Chapter One

It was the year 1832.

There lived in France a man, wrinkled and wise in years. His ears had heard many things—the cry of a newborn babe, the laughter of a child, the low whispers of a man. His back was bent with age, and his fingers trembled whenever he poured his coffee. Round spectacles rested at the tip of his nose. The man's name was Monsieur Gervais, and he had lived in Paris since his early years of manhood.

Somewhere on those dirty streets of that city, where the beggars and thieves made their home, there stood a little building. It was not unlike other shops and tenements in appearance; yet it was peculiar in that every afternoon, young men would amble into its shade and remain there until evening. They held their little meetings regularly in a small back room of the building.

The building was called the Café Musain.

Monsieur Gervais owned the Café Musain, and the young visitors who spoke in hushed voices in his back room were familiar faces. He knew each of their names; he knew the habits of one and the habits of another; he knew the purpose of their strange meetings.

If Monsieur Gervais was ever asked what that purpose was, his reply would be: the abaisse.

An afternoon would normally go as thus:

"Good afternoon, Jehan."

The slim youth, with fair forehead and rosy cheeks, would smile and nod in response. "Good afternoon, Monsieur Gervais. How do you fare?"

The old man would laugh at the romantic poet—for the wheels in Jean Prouvaire's were made of hearts and roses—and say, "Very well, Jehan! Very well! But go on! The others are waiting for you."

Sometimes he would carry a tray of drinks to refresh the hardworking students. And there he would see Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Combeferre talking in murmurs, intent upon their conversation. Monsieur Enjolras would always give him a brief nod and turn back to his companion, fixated upon some debate.

Monsieur Gervais labeled those two men the most serious of the Friends.

Medical student Joly was the happiest; Courfeyrac the loudest; Gavroche, the cheerful little urchin; Bahorel a dandy.

Monsieur Gervais always took care to keep out of the way of one certain young man. Grantaire was a drunkard. Only once, and that was the first time, had the old man crossed Grantaire's road. He had asked the young man a simple question:

"And how do you know Monsieur Enjolras?"

This simple, polite question was answered with a string of retorts, mingled with foul words and mindless jokes. Monsieur Gervais did not speak to him again in more than one or two syllables, and he took care never to give him more than two bottles a day.

The afternoon would usually be quick and uneventful. The young men would discuss important things and less important things, laugh and listen. Then, in the evening, they would leave. As always, they would leave. With a nod, maybe a friendly greeting, or even a little small talk with the owner of the Café, they would wander out the door and go on their separate ways.

Thus, the normal day consisted of Monsieur Gervais waiting to be of any assistance and the young men talking and talking. As long as they were undisturbed, the day was considered routine.

One day, however, something broke this routine. Monsieur Gervais had a new visitor.

It was a young girl, not yet eighteen. Her hair was a dark shade of golden, long and thick; in the shadowy waters of her eyes shifted lights of green and grey. The girl stood a head taller than the old, bent man, her arms held patiently behind her back.

"May I help you, mademoiselle?" said Monsieur Gervais politely. The girl seemed to emit an atmosphere of sovereignty.

Unlike the commanding presence she unconsciously impressed upon strangers, her voice was soft and almost shy. "Is Monsieur Enjolras here?"

Startled, the old man looked closely at her. To have a mistress or even a wife seemed inconsistent with Monsieur Enjolras' character. "Who is asking?" he replied.

"Marianne. My name is Marianne Enjolras."

Was the young lady his wife? Suddenly it dawned upon the old man that this girl was Monsieur Enjolras' sister. How had he not recognized it? For Monsieur Gervais could now clearly see the startling similarity she had to her brother—the same shade of hair, the same wavy locks, the same impression of royalty.

"Please, come this way, mademoiselle," said the landowner, leading her to the back room. "The young men like to keep their conversations private."

"Young men?"

"Yes. Students, young workers. They come here often to talk."

"Talk about what?"

Gervais shrugged. "Politics, news, rumors. Some are gossips, mademoiselle. Men are not so different from women, really."

The girl laughed. "What makes you think all ladies are gossips, Monsieur?"

The old man smiled. "Why do you think we branded them as gossips in the first place? We would not do so without reason, now, would we?"

"Men are not known to be reasonable creatures, are they? I'm sorry. That was blunt, wasn't it? My maman says I should learn to hold my tongue. I am too frank. But I like to point things out. It's just being honest, isn't it? After all, the truth isn't always wonderful to hear."

"You sound very much like your brother, mademoiselle."

