A/N: Ever so sorry for the late updates, mes amis. I was out of the country at my brother's wedding, and only just returned. I am sorry to say that we will not be having any more illustrations for a while as work pressures have gotten too much for my cher TW to be able to keep them up regularly.

Ah, the brilliance of your mind, Perceval. Really, no! No, cheri, you have to admit that only the most brilliant of Paris' geniuses would consider this plan. After all, and I direct this question also to you, M. Coffee Cup and you Mlle Teaspoon... who else would have even considered the plan of convincing the Eagle and his little Joli to sit outside the apartment of Great and Glorious Leader for hours? In a bad cafe that sells, and no offense, cher coffee cup, terrible coffee and worse wine - which he couldn't drink anyway. Oh no, no, no, mes amis. It simply would not do for Papa Grantaire to have one single glass of wine. Heavens. Everyone knows Papa Grantaire can get drunk on the fumes of a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

They were seated outside on uncomfortable chairs, squinting a little as the sun crept further and further down in the sky. The chairs were splintering, several of which were embedded in his palms, and the table rocked every time L'aigle picked up his coffee cup. Of which he had imbibed enough to slowly alter the gentle disbelief that had been hovering around him like the famed cloak of Nessus (though hopefully not poisoned and doomed to murder demi-gods through the admittedly incredibly gullible hands of their overly jealous wives - hah, and people wondered why Grantaire did not advocate Marriage...) had changed to a distinctly impatient and even irritable expression which appeared to be permanently directed at cher Papa Grantaire.

Grantaire was currently avoiding looking at L'aigle in preference for drinking his incredibly bad coffee and trying to pretend that being seated on a splintering chair with the sun in his eyes on the cold side of the street outside the apartment of a Godlet who would scorch his soul should he happen to come out of the door and see his worthless Winecask daring to be within view was not at all bothering him. Nor was the headache. Nor was the knowledge that L'aigle thought him to be a mad fool and was only putting up with this because Joly appeared to believe that Saving Stupid Schoolboys Together made them some sort of team. It wasn't very difficult to see the glances they were exchanging. Oh no. See? See Mlle Teaspoon? That is L'aigle's 'why are we even doing this, ami?' eyebrow raise. In a moment... wait... just a little longer... a voila! That, as you can see by the widened eyes and the nervous biting of his lip is Maurice Joly's 'I'm sorry, cher, but I promised...' expression. You see, Mlle Teaspoon, M. Joly is quite a nice homme and seems to think that he has an obligation to follow drunk madmen (although I'm not drunk. Really. I cannot get drunk on coffee. Even my powers do not stretch that far.) even when their plans involve sitting outside the abode of his sworn rebublican leader and suspecting him of allowing the secrets of said republican group - did I mention secret? Oui, secret republican revolutionary anti-Bourbon, down with Charles X and vive l'Parliament group to slip into the hands of a spy.

So instead of arguing with the drunk madman, he is biting his nails and staring at the cobblestones obviously terrified that he is going to get ill just from looking at them. Thankfully, M. L'aigle has not let M. Joly have any coffee. I do not think we want to see M. Joly drink coffee, do you M. Coffee Cup? Mlle. Teaspoon? No? Good. Bon. Papa Grantaire is pleased with your agreement.

L'aigle spilt his black, thick, overly-sweetened coffee over the table cloth and summoned only a very faint chuckle as Joly tried to mop it up with his white, pressed and impeccably mended handkerchief. For a moment he raised his eyes to the heavens, and then - with a faint weariness that was not lost on Papa Grantaire, cutlery and crockery be his witness! - said, "...is... anything going to happen soon?"

"I'm sure it is." Joly did not look sure. Joly looked apologetic in the way people looked when they had brought their best friends home to meet the family and Crazy Oncle Jacques was visiting and decided to show said friend his collection of sheep skulls and otter teeth.

