!”

“I… can’t…” one of the guards faltered, glancing at the other. “Not without orders.”

“I care nothing for your orders, I am ordering you to take these chains off my son immediately.” And at the guards’ further refusal, the fashionable and proper Baroness Guillaume unleashed a torrent of angry Argot. 

“Rosalie, please,” Henri rushed to seize his wife. “Please. Calm, Rosalie. Calm.” And he turned to the magistrate as he pulled Rosalie back, whispering a few words. The magistrate nodded and gave a curt order. The chains were unlocked and Enjolras stood free… stood like a statue, eyes staring straight ahead. 

Eponine moved forward hesitantly. He took a stumbling step towards her and sank to his knees. His eyes flooded with pain as he reached out to her, and she ran to him, crying out as he slumped heavily in her arms, his head falling on her shoulder. 

“Courf… Joly…” she gasped out, her head reeling as she panicked, struggling to hold his weight. “Something’s wrong… dear God, something’s wrong…”

“He’s just unconscious,’ Joly’s voice was calm and reassuring as he knelt beside his friend. “It’s alright, Eponine.” He glanced warily at the guards, waiting to see if they would interfere. “Help me, Courf, we need to get him out of here.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Eponine snapped awake when the door opened, determined not to let Joly see that she had drifted off to sleep. The last thing she wanted was to be forced to go to bed. She had tried so hard to stay awake, but sitting there in silence and glaring at the guard who stood by the door, stubbornly ignoring her, simply wasn’t mentally stimulating enough. And she was so tired.

“Is he alright?” she asked breathlessly as Joly stepped into the hall, shaking her head to clear the fog of exhaustion that hung over her.

“He’ll be alright eventually, yes,” he whispered. “If the guards hold off long enough.”

“Let me see him.”

“He’d never forgive me if…”

“Joly, please.” Eponine looked pleadingly at him. “Let me help.”

“He’s asleep,” Joly sighed, but he stood aside and let her enter. “He needs lots of rest. Diagnosis is simple, cure is mostly time. Exhaustion, malnutrition, some infection, slight fever. He’s just plain worn out, Eponine.” 

“They can’t send him away,” Eponine murmured as she moved to stand at the bedside. Enjolras lay on his stomach, his face turned from her and half-hidden by his arm, as if he was shielding himself. “It would kill him to leave France.”

“It would kill him to leave Patria,” Joly amended, looking significantly at her. She glanced at him and shook her head. 

“These men are cruel,” she hissed, reaching out to touch the thin blanket. “What did they do to him?”

“Eponine, no.”

She paid no heed to Joly’s order as she turned down a corner of the blanket to reveal angry red gashes running across Enjolras’ shoulders. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of horror as she drew the blanket farther down. New wounds over old wounds, more than she could count, criss-crossed all over his back. She could still see the scars left by the bullets of last summer… and the letters burned into his shoulder. 

“Apparently, the prison doesn’t take kindly to runaways,” Joly’s voice was heavily laced with derision. “It’s a wonder anyone survives that hell.”

“But he’ll be alright,” Eponine whispered faintly, her hands trembling. 

“He wouldn’t want you to see this, Eponine, you need to go,” Joly groaned. “Listen, I talked to Baron Guillaume, he’ll be doing everything he can to postpone the sentence. Just for a few weeks, so Enjolras can recover before he leaves. You don’t need to worry, ‘Ponine, he’ll make it through this the way he’s made it through everything else. Now go and get some rest, okay?” He laid a firm hand on her shoulder, a gentle warning. It was time for her to go.

She shrugged his hand off and fell to her knees beside Enjolras, taking his hand in hers. He stirred, his eyes flickering open, and when he saw her, he smiled. Joly noted the smile and stopped arguing.

“How are you feeling?” Eponine murmured, dropping her head beside his. He squeezed her hand.

“Tired,” he breathed, his eyes falling shut. “I’m fine, ‘Ponine…”

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she reached out, touching his cheek. “I’ll go…”

“No,” he whispered, his voice husky. “It’s alright.” 

She bit her lip, pushed back all the words she wanted to say. She didn’t know how to say them… and she didn’t want to run the risk of spoiling this moment. He was being sent away soon… perhaps she never would see him again. Perhaps this was the last chance she would ever have to be this close to him. Tears welled up in her eyes as she forced herself to face facts, not noticing as she absently ran her fingers through his hair. 

“Why did you come for me?” he asked suddenly and her hand stilled a moment, resting on his head. 

“Because…” her voice trembled. “You gave me hope.”