She looked at him and smiled, as if pleased by the comment. "Do you think so? Maman says so too. She says we both should listen more and talk less. But I don't think I'm like Etienne at all. He's too serious sometimes. How did you know I was his sister?"

"Well, I didn't think you'd be his wife, mademoiselle!" Monsieur Gervais chuckled.

"Yes. The young girls in my neighborhood always loved to chatter about him, but he never minded them. He may sound grim and awful to you, but he was wonderful, really! He always laughed at me and called me silly names and played with me, even though he's years older. Is he still like that?"

Gervais shook his head, surprised. Had Monsieur Enjolras been like that before? The change was remarkable! "I think you might find him a bit altered, mademoiselle."

They stood now in front of the door. On the opposite side they could hear the low voices of men. Suddenly a sharp ring of laughter vibrated in the room.

"That's Monsieur Grantaire," Gervais explained in a low voice. "But come. There's no need to be afraid. They're only men like me, after all."

Marianne smiled. "But you're not just a man, Monsieur," she said, as he took her hand and led her into the room. When he looked up at her questioningly, she laughed softly and said, "You're a good man. Aren't you?"

Monsieur Gervais only smiled.

They stood inside the little room now. It held a considerable amount of tables, a considerable amount of flying papers, and a considerable amount of men. This was the back room of the Café Musain, and here the Friends of the ABC spent their afternoons.

The considerable amount of men turned and gawked as Monsieur Gervais led the girl across the room to where Enjolras sat, bent over his book. He and he alone had not realized that the usual routine had been disturbed.

Meanwhile the following thoughts ran through Monsieur Gervais's mind: "Poor girl. No young woman deserves to face the stares of six, perhaps even seven men. And all at once too. She must be about to faint."

Being a tender and overprotective father of a girl long gone from home, the old landowner must be excused for thinking that Mademoiselle Marianne was, at that moment, terrified. But when he glanced at her sympathetically, he found that she did not look at all like a girl about to faint.

Her eyes were fixed on the blond young man absorbed in his book.

"Etienne!" she said in a low whisper. She had been walking, unsurely, the entire time. But now unable to contain her excitement, she ran the rest of the way, crying out his name in complete happiness.

Enjolras turned from his book, astonished at having heard his Christian name. Immediately he found a pair of arms thrown around him and a young girl laughing and looking up at him with large, grey eyes.

"Marianne!" The voice that uttered the name was unbelieving and astonished. "Marianne, what are you doing here?"

Her joyful voice rang in his ear. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Why… yes, but—"

"Oh, I've missed you so! We all have, really. Maman talked about you constantly, so it's impossible for me to forget. Have you really gone to stay here forever? You'll never come back?"

Suddenly aware of the gaped stares of the other men, Enjolras cleared his throat. At the sound, the room came swiftly back to life as the students began whispering again.

"Mademoiselle, why don't we talk in private?"

Marianne looked at him quickly, her large eyes pained. "Why do you call me that? I'm still the same, Etienne. I haven't changed, have I? I know I'm a bit older than before, but you shouldn't call me that!"

"You are a lady now, Marianne," said Enjolras in a quiet voice.

"No," came the stubborn reply, "I'm your sister. Or have you forgotten?" She dropped her head and suddenly became silent.

"Marianne?"

She refused to look at him. Oh, he had changed so! How painful it was to see him so grim and formal! Would he ever become the same, normal Etienne that he had been before?

"Marianne, why are you here?"

Seeing her look so forlorn as she stared at the ground, Enjolras felt a wave of pity and even these little stirrings of brotherly love. She was still the same. He could see it clearly—still that odd, blunt little girl with large grey eyes that were angry one moment and then sad the next. Unable to contain himself, he lifted her chin with gentle fingers and looked into her eyes.

She stared solemnly at the wall, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Tetue," he said in a low, tender voice, "I am glad to see you. Really I am."

Monsieur Gervais, who still stood awkwardly in front of them, started when he heard Enjolras' voice. Perhaps this was the old 'Etienne' his sister knew. Deciding the moment between brother and sister was too precious, he slipped away and scolded a few of the men who still sat gawking.

Marianne was looking straight in his eye now, and a small smile played on her lips. "You always used to call me that before."

Enjolras smiled slightly. "I haven't forgotten, Marianne. Never. But you must tell me now, tetue. Why have you come to Paris?"

A/N: Okay, I know I just finished my previous story, but I really wanted to post this one chapter already. The idea's been irritating me for so long that I just had to pay attention to it. Tetue means "stubborn", Marianne is the symbol of the French Republic (maybe Enjolras had an overly patriotic father… who knows?), and… well, let me know what you think! :D