This story, like most stories, begins by accident.
Marie Musain had visited the marketplace that morning because her sister had been feeling ill. Otherwise, she would have continued to sweep the stairs to the Café Musain, unaware that in the market, a group that would change her life was gathering. It's difficult to say how her fate would be different, how, indeed, the fate of France would be different, if she hadn't gone. Explosions only need a spark to begin. And little did she know that she was headed into the flames herself that morning.
The marketplace looked no different to her, as she browsed over the decrepit pickings of the venders for the menu that day. Her family ran the Café Musain, the most successful establishment in St. Michele. Everyday, she thanked God for her good fortune, which was never as glaring as when she visited the market. There was no shortage of beggars lining the streets, many of them small children, and mothers too poor to care for them. The homeless and downtrodden were so numerous that, in all of France, there wouldn't be enough wealthy people to give them each a coin. Marie was acutely aware of the sturdy shoes on her feet, the shawl draped around her shoulders, and the money in her pocket. She was also aware of the fact that any person she met that day would likely try to steal them from her, so she kept mostly to herself.
One person, however, commanded her attention.
"Mum!" he shouted, his jubilance at seeing her in direct contrast to the drudgery that surrounded him.
She rolled her eyes. "Hello, little Gavroche. You're not causing too much trouble today are you?"
He crossed his arms. "I'm not little."
She shook her head and smiled. Gavroche was one of the many children who lived alone on the streets, and led a ragtag bunch of orphans around the city. Marie had befriended him after she found him rummaging through the garbage behind the café one day. Since then, she tried to take care of him and his friends as best she could, and had earned the nickname, "mum".
He grabbed her hand. "You have to come with me. There's a man in the square, and you have to hear what he's yelling about."
"Gavroche, there's always men yelling in the streets about nothing. And I haven't paid for these potatoes yet—"
"Come with me!" he shouted, his grip surprisingly strong for a child so small and underfed. Marie threw the money she owed, with a little extra, at the vender and followed the blond boy into the square.
When they finally navigated through the market, Marie had to admit that there was a pretty impressive crowd gathered around a man in the square near the government offices. She couldn't tell what he was saying at first, but when she got closer to him, she immediately understood why he drew so much attention.
He was easily the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.
It was true that Marie's standards were not very high, as there was an obvious shortage of handsome men living on the streets near the café. But she had a feeling that this one would be attractive by any standard. He was tall and blond, with eyes blue enough to be seen from the edge of the crowd. He wasn't overly muscular, but built enough that she could tell he didn't come from poverty. There wasn't any twitch in his posture or desperation in his eyes that hinted he had ever lived in uncertainty. He spoke with a steady assurance that commanded attention, and she liked the sound of it, although she was too distracted by his face to listen to the words. In that moment, he was an absolute angel, which was a refreshing change from the dirty and crude men she usually dealt with.
Gavroche tugged on her sleeve. "Isn't this amazing, mum?"
"Oh, yes, amazing indeed," she agreed distractedly.
His voice shook with excitement. "I mean, can you imagine being part of a revolution?"
"Revolution!" she exclaimed, shaken out of her reverie at last. "Where did you get a crazy idea like that?"
He looked at her incredulously. "That's what he's been talking about for the last five minutes."
She looked back to the man, and with this revelation he was suddenly completely unappealing. "Well, it's all nonsense really. Do you see any important people stopping to listen to him?"
"But all these people stopped! Are you saying they're not important?"
She sighed. Truly, she was glad Gavroche hadn't become too jaded by the world just yet, even if that would be inevitable. But she wasn't in the mood for some kind of philosophical epiphany; she needed to get back to the café.
"Come Gavroche, we're going to be late for lunch. And I believe it's your turn to do the dishes."
This distracted him like she knew it would. Her mother had enlisted the help of Gavroche and some his friends in the kitchen, hoping to get them off the streets for at least a few hours. Gavroche, it seemed, was the only one unwilling to spend time with Marie's infinitely lovable mother.
"Aw, no, I did the dishes last night!"
"Louis did the dishes last night," she baited him, and they continued arguing lightly until they returned to the café.
