A/N: This is from the clajolras blog. The brainchild of me and Lorri. There are lovely graphics, so please, check it out at clajolras . tumblr . c*m . Please give feedback!
Clara feels the carriage jostle as it makes its way through the crowd. A child swings up to her window. His face is painted with dirt and his eyes are fierce with hunger. She grabs her coin purse and presses a few pieces of metal into his palm. He stares at her only for a moment, before jumping off into the streets. Her body lunges forward as the carriage comes to a sudden halt. She grunts as her hands catch the seat to break her fall.
When it stays still, she pokes her head out of the window. The driver is cursing to himself and Clara's knowledge of French curses are limited. She could hear the crowd roaring two streets back, but now she sees why. She recognizes the house, it's a general's, but she cannot remember his name. There are students passing out pamphlets. One approaches her and thrusts a printed piece of paper in her hand.
"Vive le Revolution!" from the disdainful look in his eye, she is reminded that she is still in her governess attire.
Two voices carry over the sound of the crowd and her large brown eyes dart to the source. There are two students standing in front of this general's home. They are both tall and lean. One has brown hair that sticks up a bit and the other is blond with curls. The blond steps forward and Clara can tell he is the leader. She nods as he says the name of the general, Lamarque. He is the only one who cared about the people, she remembers now.
Her eyes lock onto the blond boy, but she isn't sure if boy is the right word. Yes, he is young, but he does not act it. His blue eyes are ablaze as the sunlight bounces off his golden curls. Clara is reminded of fearsome angels being drawn into battle from sermons she had heard as a girl. His face certainly is angelic. The thought makes her smirk to herself.
Once the blond begins to speak, she sees why the crowd is so affected. His words are eloquent and extremely clever, but it is the way he says them that strikes the heart of the mob. He is full of passion and righteous anger as he damns the aristocracy and the inequality of the government. He plays the crowd like a skilled violinist would his instrument. One of the students whispers to him and she sees his mouth tighten as the annoyance flickers across his face. She hears the sound of iron covered hooves hitting the ground, but he uses it to strengthen the mob's resolve. The soldiers come and the group disbands. Clara has no intention of being arrested for listening, so she jumps back into her carriage. Once it starts moving again, she unbuttons her dress and pulls on the red one she has in her bag. The carriage comes to a much calmer this time and she steps out in front of the Cafe Musain.
"What kept you?" are the first words Uncle John asks when she comes round the back.
"A bunch of students in front of Lamarque's house," she stows her bag under the stairs.
"Then they're getting more of a following," he comments.
"Vive le Revolution," she smirks and hands him the pamphlet.
"How'd you get this?" he looks down at it only for a moment.
"I told you. I was in the crowd," she grabs her grey apron and ties it around her waist.
"I pray Javert did not see you," his brow furrows.
"No one saw me. Except the student who glared at me when he gave me that," she shrugs.
"Why did he glare at you?"
"Nevermind."
"Clara-"
"I got tables. Where's Francoise?"
"She went to market," she can tell she's been gone a while because his eyes shift when he tells her. She knows better than to say anything else.
"Hope she's back soon," she grabs a tray and brushes past him.
Clara wipes the sweat off her brow and begins untying her apron.
"Hold on," Francoise walks into the kitchen. Clara notes the lack of food in her hands for such a long market visit. It's nearly dark. "The students, upstairs, can you get them some drinks before you go?"
"I thought John usually served them. Women aren't allowed upstairs," for some reason that she doesn't understand.
"Just this time, Clara, please," Francoise begs her with her brilliant green eyes and Clara begins to see how her uncle threw away his ambitions for her. She holds her tongue because her sister owns this place.
"Fine," she sighs and trudges up the stairs.
She eyes the group of students. One is asleep on the table with a bottle in his hand. Another is inspecting a cut on his finger rather attentively while his friend claps and laughs. A different pair of students are against the back wall. One is reading a book, he was the one who glared at her. The other is reciting bad poetry. She recognizes the two in front of Lamarque's house. The brown haired boy leans over the table as the blond scribbles furiously on a piece of parchment. She smiles when she realizes none of them noticed her. She puts her hand on her hip.
"All right, boys, what are we drinkin?"
"We've been invaded by a British spy," says the one who was laughing at his bleeding friend.
"And what a beautiful spy," a boy stands up and Clara realizes she didn't see him before.
She raises her eyebrows and puts her hand on his shoulder. "Down, boy. I'm just here to get your drinks."
"Just wine," yawns the one with the bottle in his hand.
She looks over at the boys by the table. "And you two?"
The brown haired boy smiles at her. "Wine is great, thank you."
"How come we've never seen you before?" her admirer rests his arm on her shoulder.
"I work downstairs. Women aren't allowed up here," she doesn't hide the annoyance in her voice.
"Because we don't need the distraction. Courfeyrac sit down. She's not interested," the angel finally speaks.
Clara snorts at the idea of her being a distraction. She rolls her eyes and the brown haired boy notices and laughs. She smiles at him before going back to the stairs. After she passes out the mugs, she looks at the blond. She sets his mug right above his parchment and his shoulders tense.
"Sorry, am I distracting you?" his blue eyes look up to meet the glare in her brown ones.
He falters and she can tell he isn't used to talking to women which she finds odd since he commands a crowd so well. She sits down on the table and her red dress brushes against his parchment. He takes a slow breath and she smiles.
"Too busy plottin' to find a girl?" she watches his Adam's apple bob nervously. "Shame."
His jaw tightens as Clara winks. She's rather proud of herself. He closes his eyes, but only for a moment.
"'I have much higher ambitions than finding some girl to dote on me," he glares at her.
Clara scoffs. "This girl doesn't need anything from a boy who has his head in the clouds."
She hops off the table and grabs her tray. She starts collecting the empty mugs and turns her back on him.
The sound of his chair scrapes back against the wood as he stands up. "I do not have my head in the clouds. I am trying to build a republic. Change the world. But I wouldn't expect a bourgeois girl like you to understand that."
Clara's hand stills on the handle of the mug. She contemplates throwing it at his head, but only for a second. Instead, her brown eyes lock on him.
"If looks could kill," Courfeyrac mutters.
She marches back over to him and pokes him in the chest. "I am no bourgeois girl. I am a governess." She looks down at the buttons on his vest and how well made they are. Her thumb flicks one back, "You're one to talk. Bloody schoolboy playing revolutionist."
His blue eyes look down at her hand and then back up. He's taken aback for a moment at how close she is, but he is quick on his feet. "No better than a bar maiden playing governess."
Clara's jaw sets and her hand balls up into a fist. Before she can hit him, the brown haired boy steps between him.
"Save your anger for the National Guard, Enjolras." He looks at Clara. "Thank you for the wine, Mademoiselle."
Clara glares at Enjolras. She looks back at the boy. "You're welcome..."
"Marius," he smiles. She can tell he's trying to soften her anger and he is sweet so she gives in.
"Clara. Have a good night," she gives one last glare to Enjolras before heading to the stairs
"Leave it to Enjolras to scare off the prettiest girl in the place," Courfeyrac sighs as Clara marches down the steps.