“Hope.” he smiled vaguely, his eyes still closed as he leaned against her hand. “And when I failed so completely…”

“You didn’t fail, Enjolras.”

The door closed softly as Joly slipped out. Long, silent moments followed. Eponine found herself clinging to every one of them, holding them in her heart, making them last. She found herself longing to kiss Enjolras, to feel his lips against hers again… but she dared not try. Instead, she bent forward and kissed his forehead. He let out a quiet, shaky sigh and she leaned back nervously. For a moment, she thought he was asleep… and then he spoke again.

“Where are my parents?”

“Your mother is resting,” Eponine spoke softly, staring down at his hand in hers and willing her voice not to betray her. “She went into hysterics after the trial… exhausted, Joly said. She’s been under so much stress. But she’s fine, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. She longs to see you, but your father made her promise not until she felt a bit stronger.”

“And my father… where is he?”

“Talking to the magistrate. Wrapping up loose ends, I suppose.”

“I want to see him…”

“Soon.”

He was silent for a while… and when he spoke, his voice sounded urgent… desperate.

“Eponine… I… I can’t leave France. I’d rather die.”

“Don’t speak so,” Eponine whispered, closing her eyes as a tear fell. She didn’t want him to go. “It’s a miracle you’re alive. I promised God… promised Him that if He let you live, I… I would give Him my heart…”

“And have you?” He looked up at her, his tone changed. She smiled through her tears.

“All my heart, and with no regrets.”

This time, his smile shone… and she felt her fear fade away, the peace she had so lately found growing stronger yet.

“Then every bit of it was worth it,” he murmured, squeezing her hand again. His breathing began to slow, his grip relaxing, as he drifted off to sleep. She waited a long time, just kneeling there and watching him sleep, before she dared to kiss him again. And when she was sure that he wouldn’t hear, she whispered that she loved him. 

To love another person is to see the face of God…

Chapter Forty-Four

There were only two things that Enjolras truly feared: failure… and loneliness. He had faced both bravely in the past, had stared unflinchingly into their ugly darkness… and yet he was still afraid. 

He knew his days here were numbered. There was no denying the fact that he was recovering, although his back still ached and he grimaced as he buttoned his shirt that morning. It was the first day since the trial that he had managed to get up… without being forced back to bed by Joly and Courfeyrac, that is. He had certainly tried to get up, and many rather fierce arguments had been the result. It had nearly ended up a physical fight yesterday, and he grinned, remembering it. They weren’t getting the better of him today. He had more important things on his mind. His father had been avoiding him since the trial… but no more. Sooner or later they would have to face each other.

He hesitated as he stood before the library door, feeling his heart race. Six long years of separation. He had never thought he would see his father again. Six years… he wasn’t going to wait one more minute. He gave the door such a violent shove that it flew open with a bang. Startled, Henri whirled from where he had been standing by the window as Enjolras strode into the room, his worry and sorrow masked with something that looked like fury. A scrap of old conversation flitted across Henri’s mind… something an old friend had said, long ago…

“That son of yours, Henri… a charming young man, but capable of being fearsome.”

“We need to talk,” Enjolras spoke abruptly.

“There is nothing to be said…” Henri began, but Enjolras tore into his words angrily.

“There is everything to be said.”

For a moment, neither spoke. They stood there, facing each other, Enjolras’ eyes shooting sparks and Henri pressing his lips tight together as if he was afraid to open them. They mirrored each other, father and son, both furious and stubborn on the outside… both broken and bleeding on the inside…

Enjolras was the first to let his surface crack. His shoulders slumped and the anger faded from his face as he whispered. “Dad.” He moved as if to reach out… and let his arms drop to his sides again. “Dad… I’m sorry.” He paused, the silence lengthening, the tension palpable. “I’m not sorry for what I believe in, just… sorry that it tore us apart.”

Henri crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around his son in a fierce embrace, holding him close for a long, long moment. When at last he pulled away, there were tears in both their eyes. 

“I’m the one to blame.” He dropped his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders and shook his head. “I’m a stubborn, stupid old man, and no one can deny it. I don’t deserve forgiveness, I know… but I’ll do what I can to make it up to you, Son…”

“But I forgive you,” Enjolras answered quietly. And Henri smiled.

oOo

Eponine wrapped herself tightly in her shawl as she sat by her bedroom window, watching the sun rise over the distant sea. She had never seen the ocean before coming to Toulon, and it awed her with its vastness. The sea was a wild thing… always the same but always changing, sometimes calm and peaceful, sometimes raging. Sometimes terrifying, but always beautiful. It reminded her of Enjolras.

