One in the Same
A/N: Just something I scribbled down in math class one day. Induced by my Environmental Technology teacher, who mentioned Les Miz in class and butchered it. Constructive criticisms completely welcome.
It was damp, murky, and dark, a perfect setting for a criminal such as he. It had been, of course, scores easier to complete this task at Waterloo when he was still suspected of being a respectable man of sorts, and the National Guard was not scouring the landscape.
His wife had once told him she believed the good Bonaparte to be a fool. It was, indeed, a direct insult, for he considered himself to be the same man. The same man that was only denied the same upbringing, thus his natural genius was frowned upon. He would not reach the same heights as the good Bonaparte for this reason alone.
That left him here, in the sewers of Paris. He remembered idly that this was a piece of Bonaparte's great triumphs.
He studied the dead men at his feet, wondering if they too had been Bonapartists. It was silly to have such a notion. They were dead now, and all they were good for was their riches. That may very well have been all they were good for in life. He would never know that the boy's life he had saved had been that of a Bonapartist's just as he'd never know that his neighbor was. But they were one in the same, and good for nothing, save a few lousy francs. He turned his attention back to picking the pockets of the dead idealists much in the same manner he'd used to pick over the wealth of the English soldiers at Waterloo.
He paused for another thought. Perhaps he was not the same man as Bonaparte. Perhaps he was better. After all, he was still standing in Paris. And maybe they'd never been one in the same.