A/N: Holy shit, another fanfic before even finishing my others, but the lil' plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone when it tackled me. This is my first Les Mis fic; been a bit scared to ever write one before. I'm pretty sure someone has done this before, writing a fic based on My Fair Lady (I haven't seen that yet - shame on me) so sorry if I'm 'copying' someone's idea. The characters' backgrounds will probably be based off the book (which I haven't finished up till now - so oops if i go a bit OOC) and the happening based off the musical. Alright I'm gonna shut up now.
It was just another night in the city of Paris; another cold night in Rue Le Peletier, only desponded by the rain that pelted down to the earth, driving people from the wet cobbled streets. Talks of the recent 1830 revolution lingered in the shadows of nooks and crannies, homeless children loitered wherever there was shelter, carts and carriages rolling their way through occasionally.
In the distance, bells of an unseen cathedral rung through the gloom, and soon the doors of Opéra Le Peletier opened. From it bustled men and women, hauling umbrellas as they streamed onto the streets, flagging coaches with much haste.
Amongst the waiting stood three young men.
"Now," commented the first. "Shall I be correct in saying that Mademoiselle Taglioni was absolutely splendid in this evening's premiere of La Sylphide?"
"Highlighted further by her shortened skirt and sleeves," chuckled the second. "I'll say, don't see women's legs much with their buffoon skirts and balloon sleeves this century."
"It was indeed splendid, Marius," said the third to the first, ignoring the second. "Though I see no use to why of such frivolous entertainment; I'd rather be home reading my book."
"Oh, Enjorlas," sighed the second. "Give Pontmercy a chance, he's just trying to make up for his lashing tongue."
"First commenting about girl's limbs, now assuming wrongly my motives; My God, Grantaire, two hours without absinthe and you begin to spout nonsense," cut in the first, Marius. "Remember, I invited you both to the premiere only to avoid bringing that blood-drinker of a grandfather along."
"Why not refuse the invitation in the first place, Marius?" grumbled the third, Enjorlas.
"For heaven's sake," replied Marius. "My aunt threatened to throw herself into the Seine should I refuse it. And besides, the arts never fail to lift the melancholy of all this republican dispute off your shoulders, does it not?"
"This 'republican dispute' happens to be one of higher purpose," argued Enjolras indignantly.
"I know," said Marius calmly. "Never really denied my agreement of it's purpose, did I? Besides, your campaigns are getting a little weak, you need a break."
Enjolras narrowed his eyes. "All the more reason for me to continue campaigning. I must drive the people to fight for their rights to be free!"
"Perhaps," stated Marius, without missing a beat, "you are going the wrong way about this. Perhaps the people view you as an arrogant rich boy standing upon a table and attempting to dictate them."
Enjolras was aghast. "Me, a dictator?"
Marius shrugged. "You never know. What you'll need to persuade the people is to use someone who can interact with the people and better understand them."
"I understand them," said Enjolras pointedly.
"Yes, you do, but it's different with you being of higher class," said Marius. "The people will be less hesitant to listen to one of their kind."
"The whole point of my speeches is to convince the people that they can trust people like me to fend for them! That they are not alone!" protested Enjolras.
Marius was about to reply, when Grantaire cut across him.
"Come now, let's not fight in front of all this Opera nobility," he spoke with a drawl in his tone. "Take it to the bar, shall we?"
He turned, only to crash into a girl, who let out a small shriek and released the basket within her hands, the contents spilling out and splattering into the mud caked street.
The girl recovered from the shock of the collision, and as Grantaire stepped away, Enjolras saw that her appearance was shabby, adorning a large brown coat two sizes too big for her small thin frame, wearing beneath only a chemise and a skirt, ragged from poverty. Her shaggy, black hair fell over her shoulders like a mop.
"Merde! Monsieur, 'at's me flowers yer made me knock o'er there!" she said, her voice hoarse and rough.
Enjolras looked at where the basket had landed, only to see a pile of mud.
"Flowers that we shall replace," said Enjolras quickly, upon seeing Grantaire's mouth open in rebuttal.
"Naw, merci Monsieur, but these flowers can't be," she said, her face slipping into a frown. "Special carnations, yer see; blue ones, only found in me maman's gardens. 'Ard to be replaced, monsieur." She bent down, picking up the basket.
"Surely there must be a way to compensate your lost, then, mademoiselle," said Enjolras.
"Well..." the girl chewed her lip as she cleaned the mud in her basket with her skirt. "I is a flower girl; forty sous per flower, I was gonna sell 'em for..."