A sudden sharp little pain went through her heart at the thought of him… and it made her gasp with its intensity. In only a few days, he would cross that ocean and leave her behind. She leaned her head wearily against the window, idly tracing her fingers over the glass.

Someone knocked softly on the door. She didn’t move, hoping they would go away.

“Eponine?” Rosalie’s voice filtered through the door. “Are you up?”

“Come in,” the girl answered faintly. She didn’t turn from the window until she felt Rosalie’s hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll catch cold sitting here in your nightgown, dear.”

“You sound like Joly.”

“Well,” Rosalie laughed. “It’s true. Now listen… this is going to be a good day. Enjolras felt well enough to get up this morning, and he and Henri have been shut up in the library for an hour already. Eponine, they haven’t talked in six years.” She smiled, and her smile was filled with joy and heavy with sadness all at once. But it turned quickly to concern as Eponine leaned against the window again. “Are you alright?” she wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“I’ll have to go soon,” Eponine murmured. “I’m just thinking about what… what will come next…” she choked a little over the words.

“Don’t think about that just yet. Let’s not borrow from tomorrow’s troubles. Not today, not when we only have a little time left.” Rosalie closed her eyes, letting out a shuddering little sigh. When she opened her eyes again, she was smiling… as if she had shoved something out of the way. “What do you have in the way of dresses, my dear?”

“Only what is needed,” Eponine faltered, glancing hesitantly towards the wardrobe. She didn’t have to open it to know exactly what was inside. She had three dresses… unimaginable wealth compared to what she had been used to. They were simple and decent garments, suited to what she needed. The first two were plain, sturdy dresses given her by the sisters at the hospital in Paris… one in a faded pink and the other in a sober grey. They were warm and comfortable although not really much to look at. The third had been a gift from Courfeyrac and Joly… a pale, dusty blue, a little prettier than the others, although it certainly wasn’t fashionable. She had worn it every time she had seen Enjolras while in Toulon.

“I’ve brought you another,” Rosalie beamed as she produced a parcel. Eponine shook her head rapidly, a dozen protests spilling from her lips. She had never taken kindly to the notion of charity, and the thought of accepting it from Enjolras’ mother was more than she could bear. “No, no, no use arguing with me, Eponine. I love my son, but I’ve always longed for a daughter too… someone I could dress up in pretty things.” Her smile widened. “Someone I could talk to about things we women only understand. I never had a daughter, so I am adopting you. Now please do look at this dress. I insist that you wear it today, it’s just the style you ought to wear, it seems made for you.”

She unwrapped the parcel and shook out something all lovely and creamy, spreading it out over the bed. It was a simple brocade, with pale rosebuds scattered over it. It had a plainer, more elegant silhouette than most of the dresses at the time… somehow more beautiful in its simplicity than the extravagant gowns worn by the majority of bourgeois women.

“I made it myself,” Rosalie added as Eponine’s beauty-starved eyes wandered longingly over the dress. Silently, the girl reached out to touch it. “Not for myself… I’ve never worn it. I just made it from the vision in my mind, hoping that someday I would find the right one to wear it.”

“I can’t wear a dress like this,” Eponine breathed, but Rosalie paid her no heed. She piled shift and petticoats into Eponine’s arms, talking all the while.

“I know how you are feeling, my dear, please believe me. You see… I, too, am from the streets of Paris. Yes,” she laughed softly at Eponine’s startled stare. “I am a gamine. One of the miserable of France. Someday I shall tell you my story. But…” she looked at Eponine appraisingly. “The story is not that unfamiliar to you, is it…”

“I…” Eponine shook her head, bewildered. One of the petticoats slipped to the floor unnoticed.

“I see it in your eyes more and more with each passing day,” Rosalie whispered. “I know how much you love him. Go to him, my daughter. Let him see that you love him. The Guillaumes… they are stubborn men. Good men, strong and brave and noble… and terribly handsome…” she laughed. “But dreadfully stubborn and difficult to reach. They need to be handled with care… and they need to be shown what is in your heart.”

Chapter Forty-Five

“This young lady of yours… tell me about her.”

The question was asked abruptly, a sudden change of subject, and Enjolras stared at his father, speechless for a moment. It felt strange, sitting there and speaking with him as if everything was alright… as if the black shadow of six years’ silence and separation wasn’t hanging over their heads. 

“I… she…” he stammered, struggling to find words that wouldn’t betray him. The thought of admitting out loud that he loved her almost frightened him. “Her… uh, her name is Eponine. Thenardier…” he paused and shook his head. “Never mind, you knew that.”

