Chapter One – Drink With Me To Days Gone By

Enjolras paid the carriage driver, using the little money he had left; spending the last five years running from his past had had a severe impact on the wealth he had once enjoyed. Before, he was the son of wealthy parents. He was an idealist, a revolutionary, and, most of all, he was happy. Now, he had little money, few dreams, and saw nothing that made him happy. The guilt from that night at the Barricade had become all-consuming, allowing him to feel nothing outside of despair. Every night, as he struggled to fall asleep, he pictured their faces; Grantaire, Joly, Jean Provaire, Combeferre, Eponine… Eponine. She had been the first to die. The first casualty in his dream for a New France. She had been seventeen. She had her entire life before her, and it was because of him that she had died.

Enjolras had arrived in a town just outside of London. It looked a lot like Montfermiel, and he had to remind himself that he was no longer at home. He would not be able to drink with his friends whilst they discussed their ideas for the Revolution. He would not be attending university with Marius. After he had been rescued from the Barricade, Marius had married Cosette and now had two children; a boy named Enjolras and a girl named 'Ponine, named for his two friends that he had lost at the Barricade. Enjolras had laughed when he had heard that Marius named his son after him. If only he had known that his friend did not die in battle.

He realised that his life would reach a new level of difficulty now that he had left France. In France, he could keep in touch with his parents, the only people who knew the truth about their son, and they had helped him. Being in England, he had severed ties with them, he could no longer rely on the comfort it had brought him, knowing that he could write to his father when he was in financial trouble, or to his mother when he just needed words of comfort. He was alone now. He hoped that that would be enough ease the pain.

It was time for Sebastien Enjolras to become the man he should have been long ago. He would begin on the bottom rung of this new society, and he would gain the respect of those around him. He vowed, though, that there were to be no more sacrifices in his name. It was not in him to be in a position of power. Behind him was a tavern a lot like the one he and his friends had spent so many hours in, with a 'Help Wanted' sign in the window. Enjolras took a deep breath and stepped inside.

"Excuse me, Madame, I'm here to inquire about the position you have advertised in the window."

The stout barmaid turned to look at him, her bright green eyes piercing his blue ones. Enjolras felt embarrassment when he noticed that she was considerably younger than he had thought when he had viewed her from the back.

"You're not from around here," she retorted, "people around here don't talk like that. Where're you from? Paris?"

"I was born in Paris, yes," Enjolras replied quickly, "I have been living in Versailles for the past five years, and thought it may be time to try my luck living in London."

"You look like a man of learning," the barmaid observed, "I bet you went to university."

Enjolras became increasingly uncomfortable at this. He had tried to block out his time at university. That's where the ideas of a Revolution started. That had been the beginning of the end.

"Yes, I attended university. I was a student of Law."

"Well then, why do you wanna work in a rundown old place like this? You could go work for someone more important." The barmaid was quite obviously confused with Enjolras' decision to choose bar work over something that would pay considerably more.

"I think, for me, it would be best to begin a new career path, living in a new country".

"Well then, I need a boy to run errands for me. You're a bit older than we'd normally take, but you look like you can do a lot of heavy lifting, so I don't have to get anyone else in. I'll give you a go. I'm Miss Turner. My father owns this tavern, so you'll be answering to me first, but to him if you cause any trouble, got it?"

A smile of gratitude crept across Enjolras' face, but didn't quite reach his eyes. He hadn't smiled properly in the last five years. Maybe he had a chance for a new start now.

"Yes, I understand, and please accept my deepest gratitude," he said as he shook her hand, "I apologise for being a nuisance, however, I am also new in town and have nowhere in which to live. Could you possibly recommend somewhere that I could stay?" Enjolras attempted to be as neutral as possible. He did not expect any response from Miss Turner.

"Well, there's always a spare room upstairs. We keep three to rent out for short stays, and then there's the spare where my family used to live when I was growing up. It's been empty for years. Tell you what, you accept 3 shillings a week less in your pay, you can have the room".

"Thank you, thank you, when do you need me to begin working? I am anxious to repay you for your gracious offer".

"You can go to the baker, Mr. Winters. He's got two shops in town; the closest is just at the end of this street. He should be there now. Tell him that we need three loaves of bread for the guests tomorrow morning".

As Enjolras was leaving, Miss Turner called out to him.

"Oi, pretty boy, you never did tell me your name."

"Enjolras," he replied, "Sebastien Enjolras."

"Blimey, you weren't kidding when you said you were French. You'd have to be with a name like that. Oh, and keep an eye out for the shop girl at Mr Winters', Ella, she's a pretty little thing."

Enjolras set off for the bakery, taking in the surrounds of the town he was now to call home. Maybe now he could forget.

