The next morning, a very hungover Madame Thénardier awoke to a furious knocking on the door. Blinking sleepily, she pawed at her husband and muttered for him to get the door; probably their bastard of a landlord. Those types could be so inconsiderate.

Pierre groaned and shook his head as he pushed himself from the lumpy, straw bed, and took the blanket away as petty revenge on his wife for making him wake up. Swearing lightly, Beatrice pushed herself to a sitting position. She glanced down at the necklace in her hand and dropped it down her corset for safe keeping; apparently Pierre hadn't caught a glance of it yet, and it'd be nice to bribe him with the money she'd make from pawning it. It was quite a convincing fake; maybe she could sell it as if it was real.

The man of the house opened the door, squinting at the figure before letting out a low whistle. "Eh, Bonjour mam'selle… Wot's a pretty thing like you doin' 'round here, cherie?"

Beatrice squinted at the curvaceous figure in the door, rubbing her eyes a bit as they adjusted to the weak, mid-morning light which managed to pass first through the clouds, then through the dingy window. The vision revealed herself to be Anne-Marie, looking quite distraught. She wore her uniform, such as it was; a slightly discolored black dress that draped around her shoulders and was hiked up to the knees, which could be released to the floor by means of a series of ribbons, in case of policemen looking for unlicensed ladies of the night. She had tearstains around her bloodshot eyes, and was all atremble – an impressive feat, considering that she had tight-laced her corset.

"Oh, Monsieur Thénardier, it's terrible!" The poor woman wailed, brushing past him as she imposed herself on the kitchen table. "I'm sorry ta disturb you so early, but I didn' know who else ta talk to, an' Beatrice'n I wos out last night an' I though' maybe she migh' rememba somethin' an'…. Oh Monsieur!" She groaned, leaning her head and arms on the table, causing a bowl to topple to the floor and shatter.

"Clumsy poutain!" Muttered Pierre as he watched their last scrap of china get busted into one thousand pieces. "Eponine! Where've ya run off to?" He stuck his crane-like neck out the window, looking for his child.

Carefully stepping around the glistening, white shards, la Thénardiesse sat beside the shamble of a woman. "Now, now love, wot's'a matter?" She murmured, watching her through eyes that expressed concern, but hid severe annoyance. "'S nofin' that can't be fixed, I'm sure."

"But it can't! God in 'eaven, I dunno what I'm gonna do!" Anne whimpered, looking up at her friend pitifully. "I lost my necklace!"
Though her throat tightened a bit, Beatrice waved a dismissive hand, "Is tha' wot you're worried about? Silly thing, ya've got at least ten more! Go wear the blue one, it looks good wif tha' dress…"

"No, you don't understand!" She wailed, burying her face in her arms again, "A customer gave that to me!"
A derisive snort came from the window, followed by a sarcastic quip, "Tha's not the only thin' 'e gave 'er…"

"Shut up, Pierre," replied the slightly more tactful wife. "Chérie, I doubt 'e'd care wot you're wearin' when you're workin'."

"No! Listen to me!" Anne cried, looking betwixt her elders, "I've been seeing one'a them men who runs the steel mill! 'E brings me to the opera'n everything!" she gave another wail, wiping her eyes on her olive-toned arm, "I think 'e might wont me ta be 'is mistress, but if 'e thinks I lost that necklace… Tha' necklace costs more 'an my room, Beatrice!"

Beatrice found it difficult to appear sympathetic. The necklace hiding deep within the confines of her corset represented the most money she had ever seen in her life! Friend or not, she wasn't giving that up! But she had to do something… Her mind went through several scenarios and she was only brought out of them when she felt a trembling hand on her arm.

"Wot love? Sorry, 'm still not quite awake…"
"I asked, did you remember anyfing that 'appened last night? I know I wasn't wearing it!"

Thinking quickly, Madame Thénardier replied "Well… We went back ta your room, then went out 'gain… It wosn't too late… We went back ta the pub… An' then…" She pursed her lips, as though trying to remember what had happened, "'M not sure… Maybe ya got it when we went back?"