Henri laughed. “Go on, don’t be nervous about it.”

“I’m not.” Enjolras glared. “What do you want to know?”

“Your intentions.”

Enjolras was speechless again. His intentions… well, what on earth were they? Had he even had a chance to think about it? He had just barely gotten out of prison, he was still in custody… there were guards at the door even now. And the day after tomorrow, he would be leaving France, never to return. He was little more than a fugitive, with an uncertain future… what could he even offer her? 

“I… I’m… leaving… soon…” he faltered, looking down as he fidgeted with his hands. He could feel his father’s eyes on his face and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Do you love her?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“You’re letting go?” Henri raised his eyebrows. “Son, it’s not like you to give up.” 

“What choice do I have?” Enjolras thundered, jumping to his feet. “I’ve fought so hard and I’ve lost in every corner… and now I’m going to lose her too. You should have let them kill me, I don’t have anything to live for.” He turned toward the door… and stopped abruptly… because the door had opened, and Eponine was standing there. She looked at him, and he felt as if her eyes were seeing right through him. He glanced away, avoiding her gaze. Those eyes were doing things to his heart that they shouldn’t be allowed to do. And it hurt.

“Enjolras…” she didn’t even say a good morning as she moved toward him, a note of urgency in her voice. “Please… I need to talk to you…” He had meant to simply offer a polite bow and leave the room, but this complicated the situation. He muttered something in an attempt at an excuse and she reached out, clutching at his sleeve. “Is something wrong?”

He shrugged, looking everywhere possible but at her face. She sighed and let go of his arm. “Enjolras…”

“Mademoiselle, please…” he hesitated. He was staring stoically ahead, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her drooping… like a wilted flower. 

“Mademoiselle?” She whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought…”

“I’m sorry, Eponine.” He rushed from the room, afraid to look back.

oOo

The day had been painfully long. Everything felt strained somehow. It was raining, a steady, gray drizzle trickling slowly down the windowpanes. The tick.ing of the clock seemed ominous. Courfeyrac and Joly huddled in a corner, speaking in tense whispers. The trial over, they would have to move on and find a safe place to stay. They had not been granted amnesty, but Marius had promised to do what he could for them.

Eponine had changed into her old gray dress hours ago and completely enveloped herself in her shawl, clutching it close as if it was some sort of armor. Now she had taken to pacing again, flitting noiselessly across the room like a shadow. Enjolras was scowling from his seat by the fire, but his eyes followed her every move. 

“Quebec… so far away…” Rosalie murmured aloud, casting a sympathetic glance at her sullen son. “We’ll make the journey there as soon as we can. I know we must spend winters in Paris, but there is no reason why we cannot be in Quebec for the summer, is there, Henri?”

“No reason at all,” Henri shook his head. “It will be a few months, Enjo, but we’ll follow you there.” Unconsciously, he used the old childhood nickname. Enjolras glanced at him and nodded. Eponine stopped pacing as she reached Rosalie.

“Where is Quebec?” she asked softly, her voice trembling.

“In Canada,” Rosalie faltered, looking nervously at her son. She wanted to say more, but was afraid she would only worsen the situation. Something in her wanted to slap Enjolras hard… to shake some sense into him… but she stayed silent. Some things simply had to run their course.

“Canada…” Eponine repeated and turned towards Enjolras. It was plain enough to see the longing and the sorrow written on her face… it stood out as vividly as printed words on a page. And everyone but Enjolras could read that page.

“For heaven’s sake, man,” Courfeyrac cried suddenly, rising from his chair. He strode across the room, bending down to snatch Enjolras by the collar, half-dragging him to his feet before he could gather his wits enough to realize what was happening. “Look at her!” Courfeyrac shoved him back down impatiently and gestured to a startled Eponine. “Don’t you see that she’s hurting? You fool… why don’t you just tell her how you feel?”

“Courf… please don’t…” Eponine whispered. He didn’t hear her.

“I’m sorry, but this is getting ridiculous,” Courfeyrac snapped threateningly. “You’ve always been such a great leader, Enjolras, you held us all together through the battle, you were the only one who kept your head, and now… have you lost your mind?” He was shaking his friend now… and Enjolras was letting him do it.

“Stop!” Eponine rushed forward to grab Courfeyrac’s arm. “Stop it! You’ll hurt him!”

At last, Enjolras moved, reaching up to grip his friend’s wrist and twist it off his collar. He rose to his full height and Eponine drew back, half-hiding behind Courfeyrac. Enjolras moved his lips, as if to speak… but he said nothing. Turning heel, he stormed from the room. 

