As the others continued discussing, Combeferre found his attention wandering to a half whispered discussion he could just about overhear.

"Do you hear me? Stay away from him. There are other men here tonight—you don't have to try for the one I've set my sights on." That was from Francoise.

"You came here with the little one." That was from Charlotte.

"Jehan knows there's nothing serious between us."

"You've better luck with him than with Enjolras. He doesn't like you." That was also from Charlotte, a bit braver now.

"He'd like me better if you weren't poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Listen to me, there's no reason we two should have to go after the same man. It'll only end it heartbreak for one of us. What about that brown haired one, with the glasses? He's nice enough." Combeferre jumped. He was the only one who wore glasses; she had to be referring to him.

" All you're doing is frightening Enjolras; it's terribly obvious he doesn't like you. Don't break your Jehan's heart." Francoise let out a wordless exclamation of frustration, and the argument continued.

Combeferre let him mind return to the more pressing matter. Enjolras and Feuilly were trying desperately to remember everything they had ever known about the A.B.Z. and cursing Bahorel for not being there. Jehan was desperately trying to explain why the men's behavior was suspicious, oblivious to the fact that everyone agreed with him on that point.

"If they're plotting something," Enjolras said, " Which they certainly look like they are, we have to stay far away."

"I suppose." Courfeyrac said, with a sigh.

"Cheer up," Joly chimed in " They aren't brave enough to start a riot themselves."

"It's not bravery I worry about;" Enjolras said, his eyes never leaving the group of well-dressed men, " It's stupidity. The A.B.Z walk the very fine line where those two qualities meet."

" Well, the least we can do is not act suspicious either!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, " We must look a sight, huddled around like this, and the overture hasn't even started! What's the delay?" Without a word, the men returned to their seats, only Jehan looking a little jumpy. They excused Jehan much due to his youth—and the fact he was utterly formidable when the occasion called for it.

Enjolras, on the other hand, was distracted, disconnected, and in no mood to deal with Francoise—so of course she just tried harder, and unfortunately, so did Charlotte. Combeferre could see Enjolras thinking. It was almost like watching a clock tick; even though you couldn't see the gears, you knew they were making the clock move. He was handling himself rather well, Combeferre thought; he was responding to both women with his usual cold politeness. He didn't look frightened, he didn't look nervous-he didn't look like he was even inhabiting the same universe, either, but that was beside the point. Then, from nowhere, the overture began. Well, that was something. Surely once the opera started everyone would calm down, and there would be nothing further to worry about except whether this Rossini had written another hit. Until Françoise said nine words that made Combeferre want to jump off the balcony.

" M'sieur Enjolras," she said flirtatiously, and not knowing what she was up against, "Which of us do you like better?" Enjolras froze. He looked like a bird suddenly shot out of flight.

"Excuse me?" he stuttered.

"Oh, Françoise, really!" Charlotte exclaimed. She turned bright red and hid her face in her shawl. Enjolras, brought cruelly back to Earth cast his eyes from one woman to the other, then stared straight ahead at the stage.

" You don't have to answer, Enjolras, really, Françoise is being ridiculous." Charlotte said, looking thoroughly mortified

" Not at all!" Françoise returned. " I'm just curious—since obviously Mam'selle Charlotte and I have reached an impasse."

"Oh, honestly!" Charlotte exclaimed, her head still in her shawl.

It was that moment Angelique, of all people, chose to interfere. She, of course, was in on the plan, Combeferre reminded himself, and had probably been observing Enjolras the whole time. With a look that reminded Combeferre of a pickpocket eyeing a wealthy gentleman, she directed Courfeyrac's attention to the frozen Enjolras, mortified Charlotte and—dear god!—still talking Françoise.

"That's not good." Courfeyrac whispered. Combeferre, not caring what he looked like, rushed out of his seat.

" What do we do?" he hissed in Courfeyrac's ear. " I know that look. That's the look he gets when he gets letters from his father."

"Get that girl away from him, that's what we do!" Courfeyrac returned. " She's completely ruining his chances with Charlotte!" One track mind, Combeferre thought.

"How?" Combeferre asked.

"Don't hate me for this." Courfeyrac whispered, and before Combeferre could protest, he was pulling on Jehan's sleeve.

Jehan had long since calmed down. He grinned widely.

"Do you like the overture?" he said good-naturedly. Courfeyrac grimaced.

"Ah…have you seen Françoise?" he said feebly. Jehan, apparently had not, because when he caught sight of his mistress flirting with Enjolras, his good humor disappeared.

"Oh, Enjolras!" he wailed, his face contorting into a theatrical mask of pain. Enjolras whipped around at the sound of his name, still looking startled.

"I know it isn't your fault, but do you always have to steal all the women from us!"

"Steal…women…Jehan?" Enjolras stuttered feebly.

" Oh, I know you aren't trying, and that you don't even care but it always happens when you're around. They get one look at you and—oh, Françoise!" He looked on the verge of tears again. Enjolras got up without a word of excuse and reached out to Jehan, touching him on the arm. He said nothing, but shook his head. The meaning was clear. Jehan still looked on the verge of tears. Combeferre made a move to say something, a word of comfort, explanation, a joke to lighten the mood, when Musichetta had to interfere.