Marie's mind often returned to the man in the square that day, but mostly in daydreams over his strong jaw and blue eyes. She couldn't care less about the ridiculous-and, frankly, dangerous-ideas of revolution that he was spreading. France didn't need such treasonous talk; mostly, the people just needed bread. Even her own café had been deprived of some necessities, and with her father dead, her mother worried how they would survive if times got worse. She was turning this over in her head while she took out the trash that evening, when she heard a familiar voice in the street.
"Everything we do is a waste of time if we don't have anywhere to hold meetings. Yelling in front of a building will only get us so far."
She paused. It was undoubtedly the man from the square, but she peered around the edge of the building to be sure. He was standing with a group of young men, looking displaced and lost without a large crowd and a soapbox.
"Well, we can't very well go into a pub and announce we're starting a revolution," another sighed. He was about as tall as the man from the square, but much more tired-looking and subdued, as if he repeated this statement quite a bit.
"What we need," a curly-haired young man interjected, "is a place with privacy. A place that we can call our own without drawing the wrong kind of attention." He gestured while he spoke, and had a kind of exuberance that made everyone in the group listen.
A scruffy-looking man with glassy eyes scoffed. "What I need, dear Courfeyrac, is a drink."
The beautiful man groaned. "Grantaire, I will not feel the least bit sorry when you inevitably die from consuming that foul stuff."
Grantaire clutched his heart dramatically. "Why, Enjolras, you insufferable bastard, when I die, you will be so heartbroken that you'll fling yourself into the hole with me when they lay me to rest."
So he had a name, after all.
"You're an insufferable bastard." Enjolras recounted.
"You're both insufferable," the tired one interrupted, rubbing his eyes. "It's no wonder why no one will rent us a room."
Marie had decided her plan moments before, but felt it a good moment to interrupt. These men were obviously well off, and she could not think of a better scenario than renting her café to a group of wealthy students who liked to hear themselves talk. She disagreed with their revolution, of course, but if they invited a crowd of people and talked late into the night, she could charge them a fortune. She smoothed her hair, and pinched her cheeks for color. She was pretty enough to draw their attention, and she knew she had an offer they could not refuse.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," she called demurely, stepping around the building, "But I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and I believe I have a way to help."
Enjolras glared at her suspiciously. "I'm sorry, but we're not interested in your services."
She furrowed her eyebrows. "But I haven't even…" She suddenly understood his implication, and her eyes widened in horror. "I'm not a—I'm not a prostitute!"
For a second, Marie had the satisfaction of watching the man's face turn completely red. The moment was broken, however, by Grantaire's grating laugh. "Oh God, Enjolras, is it any wonder why you're still a virgin?"
Several of the men laughed, and Marie had to bite her lip to keep from joining them. The tired man stepped in front of Enjolras, obscuring his murderous glare. "Please excuse these fools, mademoiselle. I am Combeferre," he offered his hand, which she shook, "and I, at least, am curious about this offer."
She smiled. "My family owns this café, and we do have a private room in the attic. It has its own separate entrance in the back, and it rarely ever gets used. I'd be more than willing to rent it to you for these meetings you want to hold. I assure you that no one would bother you there, and the room can hold about fifty people."
Combeferre laughed. "I am immediately suspicious of this perfect offer. May we see the room?"
She thought in a panic to the current dilapidated state of her attic. "Of course! You may come back tomorrow evening."
"And how much would you ask for this?"
Marie tried her best to look confident in her response. "Fifty francs a week for completely private use of the upper room."
"Fifty francs a week!" cried Enjolras.
Marie peered around Combeferre. "Perhaps you can afford more, Monsieur?"
The curly-haired man, Courfeyrac, snickered and patted Comberferre on the back. "Don't listen to that one. We are more than grateful for this generous offer. But I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"
"Marie Musain," she said, offering her hand. He took it and kissed it, and the other men took turns doing the same, except for Enjolras. He stood in front of her, and looked down at her with suspicious eyes. "You must understand, mademoiselle, how important this organization is. We are not a group of trifling schoolboys; we will need and demand a great deal of respect for that from you and your family."
She cleared her throat. "Monsieur, you can expect no less than that from me."
"Well then," he said, giving her his hand to shake. "Welcome to the Friends of the ABC."