He reached the front door, where the ever-present guards stood… those in the library could hear the guards order him to stop… and then the sounds of a scuffle. The door opened… and then slammed shut. Rosalie cried out and Henri shook his head at her, grimly. Courfeyrac turned to Eponine, who had slumped into Enjolras’ vacant chair and was hiding her face in her shawl.

“Well?” he glanced at her expectantly. “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

“I can’t,” Eponine’s muffled voice issued from the folds of thick wool.

“I thought you were hard to scare.” He reached out, pulling her hands from her face. She looked at him uncertainly, shaking her head. 

“Go,” he whispered, and she went, just like that.

Chapter Forty-Six

Icy drizzle fell, spattering drops onto Eponine’s head and shoulders, soaking through her shawl as she rushed out. But she didn’t feel the cold as she turned her back on the warmth and light to search the darkness. She could just barely make out dark figures not far from the house, but they didn’t seem to be struggling. As she moved closer, she could see that the guards had stepped away, letting Enjolras stand alone, although they stayed close enough to stop him, should he try to run. He was staring out at the sea… and it was black. Not even the cold light of the stars pierced the night.

He glanced down at her as she laid a hand on his arm. For a moment he hesitated… and turned back to the sea in silence.

“Only one day more.” She hated herself for those words. His face turned harder yet, his eyes stony. He made no answer. “I’m sorry,” she added in a murmur. “I can’t find the right words to say… you were always the one with the fancy words.”

“Then don’t speak,” he snapped. “There are times when words mean nothing.”

“Should I leave you?” she glanced up at him hesitantly, drawing back. He snatched her hand and pulled her towards him.

“Stay.”

Eponine choked back a sob as he pressed her roughly against his side. Twice before she had nearly lost him forever… and now she would lose him a third time… it was more than she could bear. Must this be all her life held? Wild thoughts spun hastily through her mind, crazy ideas that had no real meaning or purpose to them. And in the midst of it all, she realized he was speaking… so softly, that she barely caught his words.

 

“I don’t want to go alone.” 

She had seen him vulnerable before… but never like this. There was something different in this. His voice was broken, full of a desperate longing, and it pierced her heart. 

“You don’t have to go alone,” she whispered in answer. “Take me with you.”

“Why?” he laughed bitterly and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She had misunderstood… he didn’t love her, never had, never could. It was true what they said of him, wasn’t it… that he never could love a woman as he loved his country. But she loved… loved deeply… in spite of everything… and she would not deny it. She pulled away from him and tossed her head in defiance.

“Because I love you.”

He stared at her a moment, his eyes almost mocking… or was she only reading them wrong? And then his face crumpled, and he swept her into his arms, almost crushing her against his chest. Wearily, he dropped his head against hers and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“Then you’ll marry me.”

Such a proposal! He had spoken fiercely, his words almost a command. Eponine’s heart suddenly rebelled. 

“Not if you don’t love me,” she shot back. “I’m not such a fool now as I once was. I have a heart, and it hurts.”

“Don’t… love you…” he gasped out, clutching her tighter against him. “If you only knew…” he broke off, lifting her face to his as he kissed her, as hard as he could. “Don’t leave me, ‘Ponine.”

“I need to hear you say it,” she murmured breathlessly against his lips.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, ‘Ponine. I love you.” and with each declaration, he kissed her again, until she pulled away to hide her face against his chest with a muffled cry. “Are you alright?” he leaned over her, trying to shield her from the rain. She was weeping and laughing all at once and, somewhere along the line, had developed hiccups. 

“You love me,” she sobbed. “No one has ever loved me before.” She clung to him, suddenly finding that she couldn’t stop trembling. She could hardly stand. He felt her falling and bent to scoop her into his arms. 

“Monsieur,” one of the guards interrupted as he moved forward abruptly. “We’re not going to stand out here all night. You need to go back inside or we’ll have to take you by force.” 

Enjolras nodded, tilting his head to hide his face against Eponine’s damp hair as he followed the guard. She felt his shoulders slumping as if in resignation, and sudden realization struck her. He had intended to run. He had chosen her over freedom. He had chosen her over his beloved France. She choked back another sob, nestling closer against him. She never wanted this feeling to end… this overwhelming feeling of love and belonging and… home. Nowhere had ever felt like home before to her wandering, lonely soul… but perhaps home wasn’t a place…

She found home that night in the shelter of his arms.

