Sorry this took so long. Here's a double-length chapter to thank you for your patience with me. I have no idea how people manage to write E/E - I stuck the two of them in a room for months, and this is all they would give me. Apologies for making this Enjolras such a cold bastard.

The characters originally belonged to Hugo. The painting originally belonged to Delacroix. The metaphors belong to anyone but Courfeyrac.


Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras sat around a table outside of the Musain. No one spoke, although Courfeyrac was humming vaguely to himself. Combeferre tried to bury himself in a book but burned with distracting embarrassment every time he looked at the empty fourth chair that sat beside him.

He had said twelve-thirty, didn't he? It was almost one, and the two other leaders of the ABC were growing visibly more impatient as each minute dragged painfully on. Where was she?

"Well, where is she?" Enjolras finally demanded.

"I don't know. Please, give her a bit more time. You won't regret it."

Courfeyrac yawned ostentatiously. "Your petticoat knows where to meet us, doesn't she?"

"Courfeyrac, as I have told you, she is not "my petticoat." She is a promising mind, and potentially a very valuable resource to the ABC. Her gender is entirely incidental."

"Keep your pedantry; you know that I will never be one to mince words. But if it will mollify you, you may have my apology. If you are satisfied, answer the question."

"Fine. I know that she knows where this is. It's where we first met."

"I give her five more minutes," Enjolras declared. "I have things to do. In the meantime, remind me why I am bothering to wait."

"Aside from the reasons I just gave Courfeyrac? Well, I have been working with her since the end of summer, and just the other day, she starting spouting Robespierre at me! I figured that that would be enough to at least merit a conversation. Plus, the Terror is more your territory than mine."

"Is that it? I applaud your work, my friend, and hers too. Every person should work for his or her own elevation, and it bodes well that our doctrines are gaining acceptance. But we don't have time to meet with every single petty criminal who gets angry and memorizes a bit of some speech, even if the speech is great."

"I swear to you that she's different. You should see her work, Enjolras! She is an angel trapped in the sewer of poverty and crime," Enjolras raised a skeptical eyebrow, "permit me the metaphor – her eyes towards the heavens, but her wings caked in refuse. I can't decide if her progress is a triumph or a tragedy, but I can't not want to help her. We can use her; I can feel it. And," Combeferre glared back at his leader with uncharacteristic fierceness, "she deserves our recognition. I know that you would never consent to her gaining membership, but…recognition. We need to broaden our base. A core of nine young men cannot transform a nation on their own."

"We'll see. She has three minutes."

Just as Combeferre was cursing himself as an idiot and starting to despair, Eponine appeared in the dress of brown challis.

"Aha!" he cried triumphantly, jumping to his feet and waving her over. He bowed as she approached and heard the scrape of chairs as his companions rose and did the same.

"At last, Eponine! You're late, but no matter. My friends, this is Eponine. And Eponine, meet my companions and co-conspirators Enjolras and Courfeyrac."

" 'm sorry." She curtseyed unsteadily. "M'sieur Combeferre has told me good things about you. He says that you're going to change the–"

"Oh, never mind all that now," Courfeyrac waved dismissively. "I'm starving, and you can flatter us after we eat."

The four of them slipped into the back room of the Musain, where a now-cool tray of roast beef awaited them. Eponine ate with grim desperation as Enjolras spoke, pausing only to laconically answer his occasional questions about her experiences in the slums and knowledge of illegal printers. When she finished, she silently hunched over her empty plate, hiding her face beneath her bonnet.

"All right, Mademoiselle," Enjolras was explaining, "we have an idea of how you may be of assistance. Despite the fact that our society is engaged in considerably more…questionable activities, we were originally, or at least ostensibly, formed to promote the education of children. You may be able to help us there. Do you know of any other people, especially children, who would like you be interested in bettering themselves through education?"

She looked up from her empty plate and stared at a point somewhere past Enjolras's shoulder. Courfeyrac coughed pointedly in the painful silence.

Trying not to squirm, Combeferre desperately jumped in. "The idea was that you would run a sort of library for your neighborhood, and quietly give out our pamphlets to those you thought you could turn to our cause."

She gave a little start and seemed to jump out of her stupor. For the first time that afternoon, she looked at his face, her expression almost startled. "You mean, you'd let me keep the books, and give 'em out to people who'd read 'em."

"Yes, that's the idea. Could you handle that responsibility?"

She stared at him a moment longer before she slumped forward and looked back and the plate. "No, it wouldn't work. Papa'd sell the books."

"So we'd keep the books, and you'd be our intermediary," Courfeyrac shrugged.

"You mean I'd run 'em back and forth b'tween you an' the other people? Who'd I give 'em to? The gamins?"

"Some adults as well, but yes, primarily children, or at least people your age. It is important that education begins with children, so that they may learn that there is an alternative to living a life of crime. Plus, we do have a pretense to maintain," Enjolras replied with a faint half-smile.

