His favorite thing to do was talk about the revolution. Whether it was debating with Combferre, encouraging Prouvaire or trying to inspire Grantaire, there was nothing more exhilarating to him than the revolution. He spent hours buried in his books studying the politics of great men who believed in freedom as he did. Sometimes he would be in the middle of eating breakfast and a thought would occur to him – inspiration for a speech or a solution to some problem – and he would go rushing off madly around his flat finding paper and writing it down hurriedly before he forgot. The revolution consumed his thoughts. "If France were a woman," Courfeyrac teased one day, "Enjolras would marry her in a heartbeat." Enjolras smiled. That wasn't quite true. If the France of his dreams – the new France, the free France – was a woman then, perhaps, yes he would entertain thoughts of marriage. But that was ridiculous. His thoughts turned away from the lighthearted banter and focused again on the notes before him.
One night when their merrymaking was louder (drunker) than usual and he was having a harder and harder time focusing them on the cause he stood up on a chair. "Gentlemen," he called their attention to him. "My friends, think a moment. There is no harm in your merriment. You are enjoying yourselves, are you not?" They cheered loudly, albeit slightly confusedly. They weren't sure where he was going with this. "Your bellies are full with good food; your throats are wet with good drink." Another cheer arose from them. "Think now on the thousands of your brothers and sisters, of the women and children less capable than you of withstanding the pangs of hunger. They shiver in the cold while we make merry in the warmth of this building. Think what they wouldn't give for just a fraction of the food you've consumed in the past hour. Think, my friends, of your fellow man." He was in fine form that night. This – this was one of his favorite things to do. To see the fire that burned in his heart reflected in the faces of his companions. By the end of his speech they were sobered just a little but even more determined to fight for France's freedom. Enjolras allowed himself a moment of pride before throwing himself into a debate with Joly and Bahorel. Yes, Enjolras loved talking about the revolution. It was his favorite thing.
He didn't know when she first showed up. She never returned his polite greeting except with a nod. He didn't question her presence but simply took it in stride. The girl used to wait outside the café sometimes for hours until Les Amis had broken up their meeting and gone home. Then she would attach herself like a limpet to Marius and the two would go wander off to do who knew what. Marius seemed to be completely unaware how long the girl would stand outside always remarking, "I hope you haven't waited too long," to which the girl would shake her head and laugh.
There had been a night, a freezing one, when Enjolras was late. The wind blew right through every layer of clothing he had on, straight into his bones. The streets were slick with ice. The winter will claim many lives tonight, he thought to himself as he hurried past the desperate faces that peered out at him from the alleys. As he approached the café he could hear the sounds of his friends' laughter drifting down. He thought of the warmth of the fire and food and quickened his pace nearly tripping over the girl huddled by the door. "Mademoiselle," he said, in alarm. She lifted her pale face to him. "My apologies. I did not see you there." Then, noticing her almost blue lips and her violent shivering, he quickly pulled her to her feet. "Why are you out here? You will freeze to death. Come inside. We will make you warm by the fire." She pulled away.
"No, m'seuir, I am fine. I'm only waiting for M'seuir Marius," she said.
"Pontmercy is inside. I do not think he would want you to catch your death of a cold out here. Come, come. I won't have 'no' for an answer." He herded her inside, ignoring her protests.
"'Ponine," Marius had cried, when he saw the pair enter. "What are you doing? Mon Dieu! You look half frozen." He hurried to her side and led her to the fire, chattering and fussing over her like a mother hen. His anxious attentions seemed to do more good for her than any amount of warmth and food. You'd have think she'd died and gone to Heaven, Enjolras thought before being dragged over to a table by Courfeyrac who had a question about fair wages.
It became a ritual then for them. Enjolras would invite her inside and she would put up her usual protests which he would proceed to ignore before ushering her in. Sometimes if she wasn't there when he arrived, he would check out the window constantly until he saw her standing by the door. She never came in by herself although he frequently told her she could. Once inside she would take up her place next to Marius or wait in a corner until he arrived. The other boys became friendly with her, spoke to her. She was a fascinating talker, always ready with a witty comeback or a teasing comment. She kept the boys entertained with her stories of the streets, stories that they laughed at with her but that sobered their boyish faces when she wasn't looking.
Sometimes she came in bruised, beaten, even a little bloody. The boys discreetly said nothing about it except Joly. He put up the pretense that he wanted to further his medical knowledge. She was helping him practice some new technique he had just learned. Just so long as he wasn't doing it out of pity she allowed him. Sometimes while he dabbed at her bleeding lip or examined a nasty bruise, she would tell him what had happened. He never asked her though.
One night, she arrived looking especially beat up. There was a slight cut on her eyebrow, bleeding profusely. Enjolras asked her in as usual and this time she didn't put up her customary protests, just followed him in, quietly. Enjolras kept a steadying hand on her elbow as they went upstairs while she wiped away the blood, smearing it across her forehead. He led her straight to Joly who jumped up in alarm the moment he saw her predicament. "Don't get excited, Joly," she said lightly, "Hate to disappoint but it doesn't need stitches."