Chapter Forty-Seven

“I couldn’t be prouder,” Rosalie’s eyes shone as she laced up the back of Eponine’s gown. “I knew from the moment I first saw you that you were the one. Although I admit I was afraid for a while that Enjolras wouldn’t come to his senses in time. I told you he was stubborn. A bit blind, perhaps. He sees farther and deeper than most people can… but with some things, he can’t even see past the end of his nose.”

“He saw me,” Eponine answered softly. “Long before either of us knew that we loved the other. He saw me as a human being, and I had value in his eyes. That’s more than anyone else ever saw when they looked at me.”

“He’s a good man. And you’re a good woman. The two of you will do great things in this world.”

“Even in exile?” Eponine sniffed. She didn’t love France the way that Enjolras did… but still, the thought of leaving everything she had ever known behind, for worlds she had never even dreamed of… it was almost too much for her to comprehend. She wasn’t afraid, but something akin to that.

“Don’t think of it as exile. Think of it as a new adventure.” Rosalie smiled. “Remember the liberty song… “Somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?” Think of it like that.”

“To Enjolras, it’s pretty nearly the end of his world,” Eponine murmured. “I worry for him. He’ll be leaving half his soul behind.”

“But he’ll have you. Love him, Eponine, stand by his side, and he’ll make it through.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt…” Cosette poked her head in the door.

“No, no, my dear, do come in,” Rosalie answered cheerily. “Come and see how lovely the bride is.” She took Eponine by the hand and spun her around, the full skirt of the gown swishing around the girl’s ankles. Eponine laughed nervously and drew back. 

“Oh, it’s a beautiful dress!” Cosette cried as she stepped into the room. “It does look simply lovely on you, my friend.”

“And the roses add a touch of red,” Rosalie nodded approvingly. “They’ll match Enjolras’ jacket. Is it true that you told him to wear that one for the wedding?” she laughed. “He insisted that it wasn’t his idea. I thought he should wear a black coat…”

“The red one… it’s special…” Eponine tossed her head. “And it suits him. He ought to wear red, always.”

“Speaking of which,” Cosette’s eyes were twinkling. “The groom sent this over. It’s not the most romantic gesture, but then there is no accounting for the taste of men.” And she deposited a small object into Eponine’s hand… a tricolor revolutionary cockade. 

“He would.” Rosalie shook her head with a sigh, but Eponine was smiling. “How about in your hair?” she tried its effect against the dark waves that hung loose around the girl’s shoulders.

“It’s perfect.” Eponine glanced tentatively at her reflection in the mirror as Rosalie carefully pinned the tricolor rosette in place. She looked past the elegant gown and stared deep into her own eyes… and she found herself wondering what he saw when he looked at her.

“He loves me…” she whispered in awe… and suddenly, tears were streaming down her face. She couldn’t stop them. Something must be dreadfully wrong with her. The tears just kept coming and coming, spilling over endlessly. She couldn’t understand it. This day of all days, she should be happy. But she only felt numb.

“My daughter…” Rosalie spoke reassuringly, a comforting hand on the girl’s arm. “Everything is going to be alright now. Why do you cry so?”

“I can’t… help it.” Her teeth were chattering.. “I… I don’t… know what’s… wrong…”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Cosette pressed a handkerchief into Eponine’s hand. “A cup of strong tea, perhaps, something to eat?”

“Enjolras,” she choked out his name. “I need him.”

“You’re not supposed to see him before the wedding,” Rosalie ventured, but she nodded at Cosette, who returned the nod before slipping from the room. Eponine sank to her knees, and Rosalie sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward as she spoke. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“No…” Eponine forced the word through trembling lips and let her head fall into her hands. Enjolras’ concerned voice was heard on the other side of the door and Rosalie called to him to come in. He went straight to his weeping bride, going down on his knees beside her and peeling her hands away from her face as he spoke to her gently. She leaned against him, shuddering with sobs.

“It’s so much,” she gasped out. “It’s so much. I… I’ve had to be so strong… so brave… had to… fight for my life… and for yours… I’m… I’m tired… and… I… I just can’t… can’t be strong anymore… there isn’t anything… left in me…”

“Let me be strong for you,” he murmured, holding her close as he dried her tears. “It’s okay, ‘Ponine, I’ve got you now. You can let go.”