The bonnet shook back and forth. "They'd sell 'em too. They wouldn't read 'em. Gamins don't care about books. Street knowledge is more important."

"We thought of that, too," Combeferre replied eagerly. "That is where your assistance would be the most important. We would create incentives to reward those who requested books, those who returned them, and those who proved that they truly comprehended the materials. We would need you to watch them, encourage them, and track their progress as best you could."

"Rewards," she perked up. "Like food and clothes and stuff?"

"Precisely. For better or for worse, every revolution in history has demonstrated that progress can only be made when you appeal to the people's hearts, minds, and stomachs, no? We would implement the same sort of pragmatism here."

"That sounds like it would take lots of money." She had picked up her fork and was playing nervously with the tines.

"Well, yes, but we hope that it would be worthy investment. Speaking of which, we would probably be able to pay you something for your efforts. It would not be an easy task, and it might be dangerous, especially once you progressed to the point of distributing–"

"You must be very rich," she said abruptly, staring almost disconcertingly at Enjolras, seeming to notice his unmistakably privileged air for the first time. Combeferre, slightly wounded by her interruption, looked across the table to see Courfeyrac gaping at her in confusion.

Enjolras had no visible reaction to the somewhat jarring comment. "Through no fault of my own, but yes," he replied. "I do my best to put the fact to good use."

"Oh." She began to wring the fork in her hands. "You've been so very kind feeding me and letting me in here, but…if I come home without any money, Papa'll be angry. I hate it when he's mad and I know you would too." Her trembling voice sank into dullness again, and she let the fork fall to the floor. "You see, my father is a poor, honest actor and my mother and sister are sick and if you could please help us we could heal them and they could find work and we could find something to eat and we'd be so grateful and bless you for the rest of our lives and we'd burn a candle for you in church every Sunday. Papa wrote you a letter. Here."

Enjolras took the proffered envelope and tore it in half without reading it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out four golden louis, and set them on the table in front of her. "Spare me your stories."

Eponine stared in dull shock at the coins. "Thank you," she whispered, making no effort to collect them.

"I think, Mademoiselle, it would be best if you left."

She looked up at Enjolras in broken wonder and he nodded back at her in cold affirmation. "Take it and go."

Her hand shot out, the gleaming pile disappeared, and she ran for the door.

"Wait! Eponine!" Combeferre cried as he jumped up, but the door slammed behind her. "Thursday," he tried to call after her, but did not know she could hear him over the terrible sound of her footfalls disappearing down the corridor leading to the main room of the Musain.

"By God," Courfeyrac broke into the charged silence, "what was that? I've seen that face around before, and I give you credit for cleaning her up, but not even I would touch her! What were you thinking, man?"

"I – what?"

"Lewdness aside, Courfeyrac has a point. She looked familiar. Is she that waif who sometimes lurks outside the café? The one whose blouse barely covers her...I mean..." Enjolras trailed off and suddenly turned bright red.

Courfeyrac laughed. "What our dear leader means to say is that he's appalled you went for the girl with the exposed tits."

It was Combeferre's turn to flush scarlet. "You think that's what this is about? Me trying to take advantage of some unfortunate? Well?"

He stormed over to where a small illustration hung on the wall – Feuilly's recently finished reinterpretation of Delacroix's "Liberty Leading the People." The essence of the scene remained unchanged, but the faces of the men in the crowd were recognizable those of the Amis. At the law students' urging, the naked corpse of Blondeau replaced the body that sprawled across the front-left corner of the original work. Not a little boy but Enjolras stood at Liberty's side, grasping her fingers with his right hand and holding her musket aloft with his left.

Combeferre pointed violently at the woman in the middle of the scene. "Don't you understand? This could be her, if we only gave her the chance. Where you assume a Mimi, I have found a Marianne!"

"Not metaphors again!" Courfeyrac cried. "I'll wait outside until you two have finished. Metaphors! I'm getting some wine." And with that he strode out the door.

Enjolras watched Courfeyrac leave, then stared at Combeferre impassively. "I saw no such resemblance. What do you want?"

"Look, I admit that whatever just happened was a fiasco – it's clear that her father intimidated her into putting on that farce – but...let her come to a meeting. Just let her hear what we have to say, and she can muster support in the slums."

"She was interested only in getting enough money to feed herself. I don't blame the girl, but she would be and currently is an unnecessary distraction. And how can we expect anyone who cannot defy her own parents to defy the king?"

"A distraction? What, simply because she is female, and we red-blooded young men couldn't keep our eyes off of her long enough to pay attention to you? You heard Courfeyrac: he wasn't interested in the least, and Courfeyrac is interested in everyone."

"We are a brotherhood. Fraternité."

"And what of equality?"

"We must choose our battles. I fear that equality between men must precede equality between the sexes. You've been reading too much Condorcet."

"Enjolras counseling patience? Ha! No, I've ignored this issue for far too long. Men will never accept universal equality as long as half the human race is oppressed. Furthermore, as long as we keep women as second-class citizens, they will be dependent, and will therefore either starve or be forced to sell themselves when their husbands die. It is immoral and inhumane."