Grantaire stirred more sugar into the black waste that was the coffee and muttered, "I'd kill for some wine right now," hopefully quietly enough that neither of his unwilling accomplices could hear him. Dieu and Zues forfend they get it into their skulls that he was about to start drinking seriously and properly. Because no matter how much he would prefer the detestible wine of the establishment over its destestible coffee (again, cher coffee cup, no offense. Thou art merely the container for this filth and I do not blame thee for the repulsiveness of that which I am forced to drink), getting properly drunk in the good old fashion of the Vikings and Greeks and the servants of Bacchus outside the abode of Apollo was not Grantaire's idea of a wise course of action. Dieu only knows why, but Apollo did not appear to approve of the truly artistic talent of worshipping at the altar of Dionysus and Bacchus properly.

Before his companions could comment - if they had heard him, and really, sometimes Grantaire got the impression that he was only audible when he said something less than polite about Cher Revolution or offered to buy everyone drinks - the door to chez Enjolras opened and a man came out. Not an Amis. Not the Godlet Apollo. Not even a man who looked comfortable on this street. A man of girth, hulking and brooding, and wearing what appeared to be a rather unattractive smirk. To the nose of Papa Grantaire, he smelt of prison, he smelt of cognes... he smelt of Mouchard. See, Mlle. Teaspoon? The way his eyes are flickering around the street? The walk? The official leather of those oh-so-official boots? That, is our man.

He smiled a little, put down cher amis coffee cup and teaspoon and gave a little nod to L'aigle and Joly as M. Boots strolled lazilly by. Joly caught on fast, ah - cher Harlequin. Enchante. Good to have you back. His intelligent second gave him a questioning look, while Pedrolino, less used to the role, blinked both eyes wide, as though to say 'Him?'

Pay attention, cher. Follow Papa Scaramouche. He rose and shrugged into his coat, wishing for a moment that it was the colours and patches the Scaramouche was accustomed to. Where is the red velvet and lapels of Capitain Scaramouche, my friends? Where are his fine satin breeches and his tall black boots, and the cane and the sword with the golden hilt? There were just enough coins in his pockets to cover the bill for all the coffee they had managed to imbibe, so he paid. It appeared, to cause Pedrolino some annoyance - oh dear. Scaramouche pays and now the children must needs follow whether they like it or not. Hah.

Without heeding the looks passing between cher Harlequin and his black-and-white friend (where was their Columbine?) Scaramouche began to walk casually in the direction M. Boots was going. Harlequin was right behind him, apt and ready as always, merci beaucoup, and Pedrolino managed to finally capsize the unsteady table, giving a booming laugh as he stumbled over his own feet in an effort to catch up with them. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes, and Grantaire the Man took the arm of Joly the Man and winked at L'aigle The Man. As Men and Friends they would be more natural, more sly, more careful and wily. Grantaire the Man gave a snort of amusement and joked to L'aigle about capsizing the boat of the ancient mariner had he been given a chance, at which L'aigle grinned good-humeredly and Joly half-jestingly told the man Grantaire to stop being mean.

Grantaire grinned at Joly and raised his hands in surrender, giving L'aigle a friendly sort of shove - which he actually managed to dodge without tripping over. Joly laughed, and then gave a yelp when Grantaire poked him in the ribs. Oh, this was interesting. It was like they were all friends. He could remember times like this back at the Ecole with men he had called friends. Funny how one lost the knack. You could play at being friends, with that line carefully in the sand over which you didn't cross... but to actually _be_ friends...

Harder, that.

Scaramouche kept an eye on M. Boots, while the Man Grantaire joked back and forth with his 'friends'. Scaramouche is no fool, Scaramouche is the fox who outwits the hare, the wolf who runs the hunting dog to earth and breaks his neck before he can bay. We know the city, mon cheri... she is like a lady with sweet kisses hiding foul breath. Her breasts are wrapped in a dirty chemise and he skirts trail into the mud. We know her and she knows us. You'll not escape Papa Scaramouche. He led the children, his followers who - like rats or youths - were following the piping piper towards the magic mountain, with natural progression further into the shadows. All that we are, if we put our minds to it mes amis, are drunken young men looking for the makings of a good time. Wine. Women. Song. Comradeship.

There are no spies in our hearts.