"Maybe…. I don't know why I would've though…" Anne replied, sinking deeper into her despair, "What am I s'pposed ta do, m'dame? I'm ta see 'im Friday!"

"I'm sure it'll turn up, love. Go look through your room 'gain, it's such a bleedin' mess anyway…. If ya really can't find it, I'll see wot I can do. Alrigh'?" advised Beatrice, looking somber, yet comforting to disguise the franc signs which were appearing in her eyes.

"Well… If ya really think so…" Sniffled the prostitute as she pushed herself up from the chair, rubbing the tears from her brown eyes, "You're a real friend, m'dame…." She gave a watery smile and excused herself just as abruptly as she'd invited herself in.

Had she not already been seated, la Thénardiesse would have sunk to the chair. "Wot ta do…" She'd spoken herself into a corner; usually that was her husband's job, not hers! Speaking of…

The master of the house came down from the window, convinced that wherever Eponine was, she was not within earshot of the precarious ledge.

"Wot're ya waitin' 'round for? Sweep tha' up," he commanded, nodding to the remains of the shattered bowl.

Paying her husband no heed, Beatrice retrieved the necklace from the pocket sewn into her corset and turned it over in her hands a few times, "Wot ta do now…" she repeated

"Wa's that?" questioned Pierre, snatching it from her and glancing it over, "'s this what she was whingin' about?"

"Yeah. I nicked it last nigh'. Didn't think it wos real…" She trailed off, turning to look up at her husband in mild annoyance.

"That's m'girl!" He grinned, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before examining the necklace closer, "we'll get a' least a thousand for this!"

"Slow down there, batard. 'Ow're we gonna pawn this off? S'pposin' she runs ta the law?" chided the more practical of the two.

"'Er? She ain't registered is she? Nah, she wouldn't."
"Alrigh', supposin' this man'a her's does. Then what, mm?"

Giving into his wife's nagging, Pierre rolled his eyes and sat across from her. He tossed the necklace into the middle of the table, though he kept his eyes on Beatrice.

"Then wot're you proposin'?"

"I don't know yet! If you'd shut up for once, maybe I could think…"

"No need ta get snippy, ma belle," he called sarcastically.

"Sod off," came the response, as his advice had gone, once again, unheeded.

"Fine, but will ya clear the floor 'fore someone bleeds ta death? I can' find the girl anywhere!"

Reluctantly, Madame stood from the chair and went to retrieve a hand broom. She cursed her lazy daughter under her breath, though was a bit concerned. Though Eponine did tend to leave the house, she usually came back for lunch. Which reminded her, she'd need to go to the market after she'd brushed up the shards.

After disposing the fragments of the last wedding gift they had left to their name, Beatrice retrieved her purse which had been tossed to a corner of the room last night. "'M goin' out." She called to Pierre, who had taken to the window sill again. He nodded dismissively and hung his hands on the upper edges of the wooden, splinter-dotted frame.

When Beatrice shut the door with a slight thud, the master of the house began muttering to himself. As much as his wife's nagging irritated him, she did have a point; they would have to pawn this off without being traced.

"Wot ta do…" He wet his lips with his tongue, inadvertently quoting his wife's earlier chant. "Wot ta do…"

He spent the next half hour or so pacing the room, his devious calculator of a mind thinking up plot after plot, each more elaborate, ridiculous, and more likely to fail than the last. Perhaps they could get Eponine to sell it, somewhere in the rich part of town? No, not even a blind, deaf beggar would take their daughter for a lady wealthy enough to lawfully possess jewels like this. If they stretched their luck, they could sell it cold-blank on the street… But they wouldn't get half what it was worth, and that thought broke the man's heart. There had to be something they could do.

He turned the necklace in his hands over and over, looking for any kind of feature which would set it from any other necklace; unfortunately, there was a stamp on the back of one of the jewel's insets. "Félix Bracquemond, eh? Classy." Letting it sift through his fingers several times, the good Monsieur finally let it slide to the table with a soft thud, disgusted with his inability to think up a plot. Was he losing his touch?