"We'll pay," said Enjolras, drawing out his wallet. He observed her bedraggled appearance, before taking out some coins and tossing them carelessly into the basket.
She stared at the coins. "Monsieur, surely - "
"No, mademoiselle," he said, raising a hand to stop her. "You'd need it more than I would. Perhaps you could spend some on language lessons; your language is revolting."
"We are revoltin' chillun livin' in revoltin' times," she said, propping the basket on her waist. "An' we'll be 'at way 'til the damn revoltin's done, don't ya think?"
Grantaire raised a brow. "Sweet Bonaparte, dress you in cloths of nobility and speak those words that a lass never ought to mention, you'd have Louis Philippe falling off his throne and yourself kicked out into the streets again. No wonder the poor never get anywhere with their horrible accents. The moment they talk they're despised!"
"A point indeed," said Marius. "It's most certainly well told that one could determine one's origins by the accent. Say, cover up the accent, dress them in decent clothes; would the poor not look like the rich?"
The girl turned scarlet, her eyes flashing with vehemence. "Sure, suh, my accent's 'orrible, but we ain't gonna have no fine clothes anytime soon, so I can assure yer, I ain't gonna get kicked outta no high society soon."
"Grantaire and Marius are not wrong, however," said Enjolras. "The accent would decide a person's respectability, wouldn't it? Suppose," he turned to the girl, "just say I change your accent, help you refine your speech. I must admit, with such passionate, steadfast thoughts like yours, you'd be a great spokesperson."
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Marius' eyebrows creeping up his forehead.
"I'd be a lass when Wellington stops wearing 'is anal hat," said the girl flatly.
"You'd mingle with the high society, to show the people what the poor are capable off," said Enjolras, ignoring her dirty comment. "That's my offer."
The flower girl opened her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted as a coach finally pulled up, after Marius' long efforts to flag one.
Grantaire gave a cheer, and scrambled into shelter from the pouring rain. Enjolras looked back at the girl, and taking a piece of paper from his coat pocket, he scrawled onto it hurriedly.
"If you ever agree," he said, passing the slip to her. "Enjolras, at your service."
"And Marius Pontmercy," said Marius from behind, tipping his hat as he held the door of the coach open. "If you would be so kind to tell us your name, mademoiselle."
"Oh, I'm no mademoiselle, monsieur," she said, chuckling nervously. "Éponine Jondrette, if you must know."
"Enjolras! Marius!" yelled Grantaire from the coach. "I shall leave you two behind if you don't get in here this minute!" Marius obliged, and Éponine smiled up at Enjolras.
"I suppose your ass 'as elsewhere to be. Gidday, messieurs!" she said, before ducking into the crowd, though Enjolras never lost her tousled, black hair amongst the bonnets and top hats.
He climbed back into the carriage.
"Someone's got a rendezvous, eh?" smirked Grantaire, as the couch lurched forwards. "Never thought the high and mighty marble man would fall for a street urchin! I am indeed agog!"
"She is merely an experiment," said Enjolras nonchalantly. "A test of the poor's potential. She will be living proof that the poor had just as right to France as the rich, that they are no dirtier than the rich and twisted are clean. That they should have the same rights, the same freedom, as one would have with wealth. Bonaparte saw that, but his time is passed, and France is slipping back into monarchism, into Ancien Régime, someone needs to see the political freedom the poor deserves as she will too refresh the fire within me, to help me remember the point of my radicalism."
He looked back at the arches of the Opéra, spotting Éponine dragged out of the crowd by a younger girl with the same, tangled, messy hair. The smaller girl said something, only to get a punch on the arm from the Jondrette girl. Standing amongst the high society, with the crinolines and tailcoats surrounding them, their tattered chemises stuck out like a sore thumb.
"Hopefully," he added softly.
"Ow! 'Ponine, what the 'ell was 'at for?"
"For blurtin' nonsense, 'Zelma!" chided Éponine. "Monsieur Enjolras ain't got no fancy o' me, and 'at's 'at."
"C'mon, 'ponine, shoulda at least accepted 'is offer," whined Azelma, her younger sister. She lowered her voice and dragged Éponine into a dark deserted alleyway. "It'd make things easier for da' to rob it if yer were in it."
"Da' already got the money 'e wanted," hissed Éponine, picking the coins from her basket. "Two whole napoléons for dumpin' a pile o' mud on the street; hafta admit, for a nobleman, Monsieur Enjolras ain't too smart."