"Republican motherhood will never flourish in the depths of Paris."

"And the depths of Paris will never flourish without republican motherhood!"

Enjolras shook his head. "This Eponine is not one of your bright, sweet, innocent beings full of life and laughter and goodness and whatever else you like to go on about."

"I know, but neither is she," Combeferre replied with a significant look back at Feuilly's illustration, murmuring, almost as an afterthought, "Your woman doesn't exactly have a respectable blouse, either."

Enjolras's eyes widened in momentary shock, then narrowed into a glare. "Now you truly are being ridiculous."

"Oh?" he scowled in response.

"If she gives you any useful information, I hope to hear of it immediately," he commanded icily. "Otherwise, what you do with your time is your own business, but I want to hear nothing more of this."

"So that's it, then? And what of–"

"I said no more."

"Fine. Just…go."

Combeferre sunk into a chair, burying his face in his hands as he heard the door slam behind Enjolras. What am I trying to do? he thought listlessly as an unfamiliar ringing filled his ears. He could feel the Enjolras in Feuilly's painting glaring at him scornfully.

The solitude was a short-lived luxury. Courfeyrac entered the room, ignoring Combeferre's groan as he pulled up a second chair. "All right, I'm going to give you a chance to explain yourself without an angry warrior-god judging your every word. So start talking."

"Let me be. You've already made your ill-informed judgment."

"No. I want to know what's going through that normally brilliant, rational head of yours. I'm your friend, and I know you need to sort out...whatever this is. It's not like you. And you're making yourself look moronic."

"Let me tell you the story of how I found her again. She tried to rob me one night outside of the Musain, but all I had with me were books. I told her a bit about them and she seemed intelligent and truly intrigued. After that, we began meeting in the Luxembourg, where I teach her about whatever strikes my fancy."

"I say you're chasing after the impossible."

"The impossible?"

"Haven't you heard of it? Ah, I forgot; Combeferre struck the exam with his pen, and answers gushed freely forth! With a word, he calmed the raging Enjolras! He healed the sick and brought hope to the masses!"

"Sacrilege," he responded half-heartedly.

"There's no such thing, and you know it. But you're trying to distract me. My point is: there are some things that even you can't do, Miracle Worker. Isaac Newton himself couldn't unlock the secrets of alchemy, and I'd say that girl is a fair piece of lead for you to be trying to bring forth gold."

"And who is abusing metaphors now? How can you claim to fight for the people in the abstract when you scorn them so in actuality?"

Courfeyrac looked heavenward in mild exasperation. He could only take so much sanctimonious preaching before developing a headache and an overwhelming urge to play billiards. "For once, I'm dealing in facts, not opinions. Open your eyes, man! Perhaps she truly is good and strong and intelligent and passionate and willing to help us and so on. Fine; I will grant you that. However, your attachment to her goes far beyond what your duty to the ABC would demand. What are you hoping to accomplish?"

"I just don't want to see another life go to waste. She doesn't deserve that."

"Nonsense. Stop trying to hide behind your vaunted altruism. I don't know what you see in her, but she's a filthy street girl, not the suffering of the masses personified." Combeferre opened his mouth to protest, but Courfeyrac cut him off. "Fine. I'll stop. Just let me tell you this: as long as you insist on trying to play Pygmalion, you're making yourself look like a fool."

"Pygmalion? More like King Cophetua, at least;" he smiled weakly, "he's the one who took in the beggar girl and–"

"No, Pygmalion. Cophetua loved who he found, not what he made."


And so the title finally comes into play. The plays Pygmalion and My Fair Lady are likely responsible for the idea, but the reference is actually meant to be to the myth. My apologies if you were looking forward to reading about rain in Spain, but it's not going to happen (and if you wanted to read about A Little Fall of Rain in Spain, then you're beyond my help, and I'm not sorry in the slightest). The characters are familiar enough with basic mythology that I didn't think it realistic for them to explain the stories in the chapter, but here's a summary for a modern audience.

King Cophetua was a wise, handsome, and well-loved African king, but he refused to marry because he found all women to be shallow and irritating. However, one day, he ran across a beautiful beggar girl named Penelophon on the side of the road and immediately fell in love. He asked her to marry him, she said yes, and everyone lived Happily Ever After.

Pygmalion, on the other hand, was a Cypriot prince who became disgusted with women after observing the behavior of some prostitutes. However, he was a sculptor who was obsessed with making a perfectly lifelike statue of a woman. He became so infatuated with his own work that he actually gave her presents and wasted his life embracing and fawning over her. Eventually, Aphrodite took pity on the guy and brought the statue to life. The statue-girl picked up the name Galatea at some point, even though the Classical writers never referred to her as such. Some versions of the story have them live Happily Ever After, while others say that Galatea turned out to be cold and detached, as some might expect of a statue.

On second thought, "A Little Fall of Rain in Spain" would be a great title for a parody.