[SURPRISE. I suddenly felt inspired to rewrite and continue this after leaving it off for five years. We'll see how long this lasts.]

Juliette de Saint-Pierre had a bronze Narcissus in her sitting room. It was an interesting piece, if mediocre in its execution: subtle, introspective, with no pool of petrified water, no lilies or rushes, nothing at all to suggest the identity of the figure except for a dreamy, downcast gaze. Juliette thought very little of it, seeing it every day. It had come to her from the estate of a widowed aunt who had died the previous February.

When her brother came to visit in September, he took an interest in the piece. Juliette was acutely embarrassed by his lack of subtlety. Several times each day he would enter the drawing room, circle it, examine it from every angle, sometimes smiling, sometimes looking perturbed. Juliette wanted to tell him to sit down and behave like a regular adult, but she stifled her emotion and reminded herself that he had always been restless – something, she believed, to do with his red hair.

The truth was, her brother was rather less embarrassing when he was scrutinising the furnishings than when he joined in the conversation. An outsider might think him quite unaware of the rules of polite society, but Juliette knew better. He had, after all, had the same upbringing as herself, and she knew perfectly well that he could slick on a veneer of respectability when he chose. But the wretch clearly enjoyed shocking her guests, flaunting his terrible Jacobin ideas and generally making a spectacle of himself. On the first night, he had actually corrected the local curate, introducing himself as 'just Courfeyrac.' Just Courfeyrac! Great-grandfather toiled all his life in the service of the crown, only to have his last remaining heir call himself plain Jean Courfeyrac…!

He left after two weeks, and Juliette breathed deep with relief, though not unmixed with guilt. He promised to return soon, sooner than last time. It was an absolute crime that she had lived in this house nearly two years and he was only just visiting for the first time. Yes, it was awful, but that's what happens when boys run away to Paris. Her brother took her face in both hands and kissed her on the brow. Soon, he promised, laughing. Juliette retired early to her bedchamber. For the first time in a fortnight she had some hope of an easy night's rest.

Enjolras was frightening. Courfeyrac would never admit this, of course; the man was his friend, after a fashion. But there was something about him that made Courfeyrac nervous, something impenetrable. He called Enjolras his friend, but he didn't know why. He didn't know why someone like Enjolras should exist.

Most of the time, he didn't think of it. Only sometimes, during strange lulls when they found themselves alone, compelled to carry on a conversation. They would talk about the weather, their lectures, books they had both read. Sometimes, when the hour was late, they would talk about home. It always made Courfeyrac melancholy; he liked to imagine that Enjolras felt it, too.

It would be wrong to say that Courfeyrac studied Enjolras. He was generally preoccupied with other matters. But it was only natural that he noticed when something changed, a subtle shift, like entering a room where you can't hear the noise from the street. It was rare, but it happened. Something would flash in Enjolras's eyes – a flicker of amusement, a hint of malice. Courfeyrac noticed. It intrigued him. Yet every time he searched for it, it was gone.

Courfeyrac wondered, from time to time, if Marius knew more than he let on. Perhaps he quietly absorbed it all, the gossip and the political philosophy he never seemed to grasp a word of. When Courfeyrac thought like this, he became nervous despite himself. He had never been sure how to define Marius Pontmercy. Marius was a child of the Empire. Marius was young and handsome. Marius was poor. Marius was clever – Courfeyrac never would have guessed it, but he had proofed his friend's compositions and watched the concentration cloud his face when he read Pamela in English – yes, Marius was clever, but rather useless. Marius was timid, so much so that one often felt embarrassed by association. Marius was obstinate. Marius was charming.

Perhaps he didn't know Marius, but then, did he know anyone, really? He wanted to trust Marius, but he preferred that Marius trust him. It was rather thrilling, venturing where no one else had dared; becoming the confidant of a reclusive Marius, or an Enjolras, or anyone else he has disarmed and conquered. Why should he be afraid? If he refused to have faith in people, what would he ever achieve?

He was back within the week. Soon, he had promised; but this was a bit much. He had had second thoughts along the road, turned back before he was halfway to Paris. He ought to know it's rather frowned upon, showing up unannounced like this, imposing on his brother-in-law's hospitality. But what kind of woman would Juliette be if she turned her own brother out of her home?

Late summer suited him. He was so handsome on the garden bench, sprawled as because he was really too big for it, basking in the yellow light. Once Juliette had felt deeply proud of her older brother. Now, when she told the neighbours she was entertaining her brother, they raised their eyebrows and praised her Christian charity. No matter his distance, his reputation survived.

'So, Juliette,' he began, swirling the lemonade in his glass. He had a way of speaking so that one felt unable to answer. 'Juliette,' he said again, and she wondered if he had planned anything to say next.

