Six months after the fall of the barricade, the Thénardiers were indeed still there. More specifically, in Belgium. Paris was not a good place to be at the moment, even for a pair of sewer rats such as Pierre and Beatrice. The family, such as it was, had escaped the entirety of France for good measure in August, just as soon as they had begged and stolen enough to flee and re-establish in Brussels. They'd gotten by on worse, and they aspired for much, much better.
They were French after all.
One gloomy, Northern European morning, the Madame and Monsieur of the house sat at the small, unsteady oak table of the shabby apartment, engaging in their favorite shared hobby; spouse-baiting.
"Ah, fuck you an' your 'aughty airs," grumbled Pierre.
"'M serious, bâtard, we've gotta do some'fin or we'll be out on the streets. An' I'm not stayin' wif ya through that 'ell again!"
"Ev'ryone hirin' speaks German, maudit boches. So unless you're up for walkin' the streets…"
The Frenchman trailed off, giving a mocking, toothy grin which warranted a smack on the arm from his wife.
Eponine, tired of hearing her genetic material carry on so, attempted to counsel her financially troubled parents.
"What if we started the inn again? We might be able to get a loan. Our names're clean anyway…"
Pierre waved her off while simultaneously rubbing his skinny arm which was bound to bruise. Jesus, the greluche packed a punch. Dejected and disappointed, the young woman excused herself from the apartment by scampering out the window onto the ledge, and then the street. No point trying to make them see reason when they were such a sour mood.
Rolling her eyes, Madame Thénardier picked up her eggplant shaded, shabbily beaded purse which didn't carry nearly enough weight, and slammed the door behind her, as she contemplated finding solace in the streets.
"Quelle une lavette! German my ass," She muttered to herself, rolling her hazel eyes at the very notion, "Damn me to 'ell for marryin' the cocu."
Shoved against a brick wall in the chaos of the crowd, the tiny waif of a woman yelled after the offender, "Femme à bouche! Watch it!"
The young perpetrator turned to face her, and smiled widely once she discovered the source of the disturbance, surprising the Thénardiesse. It was, in fact, Anne-Marie, a call-girl with whom Beatrice had bonded. Though Anne was bounds more optimistic, a trait for the young and foolish, the two shared a similar outlook on money and men. It was a match made in Hell.
"Beatrice! Long time, M'dame!" The young prostitute beamed, catching up to her friend.
"Sorry love, didn't recognize ya," murmured Madame Thénardier in apology.
"It's alright M'dame, I'm off t'day." She said with a light laugh, gesturing to her marginally more conservative, though ripped and ruined, Sunday dress.
"Really? Up for a round then?" Beatrice's head was aching, which meant she desperately needed a drink. Preferably, a free one.
"Course. There's a tavern 'round 'ere somewhere…"
The two began their search; Beatrice couldn't stand the native selection of beers, so they had to look for a cheap pinard. Traversing the twisting alleyways of the medieval city, Beatrice followed Anne-Marie's lead. Though directionally sound, Madame Thénardier was still green enough to the city that she preferred to have a native leading her. She would have to learn soon enough though; at this rate, they'd be back to staging elaborate and unsuccessful pickpocketing schemes. After ten minutes of marching at a steady pace, the women came across a sleepy looking bar; La Larmichette.
"Thank the Lord, thought I'd 'ave ta spend the night on brandy," grumbled the elder of the two.
"Brighten up, M'dame, we found somethin'. C'mon, let's get warm," advised Anne, who held the door in respect for her senior. Beatrice, in response, picked a table in the corner of dim, dingy hole.
Anne-Marie went to fetch a bottle and two glasses while Beatrice settled down into the chair, leaning her elbow on the shaky table, and her head on her hand respectively. And, somehow, it was only six; it was going to be a long night. The hall was not unlike the inn that the Thénardiers had left behind outside of Paris; no more than four candles lit at once, nearly empty, rotting wood that lined the walls, accompanied by only slightly tacky posters of operas past, and a slab of pine which functioned as a bar, and looked as though it would give you cholera by looking at it. Just like home.
The call girl returned with a bottle of red wine and two musty, but viable glasses, handed one to her friend, and sat down across from the once-blonde woman.
"Rough day, then?" She asked, taking the role of the bartender, who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, by pouring them each a tall glass of the blood-red liquid.
"Rough day, rough week, rough decade…" replied Beatrice, rolling her eyes as she drank down half the wine in one go, "Take your pick."
"Your patron still ain't got a job?"
"My patron never 'ad one ta begin wif," came the retort with a snort and a bit of laughter as the rest of the glass was drained, and subsequently refilled.
"Well, 'e's gotta be good for something, right?" Anne said with a smirk, elbowing her friend and eliciting a louder laugh.
"You've gotta be jokin' me. Haven't 'ad a good night in years," the elder said, somehow recovering quickly enough to get through her second glass.
The gloom outside became less gray and more black as the two carried on, making their way through the first bottle and half of a second before Anne-Marie requested that they return to their respective homes. Thénardier, the less drunk of the two, insisted that she help carry her young friend to her bed. A good thing too, since the prostitute passed out half-way en route. With a heavy sigh and a grunt, Beatrice shouldered the young woman and managed to half-carry, half-drag her up the four flights of stairs to the apartment which was somehow even smaller and dingier than the one she possessed.
Anne's room was a mess of mussed up bedsheets, jewelry boxes, flowers, perfumes, rouges, and powders. It was impressive that she was able to bring clients up at all; even if their enthusiasm wasn't killed by the stairs, it would be by the nest that rivaled a rat's.
Kicking boxes and clothes aside as she walked, a red, twinkling collar caught the Thénardier's eye, like a magpie reacting to a new bauble for her nest. It wasn't real, of course. Nothing in the apartment was, from the cloth flowers in the window to the faux French chalk which dusted the walls and ceiling, as well as her friend's face. She wouldn't miss one of the necklaces, surely; she had to have three of the same.
After the unscrupulous woman put the now-snoring drunkard to bed with the clumsy tenderness which had once tucked the sheets around her little girl so many years ago, she clamored out of the mess and picked up the gold chained, ruby-studded necklace with a deftness not expected from a woman who had drunk the better part of a bottle of wine.
Beatrice tripped out of the building and mustered the strength of character which had served her so well thus far to walk to the apartment she was forced to call home. Her husband was already asleep on the mattress they shared, while Eponine hadn't returned. Her mother didn't seem too concerned, or capable of remembering that she had a daughter at all, so she fell onto the makeshift bed. Pierre grumbled as his wife pushed him over, snoring aggressively as they fought over the thin quilt. Several minutes later, the two were out cold, with the necklace still firmly gripped in the Madame's small, work-worn hand.