A/N: Okay, so I know that I haven't written or updated a fanfiction in a while, but there's a reason for that. I've been busy with an RP for Les Mis that I joined on Facebook. In the RP, I'm a character named Thérèse, and she's the younger sister of Jean Prouvaire. That's where this fanfiction came from. I'm willing to bet that people from the RP will notice this, and yes, this story is based off of my OC from the RP. The difference is, I also had an idea, and Thérèse's story and certain events won't be the same as in the RP. That being said, here we go!

ONE QUICK THING! The name 'Thérèse' could be pronounced as 'Tuh-REZZ,' 'Teh-REZZ,' or 'TREZZ,' depending on which region of the world you live in. For the purposes of this story, the pronunciation 'Tuh-REZZ' will be assumed.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN "LES MIS" OR ANY CHARACTERS IN IT EXCEPT FOR Thérèse. I ONLY OWN HER AND EVENTS OF MY OWN CREATION. ANYTHING ELSE BELONGS TO THEIR RESPECTIVE OWNERS, AND I AM MAKING NO PROFIT FROM THIS FANFICTION!

May 22, 1885...Paris, France

~o~

"Call it. He's not coming back," Doctor Legrange murmured, pulling his hand away from the unmoving chest of the now-dead man.

The doctor's assistant, a young student at the local university, stepped out in the hall and glanced at the oak grandfather's clock. The ominous tick-tock, tick-tock seemed to be the sound of the gates of heaven opening for the soul of the man that lay dead. His eyes flickered over the aged face of the clock. He wanted to curse the black hands that showed time, the hands that showed the forward progress of time and refused to turn back. Fortunately-or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view-the clock had broken recently, and the black hands did not move. "The clock's broken, messieur, but I'd venture to presume that it's about eight o'clock a.m."

Doctor Legrange seemed to have aged a lifetime in a matter of seconds. His brow had furrowed, and his young assistant suddenly noticed the wisps of silver in his wild mop of once-brown hair. Legrange's shoulders also sagged, like the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders-rather, that he had suffered a loss along with he whole country. "Call his family."

~o~

Several hours later, when news had spread around the city, there was a vast crowd of mourners who pressed up against the front door in an attempt to get in. Of course, nobody was allowed entrance except for Adèle, the only living child of the man, and even then, the girl sat in a wicket chair in the corner. She was staring off into the distance, as if she could see the ghost of her father. The woman also had her hands in her billowing black skirts, her fingers twirling in the fabric. In reality, the woman was just, as we would say, mental.

Meanwhile, some house workers were searching through their old boss's files, journals, and papers for his will. It was actually fairly hard to find it, considering the man's profession. They found many copies of his manuscripts and journals in the messy room. When they were about to give up, they found a large manila envelope that was at least five inches thick. The envelope was sealed shut.

Marie, a maidservant, used a letter opener to unseal the envelope. Inside was not the will as she had hoped, Marie noted with a frown, but a large book. The cover was rather plain, the book being a leather-covered journal with a simple title embossed in gold letters: Thérèse.

"What did you find, Marie?" Amalie, a coworker, asked, leaning over her friend's shoulder, a single golden curl tumbling from her usually neat bun. "What's this?"

"I do not know...I was not aware that Monsieur Hugo wrote such a novel."

"He did, but he never published it," a voice said from the doorway. In the oak doorway, an old woman of about 80 years of age stood, leaning on a cane for support. Her face was marred by wrinkles and her gray hair was in curls that hung over her shoulders, but the twinkle in her steely, metallic-gray eyes betrayed her old age and showed a certain youth and vivaciousness. Shakily, the woman used her cane to shuffle over to the bedside, standing over the body, shaking her head. "Monsieur Hugo...it is certainly a shame."

"Madame, did you know him?" Amalie asked, helping the elderly woman into a chair and taking her walking cane. The woman obviously had a good deal of money-the cane was of cherry wood from the Empire of Japan, and the dark blue dress that she wore was made of fine satin. "What do you know about the book?"