'Jean-André,' she replied, realising a moment too late how much she sounded like their mother.

'I noticed you have in your house a piece of art–'

'Ah! Narcissus?'

He looked truly surprised. 'Yes, that's the one. Juliette, how did you guess? Well, no matter. I was just wondering where you acquired it.'

'Oh. It came from our aunt Victoire's estate.'

'Yes, of course. Do you know where it came from?'

'No. It was just something she had. I think it was a recent purchase.'

'Shame.' He pursed his lips. He looked that way when he was thinking, and especially when he thought something that didn't please him. 'Fair enough,' he said at last. 'I don't know why I brought it up, anyway. It's not rational. It's just that it reminds me of someone I know. Every time I see it, it strikes me again.'

'Oh! I think I know who you mean!'

He looked puzzled. Juliette smiled, pleased to have the upper hand at last. 'I don't think you do,' he said.

'But Claire pointed it out to me, just the other day. I told her you'd taken an interest in it, and she told me who it looks like. Now I see it, too. It's really quite funny. It looks just like that awful Desmarais boy.'

'Who?'

'Don't you remember? He was a servant in my husband's house, a terrible little boy.'

'Juliette, I don't make a point of memorising my brother-in-law's servants.'

'No, it was years ago, when we were still young. You ought to remember him. He had to leave after he got into a fight with their groom – utterly unprovoked. Don't you remember the scandal when that girl from their house was with child? Everyone believed it was his doing,' she said, pulling out her fan and fluttering it near her face. 'Of course, who really knows?'

Jean-André looked blank. 'I suppose,' he said slowly, 'I remember him a little, from the summer we stayed with the Saint-Pierres. But I can assure you, that is not who I was thinking of.'

'Perhaps you remembered his face, though you couldn't recall its owner.'

Jean-André began to object again, but he was cut off by approaching footsteps and a rustle of cotton skirts. Claire had arrived. Juliette hadn't told him she was coming, so she was able to savour a moment of real emotion as brother and sister embraced. 'We were just talking about that sculpture in the drawing room,' Juliette told her when all were seated again. 'I was telling him what you said. About who it looks like.'

'Oh, that's right,' Claire says. 'It's frightening, isn't it? How can you carry on a decent conversation while he's looking on at you?'

'He's not looking at you, though, is he? He's looking at himself. That's rather the point of Narcissus. But as I tried to tell Juliette, I meant someone else. A friend of mine from Paris –'

'Yes, Paris!' Claire interjected. 'While we're on the subject, how much does it cost to have a new muslin gown made in the city? I swear they just can't do it as delicate in Toulouse.'

'We weren't on the subject, and Claire, I really wouldn't know, because I don't wear muslin.'

'Oh, fie. You must have a sweetheart who does, though. Don't you?' she pressed, eyes sparkling.

'That's neither here nor there!'

'What about a crepe bonnet? How many ribbons do respectable ladies wear, usually? I never trust fashion plates, the girls all look like actresses.'

'As I was saying, this friend of mine, he was born in Toulouse, or rather nearby, I think. Perhaps you know the family. His name is Enjolras.'

'Enjolras? It doesn't sound familiar. What about a pair of silk gloves? My fingers are simply too slender for these ungainly provincial gloves.' At last, Jean-André gave in and laughed.

'Oh! I've just had a thought,' Juliette cried. 'Why don't you take Narcissus back with you? I'm really not attached to it, and neither is my husbanad. I'm sure you'll appreciate it much more than we do.'

'Are you joking? I'm not carrying a bronze bust to Paris by post.'

'Oh, please take it. We insist. It's a gift.'

'Juliette, I don't even have a table. I use the same little stool for letter-writing, eating, and setting down my candle – my only candle, I might add. What on earth am I going to do with Narcissus?'

'I don't know,' said Claire, 'perhaps it will impress the sweetheart you won't speak to us about.'

'Claire! I hardly think our brother entertains young ladies in his private chambers!' She shot him a pointed look; he quickly glanced away.

'I should hope not,' Claire amended. 'A room without wallpaper is not fit to be seen by a lady. I assume you have no wallpaper, since you don't even have a table.'

'Ha! That will teach you not to make assumptions. It does have wallpaper. Gold, or rather mustard yellow, with black trim. The very pinnacle of fashion in 1810.'

Claire raised her eyebrows. 'Well, then, I beg your forgiveness, and I await your gracious invitation to visit Paris.'

Courfeyrac managed artfully to avoid extending any such invitation, but, as penance for his lack of hospitality, he found himself riding back to Paris in the open air with a sixty-pound lump of god forsaken bronze between his knees.