"Jehan, what's wrong?" she said kindly. She looked at Jehan, looked at Enjolras, back to Jehan, at Françoise, and figured it out. Why were women so quick to figure out the wrong things?

"Well then, Enjolras, look what you've done." She said sternly, her hands on her hips, " You've gone and upset the poor thing!"

"Upset him?" Enjolras said. He was shocked again.

" Don't you know a man should stay away from his friend's mistress? Especially when it's someone as kind and sensitive as Jehan."

"Ah, Musichetta, I don't think—" Bossuet cut in, realizing where this could go.

"No, Lesgle, don't defend him; he's in the wrong, and we both know it." Musichetta corrected sternly.

" Musichetta, Enjolras isn't exactly—" Joly attempted, but Musichetta didn't dignify him with a response. She placed her hand on her hip and continued to lecture.

" Now just because Françoise has veritably thrown herself at you—"

"I have not thrown myself at him, Musichetta!" Françoise interrupted, now putting her hands on her hips.

"No, certainly not." Musichetta said sarcastically, " Just as you do not throw yourself at every handsome student who comes along." Françoise got up from her seat.

"I don't like the sound of that, Musichetta. Especially coming from one who is carrying on with two men." Now Joly and Bossuet looked humiliated.

"We aren't—" Joly began, "That is to say—" Bossuet added, "It's not quite as simple as that—"

"I am not!" Musichetta retorted, cutting off the stammering men.

"Then which one is it?" Courfeyrac cut in, curiosity trumping tact.

Musichetta, apparently, rather than paint herself into a corner, turned to comforting Jehan.

"Now, Jehan, really, you don't have to be so sensitive to everything. We all know Françoise is a charming girl—allegedly—but you're really making quite a spectacle." Combeferre put his head in his hands. Jehan was going to begin crying at any moment, he could sense it.

" I am not making a spectacle!" Jehan moaned theatrically. " Oh, frailty, thy name is woman!" he thundered at the top of his lungs, causing a few men in the row ahead of them to turn around.

"Hey, quiet back there." One said.

"Yes, quiet—that's your solution to everything, isn't it, you complacent bourgeois!" Jehan said, the sob still in his voice.

"Excuse me?" the man said, turning around again.

"You heard me." Jehan retorted, " You bourgeois could watch a man being stabbed to death in the streets and all you'd say is 'quiet, you'll wake the baby.'"

"Bravo, Jehan!" Courfeyrac said, clapping uproariously.

" You foolish men could watch the government slowly eradicate before your eyes, the Rights of Man being taken away, and all you ever do is moan for peace and complicity—so everyone is just quiet!"

"Up the rebels!" Someone shouted. Combeferre looked up. That didn't sound good.

" And when someone dares to make a noise—whether it's through art or newspapers or revolution, you just say 'they're disturbing the peace.' As if the only thing we should aspire to is peace—under a dictatorship!"

"Um…Everyone? Can you listen to me for a moment?" That was from Feuilly, who was looking at something in the distance, but it was ignored.

" A dictatorship!" the bourgeois Jehan was addressing stood up slowly. He was six feet tall if he was an inch. "I didn't hear that."

"I think that's quite enough, Jehan." Combeferre said. Something was going on a few rows down, as well. There was shouting.

"Jehan, perhaps you should sit down." Musichetta said, trying to pull the young boy back into his seat, but Jehan wrenched his sleeve out of her hand. He drew himself up to his full height—which wasn't much.

"Then I'll say it louder—the king is a dictator! The king is a dictator! The king is a— " The bourgeois swung. Jehan fell back, hit in the stomach. Musichetta let out a little scream and caught the spluttering poet. Courfeyrac, without a moment's hesitation, returned the punch, but the bourgeois dodged it and—oh, that was perfect—a companion of his was hit in the arm.

Enjolras seemed to wake up. He had been staring at something only he could see during Jehan's diatribe, but the sound of attacks had returned him to the world of men. He crouched down next to Jehan.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Jehan, still out of breath, nodded.

"Got the—got the wind knocked out of me. Worth it, though." He said, with a smile.

"Excuse me? Everyone?" Feuilly said again, a bit more urgently, but no one even seemed to hear him. Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet had joined the fight, and Bossuet was already bleeding. Combeferre crawled along the floor, dodging blows and kicks. It seemed like people they didn't even know were joining in, on one side or the other.

"Enjolras," Combeferre shouted, trying to be heard over the overture—which had swelled to a climax—and the sounds of the fight, " I think we should go. The women are terrified, and we're drawing attention." Feuilly, obviously sick of shouting at no one, crouched down on the floor as well.

"Not only that," he said, "Look!" Enjolras, Combeferre and Jehan peaked above the chairs. Sure enough, down the aisle came the A.B.Z., Charles, their leader at the head, all shouting 'vive la revolution,' and more troublingly 'á bas le roi!'