“I can’t go through with this… I don’t belong here… I’m only a beggar… I can’t walk in there with people staring at me… I… I can’t…”

They had meant to hold something resembling a traditional wedding ceremony… as much as possible under the circumstances. Only those already in the house would be in attendance… Henri and Rosalie, Marius and Cosette, the Baron Gillenormand, Courfeyrac, and Joly. There would be guards, of course, and the few servants Gillenormand had hired. Eponine was to walk down a makeshift aisle in the drawing room to where Enjolras would be waiting for her, and there they would exchange vows while a local priest, hastily summoned at the last-minute, would officiate.

But when the time for the ceremony came, Enjolras wasn’t waiting at the front, and Eponine didn’t come down the aisle alone in procession. They came in together, she tucked under his arm, leaning against his shoulder. But her tears had stopped. And when they stood in front of the priest, hand in hand, she lifted her head, her eyes shining. In that moment, Enjolras forgot how to breathe. Never in all his life had he seen anything so beautiful. It was worth it all… the pain and uncertainty and captivity… just to have her here with him… and to be able to call her his own. He stared at her transfixed, hearing the words echoing at him as if in a dream...  

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” 

But before he could move, Eponine threw her arms around her husband and hugged him as tightly as she could. She felt his heart beating against her cheek and the comfort of his arms around her and wondered if heaven really could be more wonderful than this. And then she heard him laughing and glanced up at him, startled.

“You’re supposed to kiss me,” he whispered.

“Later,” she whispered back with a grin, and hid her face against his shoulder.

oOo

“It’s all so terribly last minute,” Rosalie sighed as she sank into a chair in the drawing room, accepting a cup of tea from Cosette with a grateful smile. “But I think we have all your things packed and ready to go, my dear.” She smiled tenderly at her brand-new daughter-in-law, tears misting her eyes. “To think I’ve found you… and you, my son… and am losing you both again, so soon…” 

Enjolras lowered his head and reached for Eponine’s hand. Every time the journey was mentioned, he fell silent, refusing to speak of it. They would be leaving with the morning tide. His eyes were haunted, his face shadowed, but every time he looked at Eponine, something of relief seemed to wash over him. She was the only thing tying him to sanity.

“It won’t be forever,” Henri spoke up. “Just because you won’t be returning to France… that doesn’t mean that we can’t travel to see you. And we will. Frequently.”

“Especially if there are going to be grandchildren,” Rosalie added eagerly, and Eponine blushed.

“Children… gracious…” she murmured. “That’s too much to think about just yet…” She glanced at Henri. “Monsieur, if I may ask you a favor…”

“Of course,” he smiled at her so kindly that a bit more of her fear of him seemed to wear away. “But you needn’t refer to me so formally. Henri, or… or…”

“Dad,” Enjolras grinned. “Call him Dad.”

“Dad, then,” Eponine laughed. “Speaking of which… I wanted to ask you… well…” she paled slightly. “My father… he is in prison here… in Toulon. He… he’s not…” she took a deep breath. “He’s a thief, a criminal. He deserves to be there. But… but I was hoping… perhaps you could… keep an eye on him for me? Just… just make sure he’s… alright…” her voice trailed off.

“Thenardier, right?” Henri nodded. “I’ll make some inquiries. Do you know his sentence?”

“Five years,” Enjolras answered and Eponine stared at him.

“How do you…”

“A long story,” he smiled ruefully. “We have a lot to talk about, Madame Guillaume.” 

“Such a title,” Eponine raised her eyebrows. “Likewise, Monsieur Guillaume. And one thing I really want to know, more than anything, is how on earth that amnesty came about. How did the king even know of your situation and what on earth changed his mind toward you? I should think he’d be likely to give a death sentence, not revoke it…”

“That is the one thing I can’t understand,” Enjolras shook his head. Cosette had glanced up from her stitchery in overhearing, looking uncertainly at Enjolras and then over at Marius, who sat apart from the little group, poring over a heavy lawbook. He, too, had overheard, and he broke into a grin.

“Cosette did it,” he announced proudly and his poor wife dropped her stitchery and turned her head as if to hide her face.

“Cosette?” Eponine turned to the young woman, her eyes filled with a hundred questions.

“The king… he had already heard something of the trial… I did not do much…” Cosette murmured, color rising in her cheeks. She picked up the little bit of white linen in her lap and stitched away furiously.

“You see before you not only the loveliest, the sweetest, the kindest of women,” Marius went on grandly as Cosette glared things at him out of the corners of her eyes. “But the bravest. It was when we went back to Paris just before the trial so I could gather testimonials and evidence. While I was out on business, she arrayed herself in all her silks and laces and went straight to the palace and requested an audience with the Royal Pain himself.”