"Oh, well," he said, faking disappointment, "I guess we'll just have to do with a boring old bandage." She smiled wanly at him and collapsed into a chair. "Can you get her some water, Enjolras?" Joly asked before leaning in to look at the cut.
As Enjolras came back she was telling the medical student what had happened. "He wasn't as drunk as I supposed him. Usually I try to target the really drunk ones because they're easier and less coordinated. Anyways, he caught me as I was trying to get away and took his wallet back. Stupid idiot was wearing a huge ring though. Biggest ring I've ever seen. When he hit me it cut open my forehead. Funny thing was though, I think the sight of blood made him sick because he suddenly let me go and ran over to a corner and started puking."
"You shouldn't do that," Enjolras said, setting the water down beside her.
"Do what?" she questioned. "Get punched?"
"No, put yourself in a situation that gets you punched," he answered.
She laughed mirthlessly. "Every time I walk out onto the streets it's a situation for getting punched," she told him.
"Stealing only puts you more at risk," he informed her. "As today's mishap can prove."
"A girl's gotta eat and food costs money," she said. "Not to mention I've got a rather bad-tempered daddy who doesn't like me coming home empty-handed."
"Get a job," he persisted.
"A job?" she laughed again. "A job, m'sieur? And who would hire me? No, the only job I could get would be as a prostitute. And I'd take stealing over that any day. Go back to writing your silly speeches, Enjolras."
"They're not silly," he said, offended.
"Yes, they are," she said, wincing as Joly applied pressure to the cut.
"You have a problem with my speeches?" he asked.
"Yes, I do," she said, simply. For some reason, that annoyed him more than it should have. Talking about the revolution was his favorite thing, giving speeches was the epitome of this. He didn't like this girl insulting that.
"What sort of problem?" he asked warily.
"There's lots of problems I have with them. Number one being that they are, when it all comes down to it, just a bunch of words," she said, matter-of-factly.
"They're words that express an idea. It's an idea of a free France," he explained. "A France where you don't get to steal."
"Where I don't get to steal? I don't GET to steal?" she said, her voice raising just a bit. "As if I wanted to steal? Oh, now, now, high 'n' mighty, if you would get off your pedestal once in a while and look around, you'll see that I have no choice."
"I meant no offense," he tried to cut in.
"You might not have meant offense but I take offense. You seem to think that I've got a choice in the matter. Like any of us have a choice in the matter. Alright, well I could stop stealing. But I guarantee you that within a week, you'll find me dead. Whether from hunger or a beating from my father, I'll be dead. So excuse me if I steal a purse off some drunkard. I'm doing him a favor in fact. Without that money, he can't get another bottle of drink. Maybe that one less drink can let him hold on to his sanity long enough to not beat his wife. Maybe not beating his wife means she can go out to her job maybe as a washwoman and work just a little longer and a little better because her body's not sore. Maybe that little bit of extra work brings in a little more money to feed her three babies. And maybe that little extra food keeps them alive just a little bit longer."
"But stealing is still wrong. Besides, that theory is, while plausible, highly unlikely. How often do you think that happens?"
"Often enough. You don't know. How could you know? Have you ever gone and actually looked at what's going on in the streets? You have all these brilliant theories about the streets but if knock off the speeches and you step out there, you'll see just how easily they're all proved," she spat. She was quite angry now and stormed away but Enjolras saw the truth in her words. Admittedly, it hurt a bit but he always believed in improvement and this was certainly an area that he could improve on.
"She's sort of right, you know," he said to Joly who was sitting there in a sort of shock.
"Actually, she's very right," Joly said, patting him on the shoulder and taking his leave.
That night as he laid in bed, thinking about the revolution, the memory of Eponine kept invading his thoughts. He had never seen her that angry before. Her eyes shone and her face was alight as she spewed her words at him angrily. He thought she had looked quite…maybe not beautiful but stunning. Even with the bandage that Joly had carefully wrapped around her head. He sighed. Although it stung him to admit it Eponine was, as Joly said, very right. He mulled over what she said. He tried to think what he could do to change. He was completely open to helpful criticism and he sought always to improve. Anything for the cause. He would ask her perhaps what he might do. He remembered her saying she had a number of problems with his speeches. He would ask her about those too. And apologize. He supposed an apology was in order.
The next night as he came to the café, Eponine was standing outside the door. He had planned on talking to her about the revolution as they went upstairs but he saw she was already deeply engaged in a conversation with Marius. Enjolras sighed knowing there would be no point trying to get her away from any form of attention from Pontmercy. The girl seemed to live for any barest scrap of notice from the young man. As he came to the door, the pair turned, Marius' face breaking into a smile and hers expressing a reserved caution. He greeted them and held the door open for them. Marius went inside but Eponine turned to leave. "Aren't you coming, mademoiselle?" Enjolras asked.