Eponine was looking forward to being able to close the shop. 'Not long now,' she thought as she saw the sun falling lower and lower in the sky. It had been an awfully long day in the bakery. She had had to scare off three pickpockets, and a young boy, who looked an awful lot like her poor brother Gavroche, who had been killed at the Barricades, who had tried to steal a loaf of bread. Mr. Winters would not have been too happy had the young boy succeeded.

Finally though, she had a moment to herself. She began to remember Gavroche. That beautiful, lively brother of hers, with his wide eyes; always curious and exploring the world. He had never attended school, yet he knew more than most people she knew. She didn't notice the young man with the dark blonde hair, and familiar, striking blue eyes, enter the shop. He cleared his throat and she was startled out of her daydreaming.

"Monsieur Enjolras?" she said, not thinking.

"Yes," he replied, "how did you know my name?"

Eponine had not missed her slip up. She quickly tried to mask her true identity. No one was supposed to know her here, especially not someone who thought her to be dead.

"I heard about you from some of the people nearby. It's a small town; news travels fast. My name is Elizabeth Jane Smith." She was impressed at her own ability to lie that quickly. She supposed it was a talent she had inherited from her parents. They were so very good at lying about whom they were.

"Oh," Enjolras looked surprised. His eyes were searching the girls face. He could not place her, but could not remember where he had seen her before. She looked so familiar, and yet, not.

"Miss. Turner sent me," he continued, "she said to see Mr. Winters about getting three loaves of bread for the guests in the tavern tonight."

"You're working in the tavern?" Eponine was shocked. She knew that Enjolras and Marius had studied law together at the university. Marius, her Marius, who had married Cosette. Eponine had only had a small kiss on her brow as she 'died' as a sign of Marius' affection. Cosette has an entire lifetime. In her thoughts of Marius, she had not noticed that Enjolras had been speaking.

"…Really, I don't feel comfortable discussing my motives with a complete stranger. I just need those loaves of bread, and I will be on my way."

"Of course, Monsieur," Eponine replied. Enjolras noticed again her use of 'Monsieur' as opposed to 'Mister'.

"You are from France also?" he asked her. It was a comfort to him to know he was not the only one.

"Yes Monsieur. I grew up in a small town outside of Paris. Nowhere special. I have a much better life here."

"But don't you miss your family, or your friends?"

"I don't have a family, and my friends did not survive very long."

Enjolras' eyes darkened.

"Neither did mine," he replied, "They died, in vain, at the Barricades."

"I remember the Revolution, Monsieur. Here is your bread."

Enjolras went to leave, but turned just before he reached the door.

"Mademoiselle Elizabeth? Did I know you, back in France? Is that how you knew my name?"

"No Monsieur, as I said before, people talk in this town. That's how I knew your name. Have a nice night."

"Yes, you too Mademoiselle."

Enjolras was still unable to place the girls face as he walked back to the tavern. He wracked his brain, trying so hard to remember the times that he had tried so hard to forget. She wasn't any of the girls he had met whilst at university. He'd had 'pretty girls go to his head, and witty girls go to his bed', as Grantaire used to, so eloquently put it, but he couldn't match this girls face with any of theirs. He was about to enter the tavern when he stopped suddenly. It had finally hit him.

"'Ponine!" he said, louder than he had expected.

He left the loaves of bread outside the tavern and ran back towards the bakery. How did it take him so long to realise? Poor 'Ponine! The first to die at the Barricade, their first loss of innocent life in the Revolution. She was healthier now, most definitely, and much prettier than the street urchin he had once known, but she was supposed to have died. Perhaps that's what she meant by her friends not surviving very long. She had loved Marius for so long, and Marius had never noticed, even when Enjolras and the rest of their friends had joked about it with him. She had given her life for Marius, or so they thought. Just as they had thought that Enjolras had died for their cause.

He reached the bakery, gasping for breath and went to walk inside. The door was locked.

"'Ponine?" he called. Deep down, he thought he might have just wanted some sort of confirmation that he was not alone with this secret. That maybe he didn't have to deal with his anger and guilt and grief alone anymore.

"'PONINE?" he called again, louder this time, and still no answer.

'Just a ghost,' he thought, 'I've carried this guilt at her death for so long, and now her ghost has come to haunt me. She must have just been a ghost.'

He fell to the ground, unsure whether from exhaustion, or all consuming grief, and lay there. He didn't know if it had been seconds or minutes or hours when he managed to find his feet again, but this time he was sure he was mad. He had to be. The journey was too long, and the town looked too much like Montfermiel. Eponine had died five years ago. She had died, and it was his fault.