The woman adjusted herself in the chair. "Yes, I knew Monsieur Hugo, but only as a passing acquaintance. I just sat down with him for a day because he was interested in my life. A few years later, he came to me with that very leather-embossed book, eager as could be, and told me that he was going to publish it. That was a few months ago," she sighed. "I suppose that it shall never be published now."

"Do you know what it's about?" Marie asked, sitting on the floor in front of the woman, sitting crossed-legged and wide-eyed like the child of 14 that she was.

The woman laughed slightly. "I've read it, yes. It's the story of me."

"Could you tell us about it? What's it about?" Marie questioned again, using her shins for balance as she elevated herself slightly. "Please?"

"Calm down, child," the woman reprimanded gently. "You know his novel, Les Misérables?"

When the two girls had nodded, she continued, "My brother was Jean Prouvaire, one of the revolutionaries in the June Rebellion. My husband was involved, as well."

"But I thought that Jean Prouvaire and Jean Valjean were all fake, made-up," Amalie replied, confused, a slender eyebrow raised. "At least, that's what Monsieur Hugo would always tell us."

"No, mon cher, they were very much real," the woman replied, a faraway, haunted look in her eyes, like she was seeing the ghosts of the past. "Everything he wrote about actually happened. When he first wrote the original novel, he left me out. It was probably because I didn't want my story to be known, or it could have been because Monsieur Hugo told me that he was writing a separate novel about me. If you could not tell by now, my name is Thérèse."

"Madame Thérèse, would you please read it to us?" Marie pleaded.

Thérèse nodded, blowing the thin layer of dust from the cover, coughing slightly when the dust flew up into her face. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her face, opening the pages at the same time. Her eyes closed as the scent of the old paper hit her nostrils, and a single tear slipped down her withered face. "It...it's been many years..."

"That's alright, Madame, if you don't want to-"

"No. Let me finish. It has been many years since that day in 1832. I'll never forget it, none of it," she said rather quietly, using a thumb to flick to the first page. She slipped her reading glasses down her nose so that her vision was angled to allow her to see the title. "Now, let me begin..."

CHAPTER ONE-IN WHICH SHE ENTERS AN AGREEMENT

No-one could deny that Thérèse Prouvaire, a young Parisian lady born on the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille in 1813, was a very beautiful young woman. It didn't matter that she was only seventeen years of age. Her brown, curly ringlets, bright, determined gray eyes, elegant chin, and slim waist all combined to create a goddess, Aphrodite herself humanized. She was politely mannered, acting the way a lady should, though she secretly hated the fact that women had so many restrictions. She also fluttered her eyes coquettishly, not realizing that she was flirting with the men. The men, in turn, were attracted to her. Thérèse had many admirers, though most were just passing, and she wasn't interested in most. Truly, there was no single man that she was attracted to. Thérèse also was a very sincere and devout Catholic, attending Mass every Sunday and dutifully attending to the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Since every person has a flaw, the young Prouvaire lady was no different. Thérèse Prouvaire's worst character flaw was her trusting nature-she could hardly bring herself to think bad of anyone, though this would change very drastically by her 20th summer.

Jean Prouvaire, her older brother, certainly did not like the idea that his only living relative, his younger sister, was growing up so fast. Ever since their parents had died when he was ten years old and his sister eight, he had taken care of her dutifully. Of course, he didn't like the idea that she would one day be married and leave him. Even though he, himself, was a hopeless romantic and obsessed with all things love, he never planned on getting married or having children. No-his only goal in life was to graduate from university and be happy, like his parents had always told him to. He knew that his sister wasn't jealous of him being able to university, because he knew that she was too smart. She could speak even more languages than he, and was equally well-read. They shared a common love of the epic poems of ancient literature. That was why they were the most amiable of friends-they had so much in common, besides their looks. Jean looked very much like his father, while Thérèse was almost a physical carbon copy of their mother.

Thérèse went to meetings at the Musain with her brother, and listened in on the political speeches made. She had made it her business to become well-versed in politics, so she understood everything. Whenever Enjolras would get a fire in his eyes, and his golden locks would fly behind him like a lion's mane, she wasn't able to hold back her smile. It was a shame that Enjolras would never marry, she thought with a frown. He would be a good husband and father.