"Which means yer can con 'im further if yer go to 'is 'ouse!" said Azelma, her eyes lighting up with malevolent mischief. "C'mon, 'ponine, imagine 'ow the rich live...practically paradise, I'da say!"
Éponine found a strand of her straggly damp hair, and twirled it distractedly, contemplating the idea.
"Just imagine, 'Ponine, there'll be lots o' chocolate for yer to eat, lots o' coal making lots o' heat," Azelma gave a dreamy sigh. "Oh, warm face, warm hands an' feet! Oh, it would be loverly!"
Éponine was sorely tempted.
"Think of it, someone's head resting on yer knee, warm an' tender as 'e can be, who tikes good care o' yer?"
At this point Éponine couldn't resist anymore. She reached into the basket, fishing out the slip of paper that held Enjolras' address.
"'Zelma?" she asked finally. "Remember 'ow I told yer I didn't accept the offer?"
"Yea...?" said Azelma slowly, the side of her mouth tugging into a mischievous smirk.
Éponine's face now couldn't help but mirror her sister's. Her grimy fingers closed around the paper.
"Well, never told 'im I won't come, I didn'..."
Enjolras awoke the next morning to incessant rapping on his bedroom door.
"Monsieur, forgive me for rousing your sleep, but there is a man who requests your presence."
Enjolras groaned as he propped himself against his elbows. "Beg his pardon, tell him to return later, " he said, not opening his eyes. "What time is it now anyways, six?"
"Ten o' clock, to be precise, monsieur. And if I may dare to say, I doubt the man would be easily negotiable with."
"Why so?" asked Enjolras, his eyes opening slowly, light filling his world.
"He does reek of drink..."
Now Enjolras was fully awake.
He burst out of his bedroom, much to the poor assistant's surprise, fleeing down the staircase into the drawing room. Sure enough, he found a pair of feet sticking out from behind the polyester couch.
"This better be important, Grantaire," said Enjolras.
"No, actually it isn't," the man drawled, sitting up. "Just a request to stay here in your house."
Enjolras sighed. "Grantaire, I'm not having any girls over anytime soon – "
"How 'bout mademoiselle le fille de fleur?"
Enjolras folded his arms. "I doubt Mademoiselle Jondrette would've accepted my offer, seeing her prudent opinions to stick to her current demeanor. Besides, she was so horrible dirty and low, there's no possible way I could help her, could I?"
In that moment, a knock drew attention to the servant by the door. "Monsieur," she said. "There is a woman with a ghastly accent and clothing that wants to meet you."
From the corner of his eye, Enjolras caught Grantaire smirking.
"Bring her into the drawing room then," he said, keeping his voice level.
A few minutes later, there was some shuffling to be heard in the front hall, before Éponine entered, in the same dirty, mud-splattered chemise, and barefooted.
"Considered yer offer, I did," she said quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the floor. "Guessed it would be 'elpful for me application for a maybe you'd want some help with yer campaigning, all this rebellin' an' stuff. No one knows the poor like the poor do."
Enjolras didn't speak for a while. He'd been prepared for her to refuse the offer, but for her to accept it...
Always be prepared for the unexpected. So he had broken his mantra, all because a street urchin surprised him.
He felt Grantaire's expectant gaze on him. "I'll give you lessons," he said finally. "But you must pay."
Éponine's mouth dropped open. "An' with what, monsieur, my undergarments?"
"With the money I gave you yesterday," replied Enjolras calmly. "I gave you the money to pay for language lessons, and now you must."
Éponine's face turned red once more. "Aww dang, monsieur," she said. "My da's taken 'em coins to drink." It was true; Thénardier had searched her clean of money when she had returned late last night.
"Then you will receive no lessons from me, Mademoiselle Jondrette," said Enjolras coolly, turning away. "I cannot help you."
"But I can," came a voice from behind. Grantaire rose from the couch, a bottle of absinthe swinging at his side.
"You have the money?" asked Enjolras skeptically.
"Nope, but maybe I'll get some outta Marius' poor aunt," he said. "So, what do you say, mademoiselle, I'll pay for your lessons."
"Aww," crooned Éponine, "Least 'e ain't 'eartless."
The rest of the day, Grantaire had some sort of a triumphant smirk on his face.
A/N: And Happy New Year! Well, for me and all those who are on the same island, I suppose. Gah, time zones. Oh well, I shall go write my new year's revolu - ahem, resolution now :]