"I've got an errand to run," she told him. Enjolras nodded and told her to be safe as she ran off into the darkness. He couldn't suppress a twinge of disappointment that he wouldn't be able to talk with her about the revolution tonight. He sighed again and turned to go inside.
The next night provided no opportunity for him to speak with her and the night after that she was not there. It wasn't until two nights later that he finally had a chance. "Mademoiselle," he said, approaching the table she was sitting at. She looked up in surprise. "May I sit?" She nodded.
"Come to preach to me about stealing, Enjolras?" she asked in a teasing voice edged with contempt.
"No. I've come to apologize about that. I didn't mean to preach and you're right. It was not my place to judge you," he said. "And I thought I might ask your advice on something."
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and a grin crept over her face. "Wonders never cease. The high and mighty leader is asking me for advice. Fancy that." When Enjolras didn't reply except to blush just a little, she let off the teasing. "What is it you wanted my advice on?"
"Well, you said that my speeches were 'silly' which they aren't, by the way," he began.
"Yes they are," she butted in. "Anyways, go on."
"They aren't silly," he protested. He felt like their previous conversation was repeating itself.
"They are and until you admit that they are. I'm not going to give you any sort of advice," she said, crossing her arms.
"Fine, if you don't want to help me," he said, rising.
"Oh, m'seuir, you think you're so wonderful and yet your pride can't let you admit how silly you are," she replied, bitingly. "It's pride like that that has the people of Paris oppressed."
Enjolras sat back down hard, glaring at her. "I am trying to help the oppressed."
"Oh, and a good job you're doing of it too," she mocked.
"Well what would you suggest?" he asked, hoping to get her back on track.
"Why do you care what I would suggest? It's not like you'll listen, anyways," she said.
"What makes you think that?" he asked.
"Well, I already told you your speeches are silly and did you listen? No," she said, smugly.
"Alright," he finally gritted out, "My speeches are silly. Now tell me why."
"Not if you ask like that," she teased.
"Why are my speeches silly?" he asked, his voice dripping with fake politeness.
"Because you don't act upon them," she replied with an equally sickly sweet voice.
"What do you mean?" He cocked his head to the side in bewilderment and she laughed.
"You're such a child some times, Enjolras," she said. With that, she stood up and left him still confused. As the days passed, Enjolras found that Eponine would tell him nothing important. She would tease him and laugh at him but never give any helpful advice. He did his best, was polite as possible, never preached to her and would talk to her for much longer than he cared to about insignificant subjects in hopes she would talk with him about the revolution but to no avail. On one such occasion, he had been listening to her for almost an hour. The girl talked so much and his head was beginning to hurt. She rarely let him get in a word and his patience was wearing thin. She was talking about….he wasn't even sure anymore. He had ceased to pay attention. "Eponine!" he finally cut in. She stopped talking and looked over at him in surprise. "Please, no more. Do you ever stop talking?"
An annoyed look crossed her face. "Excuse me?"
Realizing what he had said, he tried to retract himself. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to be rude. I have a headac-" She swiftly cut him off.
"You know, that's the problem with you people. You never mean to be rude. You never mean to insult. But you do. A fat rich man comes hurrying down the street, knocking aside a bunch of children and he doesn't mean to hurt them. Some disgusting drunk tries to make advances on a girl and he doesn't mean to get drunk, he doesn't mean to take her innocence but he does. I'm sure the king doesn't mean to oppress his people. If you would take a moment and think about what you're doing. Actually put some thought into your actions, and only do things you meant, then we wouldn't have this problem, would we? That is exactly what I was talking about the other night. You say all these beautiful sounding things. And I admit they sound beautiful. But you aren't going to change the world with empty words, m'sieur. It's gotta be words that you mean. And if you really mean them then you've got to act on them." She strutted away after that leaving Enjolras a little taken aback but much enlightened. What she said made sense. It was time to act. Not just to preach. Or if he was to preach, let it not be only to those people who agreed with him. Let it be to win the people over. She was right again. But that was not the only thing he realized. It dawned on him that she only said what he deemed to be important things when she got angry with him. Otherwise it was all teasing and trivial talk.
Enjolras soon developed a pattern. As he invited her inside, he would make small talk, sometimes apologize for previous offenses. She would forgive him and start her chatter. Then somewhere in his conversation he would slip-up. Use a poor choice of words purposely, make some sort of slighting remark and set her on edge. By this time they would be upstairs with the rest of the boys and she would flounce away to go attach herself to Marius. Later on, he would come around to her, try to strike up a conversation and she, still annoyed with him, would give him a telling-off. Sometimes they would get into heated arguments. Other times he would only listen in secret awe marveling at the power of her angry speeches. Later that night, by himself, he would revise a speech or write down a new idea that she had put into his head. He pretended that her words were the only thing that kept him coming back. He pretended that he didn't think she looked beautiful when she was angry. Her blazing eyes glaring at him, her hands flying around in dramatic gestures, her face twisting into a scowl or scrunching up into a laugh. He pretended that his favorite thing to do was not to get Eponine angry. But it was.