~o~

The streets of Paris were cold on the chilly evening of November 29, 1830. Thérèse shivered as she walked next to her brother, burying her hands deeper into her fur muff. Her dark green skirts swirled around her with each gentle blow of the wind. "It's cold," she said, her teeth chattering as she continued to attempt to find reprieve from the intense chill.

"Thérèse, we live in Paris, France, at the end of November," Jean replied, a hint of laughter creeping into his voice. "We have lived here since the days that we were born. You should be used to it."

"Well, I know, but that does not mean that I cannot complain about the cold," she responded. "It's like hell has frozen over."

Jean smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up. He pulled her close with his arm, trying to give her another source of warmth. Because of her slimness, Jean could wrap his whole arm around her and still have length to spare. This caused him to frown-personally, he thought that his sister was far too thin, not that he said anything. "Then I suppose you shall have to have Courfeyrac warm you up."

"Jean!" she exclaimed quietly, a scandalized look on her face. "Courfeyrac is just a friend. I would never court him." Her mind wandered back to past times, and the memory of the young man's warm lips against hers. She'd only ever kissed Courfeyrac, but that was it. Another thing about Les Amis-none of them could dare to think of courting him. Thérèse was Jean's little sister...he would probably murder them.

"It didn't seem like you two were 'just friends' when I saw you kissing him," Jean said in reply. "You two seemed very friendly, if you know what I mean."

"I told you that I do not love him...the only thing I feel for any of our friends is the love of friendship and companions," she protested, turning her face up to look at Jean. She was of a decent height, being about five feet and nine inches tall. Jean, of course, was taller-being older than her-standing at two inches taller than his sister. "You would know that better than anyone."

He grinned at her fondly. "I'm just teasing you, 'Rezz."

"Please, Jean. Do not call me that. You know that I like being called by my proper name."

"Alright, let me rephrase. I am just teasing you, Thérèse Marie Elisabeth Prouvaire."

Thérèse touched his shoulder in reprimand. "That won't stand, either. I hate that name. I am Thérèse. Just Thérèse."

"You are not 'just Thérèse,'" Jean insisted. "You are Thérèse who impressed Monsieur Alouette, the art professor at the university, so much that he could hardly believe that a woman had done that painting."

Thérèse blushed, the colour bringing a rosy tint to her smooth cheeks that were still round with youth. It was true, of course...one day, she had had to help her brother when he had been rushing to get to university on time. She had happened to be carrying a small painting of hers at the time, and had been stopped by the senior art professor. He'd been immensely impressed with her work, and had said, so eloquently, "I must know who did this! What is his name?" When she had replied with a firm, "I am the artist, sir," Monsieur Alouette's face had burned red as though all of his blood had rushed straight to his square face. The painting had been simple, only a landscape, and it wasn't even her best one. Thérèse truly didn't think much about the art that she made. All she really did was sketch and draw. Rarely did she ever actually paint something, and only then, when she was really inspired. As a result of her dabbling in the arts, the attic of her stately home was filled to the brim with portraits, both finished and unfinished. It wasn't like she could do anything with her talent.

They soon reached the Café Musain, a place that was rather small in terms of room size, but was three floors tall. It stood right on a street corner, and the building had been made to fit the exact angles of the street corners. That meant that if one were facing north, one would be staring straight into the place where two walls meet. Their perspective would lead them to believe that the room was shaped like a diamond. The place had been there since before the French Revolution, and, as such, meant that the wooden floorboards creaked under any excessive weight. Even though the glass in the windows had since become a little cloudy and the air smelled of spirits, Thérèse thought that it was home.

Thérèse and Jean were the last two to arrive for the meeting. Today, Enjolras had a cold-though he was known to give speeches even if he was tossing his guts, the illness prevented him from speaking, and Combeferre and Joly had insisted that he take a break. There wasn't going to be any speech on that particular day. It was to be a meeting of communion and fellowship with friends.