"This is bad." Combeferre commented, stating the obvious.

"That's what I was trying to tell you!" Feuilly exclaimed, "They saw Jehan and the other one fighting almost immediately. Whatever they were plotting—if anything—they decided it would be more fun to turn a disagreement into a riot."

"And now they're on their way up here—" Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose, " 'To stand with their brothers in solidarity!' That's just what we need." A scream was heard from one of the women. Charlotte, frozen in shock, had been pushed out of the way by one of the A.B.Z, eager to join the fight.

"All right, that's the last straw." Feuilly said, trying to push the men in front of him towards the aisle, " We're getting out of here."

"Must we?" Jehan cut in, surveying his handiwork with some satisfaction.

"Yes, we must." Combeferre said sternly. " We cannot afford to get involved in a riot, nonetheless start one." Jehan blushed. Back to shy.

"I'm sorry, Combeferre, I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, there's time for that later. Let's go." Enjolras said, taking charge. Unfortunately, the only way out of the growing riot was and undignified crawl under it. But sometimes, Combeferre thought, one must stoop to conquer.

"Where's Musichetta?" Jehan was heard to whisper as they made their way out of the tunnel of bodies to the aisle.

"I'm here!" she said, crawling a little behind him, her skirts somewhat impeding her movement.

"Where are the women?" Enjolras asked, as they found something resembling safety in an empty row. No sooner had he said it that Feuilly appeared, leading Angelique by the hand, followed closely by Françoise, who had lost her feathers somehow. " And Charlotte?" Combeferre surveyed the riot. He had seen her pushed to the ground a few minutes previous, but now she seemed to have disappeared.

"I'll find her." Jehan volunteered.

"Be careful." Enjolras ordered, " And if you see the others, tell them we'll meet them at the Musain, but don't waste time." Jehan nodded his obedience and returned to the fray.

"Is anyone injured?" Combeferre asked, his medical training taking over.

" We're fine, Combeferre." Angelique said, though she sounded terrified. And why shouldn't she be? The fight had turned into a veritable riot—the A.B.Z. had seen to that. What had started between two men now seemed to involve half the balcony.

"Mindless fighting machines," Combeferre heard Enjolras grumble, echoing his thoughts exactly. " This will be all over the papers tomorrow. We won't be able to even think of getting anything done for a month."

"Enjolras!" Someone shouted. One of the A.B.Z. was waving wildly. Combeferre didn't recognize him, but apparently, the man knew them. Enjolras wisely pretended not to notice him, but the rebel couldn't take the hint. "Enjolras, we thought you'd be here! Come and join us, mate! Don't you want to fight for the people?" Enjolras continued staring off. He would not acknowledge the man. Anonymity was the first rule of revolution. "Enjolras, come on! We all know you want to!" The man was now coming towards them. Enjolras turned away. Through the chaos, Jehan appeared, followed closely behind by Charlotte and Courfeyrac. Joly and Bossuet were nowhere to be found. Jehan looked around, not seeming to see them.

"Jehan!" Combeferre called to him.

"What?" the A.B.Z. said. Combeferre started. Well, apparently, it was a common name.

The intended Jehan looked up and found them, leading the terrified Charlotte.

"Come on, you two, don't run away! You started all this, didn't you?" The A.B.Z. said, standing in front of Jehan and Courfeyrac.

"Oh, just leave me alone!" Jehan exclaimed, sounding thoroughly humiliated, and pushed the man, who was knocked back over two rows of seats.

"Great job, Jehan—you've killed him!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. Jehan let out a noise almost like a scream. "I'm joking—he's fine." Courfeyrac amended as the other Jehan got up, brushed himself off, and returned to the riot. "It was a nasty fall, though!"

"Where are Joly and Bossuet?" Enjolras asked, unable to suppress a smile.

" I saw them, they're trying to get out too. But Joly said it would be better if we all didn't leave at once. He said they'd meet us at the Musain later."

"That's fine." Enjolras agreed.

"Can we go?" Feuilly said.

"I've been wanting to since we got here." Combeferre said, and began leading the way.

They fought their way to the back of the balcony—where almost no one had gone down to the riot. In the darkened theater, one could barely see it. In fact, from a higher vantage point, it seemed a lot smaller. It probably would resolve itself and the rest of the performance would go on without a hitch.

And then the police appeared. Four officers, summoned who-knows-how, were making their way down the balcony.

"Run." Enjolras whispered, and the command was followed by all, as the orchestra swelled to its climax. Combeferre noticed Jehan stopping for a split second as they tore down the stares.

"What's wrong?" Combeferre asked.

"Nothing." Jehan said, " It's just rather good music, isn't it?"

"It would have been a wonderful opera." Courfeyrac agreed with a sigh.

"Move!" Musichetta exclaimed, trapped behind them.

They moved. They ran. Perhaps it was the affect of the music, which suited an escape quite well. Perhaps it was the fact that no one wanted to be anywhere near the police. Perhaps it was because Combeferre was at the head, and all he wanted to do was get out of there, and forget this disastrous night had ever happened.