In spite of herself, Eponine snickered at the nickname. She had heard the king referred to thus dozens of times in the old days of the Cafe Musain. Grantaire had coined the phrase, egged on by the rest to voice his sentiments concerning the monarchy. That was as much as he could come up with, and Enjolras’ answer to that had been to roll his eyes.

“She told him your story,” Marius continued. “And she pleaded for your life. And the king being awed in the presence of such a charming and eloquent lady, and likewise fascinated with the story of our very own hero, granted amnesty.”

“‘Twas nothing,” Cosette protested. “I wanted to try… there seemed so little else I could do. But…”

“No excuses,” Eponine crossed to where Cosette was sitting and knelt in front of her, blinking back tears as she looked up, speaking earnestly. “You saved his life. And after all that happened… I should be begging your forgiveness for all I did to you, so long ago. How can I ever thank you?” 

“How can you say such things when you know I am forever in your debt?” Cosette whispered. “I went to the king for your husband, true, but you… Eponine… you put yourself in front of a gun for the sake of my husband.” She rose, pulling Eponine to her feet. “Let us forget the past and its pain, for all is forgiven. The future is bright, my friend.” She smiled suddenly, holding out the tiny garment she had been sewing. “There is none who knows that better than I, for I have a little one on the way.” 

“God bless you,” Eponine pressed the other girl’s hands and turned to Enjolras. “And we will be happy, won’t we? In spite of everything… we will be happy.” 

And he nodded, smiling at her, although there were tears in his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Eponine tried to hide her rage as she watched as a guard shackle Enjolras’ ankles. She knew this wasn’t necessary… he wouldn’t run from them if she was there… but they were afraid of him. He seemed to have turned to marble again, standing stiff and motionless as a statue while they chained him, not reacting to anything anyone said. He didn’t even move when Eponine reached out to take his hand. 

The guard stood, roughly yanking Enjolras’ left arm behind his back as he locked an iron cuff around it. And Eponine suddenly gave in to impulse, leaning forward to snatch the other cuff from the guard’s hand and snap it around her own wrist. The guard stared at her in surprise and Eponine jerked back as he reached for her, wrapping her free hand around the chain that bound her to her husband. It startled her how heavy it was. Already her wrist ached… but Enjolras had lifted his hand, relieving the weight.

“Eponine, no…” he protested. “Don’t…”

“It’s cruel and it’s unfair,” Eponine snarled, half-lunging at the confused guard. “It’s inhumane. He’s not going to run, you fool… we’re going to be surrounded by soldiers all the way to the coast and then the ship will take us away forever…”

“Eponine… Eponine…” Enjolras pulled her back, a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. “Look at me.” She lifted her face, her lower lip trembling, and he quirked a half-smile at her.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “This is alright. It’s almost over. Just hold on for me.” He lifted her chained hand, and shook his head with a low laugh. The cuff hung loose on her thin arm. “It doesn’t even fit…” and he slipped it off, bending to press a kiss to her wrist. 

“She’s crazy, that girl of yours,” the guard glanced warily at Eponine as he moved to finish cuffing his prisoner. 

“Watch how you talk about my wife,” Enjolras hissed, twisting to glare at the man. “I can still take you on, even bound.” 

“That would be something to see,” the guard chuckled, shoving him forward. “Alright, the prisoner’s secured, let’s get moving.” 

It had been decided that goodbyes would be said there at the house, and then Enjolras and Eponine only would go on to the harbor, escorted by the soldiers. But goodbyes were hard to say. Eponine had at last found people she felt safe with… people who were like family… and it broke her heart to go… even with Enjolras. She wept in Rosalie’s embrace and held on to both Courfeyrac and Joly as if she would never let go. Henri seemed as unemotional as his son… but Eponine caught a glimpse of tears in both those stubborn pairs of eyes. And when Henri spoke to her, he called her daughter… and his voice broke. 

“I always wanted a father who cared,” she murmured, clinging to him for a moment, and when she stepped back, he was smiling.

“My son has found a treasure,” he clasped her hands. “Keep him out of trouble, eh?”

“Is that even possible?” Eponine tossed her head, laughingly.

“No. But you can try.”

At the last moment, Enjolras nodded to Courfeyrac and the two of them stepped back a moment. The guard glared suspiciously at the pair as Enjolras whispered something and Courfeyrac stared at him, wide-eyed. Courfeyrac looked a bit skeptical, but he was nodding… and Enjolras moved away, stumbling a little. Eponine rushed to his side to catch his arm and hold him steady. And then they were being hustled into a carriage unceremoniously… and the little group in front of the house faded away into the distance.