She removed her black cloak and hung it on the rack in the corner, going and taking a seat at the large table in the centre of the room. The table came up to her waist, but when she sat, the table only came up to under her breasts. A candle flickered in front of her, illuminating her face and making her eyes sparkle even more. She gazed at Combeferre and Enjolras, offering a smile.

"So, Thérèse, how have you been? It has been two weeks since I have had the pleasure of being in your presence," Combeferre greeted politely.

Thérèse replied, "Well, I was not able to come to meetings because I was a little tired. My life has been fairly normal, nothing special. I've been good, but I've been better."

Combeferre nodded. "That's good. By the way, go talk to Grantaire...he mentioned needing your help with something."

She raised an eyebrow, but did as her friend suggested and sauntered over to Grantaire, who sat at a table, his hand firmly around the neck of a green-glass bottle. He didn't seem as inebriated as he normally was, offering her a wide grin as a greeting.

"Combeferre said that you needed my help," she said, sitting down in the chair opposite him. "What do you need?"

Grantaire coughed, clearing his throat before replying. "I have been commissioned by a wealthy bourgeois."

Thérèse's face lit up. Grantaire had a passion for art. When the two of them had first met, they had bonded instantly over their mutual love of painting and drawing. "Grantaire, that's wonderful!"

"Well, the problem is...he wants a nude portrait of a woman," he explained, leaning closer, but keeping a respectful distance. "And you're the only woman I could think of that would be willing to...you know..."

Her eyes widened in understanding, but she shook her head in affirmation. She had no qualms about being naked. "I will agree to pose for you, but on one condition."

"Name it."

"We can do it at my house, but Jean can't be home, because you know he will be objectionable to this."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Somebody else must be present. It is not that I do not trust you-I do, really, I do-but I would just like someone else to be there, just for the sake of propriety," she responded, just as she felt a presence behind her. She turned her head to find that Enjolras was standing there, and he was pointing towards himself. "Oh...Enjolras...I..."

He pointed to himself again. "Do you want to be the one to stay?" she guessed, trying to figure out what he wanted. Enjolras nodded. "Well...I suppose that you will do. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he rasped, his voice barely audible through the phlegm that clogged his throat. "I will stay..."

"Is tomorrow at about noon a good time?" she asked, whispering so that their conversation could not be heard by anyone. "Jean will not be home at that time, and he will be gone until the evening." Grantaire and Enjolras both agreed upon that time. Grantaire, being older, did not attend university any longer, and Enjolras was being given a break from his studies due to his illness. Therefore, they sealed the agreement with a handshake.

The rest of the meeting was full of amiable chatting between a group of friends. Thérèse, Enjolras, and Grantaire had spent the few hours working on negotiations for the session due to occur the next day. It was to be very secretive. Nobody would ever know of it except them. If word got out, many people might think that they were engaged in a ménage-a-trois, which they most certainly were not. Enjolras and Thérèse were as pure as the driven snow.

When they got back to their front door, Jean gave his younger sister a look. "What were you three talking about?" he questioned as he turned the brass key in the lock.

"I do not know what you're talking about," she replied innocently, stepping inside as the door swung open. She stood in the foyer for a moment, removing her cloak before going up the stairs to her bedroom. Thérèse sat on the edge of the four-poster bed that was currently bedecked with red and white sheets as she undid the laces on her dress. Slowly, she shimmied out of her gown.

Jean stood in the doorway, leaning against it casually. "You, Enjolras, and Grantaire talked the whole time. What was it about?"

"Nothing," she lied, stepping behind her dressing room-divider. The thing was sheer, and her outline was visible. It was possible to see her undoing her corset, taking off her petticoats, and removing her stockings and garters. Then, she draped them over the top of the divider while pulling a lace nightgown on at the same time.

"I know you. You are lying to me."

"Well, it was a private matter. 'Twas nothing of any true importance," she said, getting into bed and tucking herself in. Thérèse blew out the candles, the wisps of curling up towards the ceiling. "Bon nuit, mon frére."

Jean sighed, closing the door. "Bon nuit, Thérèse."

A/N: I realize that the whole nude portrait bit may be rushed, but that won't happen for a few more chapters.

Comment and let me know if I should continue! ^.^