Although Scaramouche and The Man Grantaire knew where they were and where they were going, it was becoming obvious that both Pedrolino and Harlequin were not as well versed on the back alleys and side streets of Paris's slums. Pedrolino was closer and closer to his mirror-twin, and Harlequin was looking less like the patched multicoloured rogue, and more like a rather worried young Joly with his nose in his handkerchief and his eyes fixed on Pedrolino as though his shiny-topped head were signpost enough to show their way.

Grantaire skipped around a loose cobble easily, and ducked between two elderly women out for a stroll and a long malicious gossip. Stray cats fought their endless battle with the children of the streets, sticks and stones battling the ingenuity of the Egyptian gods, fur and claws and old Ra magic. A stench wafted out one window, tangling into the food smells coming from another until a heady perfume of almost-bad, almost-good swam around them. This was home to the Man Grantaire. Here we live and here we play. Here is where Suzette sells herself on a street corner and is home before ten to tuck petit Jean into bed and tell him a story about bread on the table and lie about her black eye. This is where old men chew bad tobacco instead of eating, and young men are hard and angry with the world. This is my home, and you two brave clowns had better watch where you walk.

M. Boots seemed to have realised he had collected an escort, as he suddenly ducked out of sight around a sharp bend, taking the left of two options with such speed that it was only by the thinnest chance that Scaramouche - Grantaire - the Man saw him at all.

Ah. Well, now, my dear cogne, my cabestan, my mouchard... what now? Do we dart into shadows after your good self in the wild hope of finding you and thus let you realise how definitely we are trailing you... or shall we instead take a risk? Grantaire - and he was definitely more Grantaire than Scaramouche at the moment. Scaramouche loved theatre and drama, the fine winding walls of the Notre Dame, the halls of a great mansion, the stage... a prison or a battle, but not the streets of the poor and the smells of the rotting. No. That was where Grantaire felt comfortable and at home, not Scaramouche. Grantaire had always liked risk. Quickly he nodded to L'aigle and Joly and tugged them past the side street M. Boots had run into, and on down the alley they had already been travelling.

"I thought we were meant to be following him?" L'aigle whispered too loudly, backed up by a bevy (flock? herd? cackle?) of nods from cher Joly.

No, no, no. Of course not. We're out here walking for our health. He shook his head a little and continued walking, the worn old splitting leather of his boots making tired old man sounds against the cobbles. "Just wait." They reached another little alley which joined on to the sidestreet M. Boots had wandered down. Unless there was another alley further on which he didn't know about...

Seconds crawled by, each one balanced like a watchface on the back of a turtle. L'aigle was fidgetting nervously in the suspended animation of a man who really really wants to tell everyone how stupid this all is, but can't quite bring himself to say it out loud.

They had almost run out of turtles when steps were heard, and M. Boots sauntered by. Thank you Zues, Hera, Hermes, and whatever angels watch over drunks and clowns. Grantaire grinned to himself and took the lead, trailing after the heavy official booted footsteps of their New and Dear Ami who was now completely sure the wrath of the Republic was not following at his heels.

Joly and L'aigle followed him, arm in arm as usual and exchanging quick little glances. Something Grantaire was quite sure that they were talking about him with their minds. It seemed a little rude. Really. If you have something to say, children, share it with the class. He whistled softly to himself, Ca ira... ca ira... ca ira...

So, M. Boots... are you friend or foe with your shiny official leather? Do you fear the shadows in the street because of a weight on your conscience, or because we might hold knives that thirst after your purse strings? How can I prove it, that is the question. How do I prove you are the man?

For a stretch of two corners they walked, Boots in front and clowns behind, twins close together and worrying their seperate little thoughts. Joly - obviously concerned for the diseases hiding around the corners and waiting to spring at their throats, while L'aigle did his best to look capable of protecting all of them while really looking as though he wanted to go back to bed and pretend this had never happened.

M. Boots ducked suddenly into another alleyway and sped up, not quite breaking from a walk. Aha. The first move. Grantaire slipped further into the shadows and lengthened his stride to match. The day was swiftly drawing closer to dusk, and the air had taken on a chilliness which cut through the thin material of his coat. L'aigle and Joly followed along behind him as their breath turned into steam before their faces and their steps rattled the dozing windows of the crowded, ugly apartments up above.

M. Boots moved like oil through water, slipping into side streets, through half-broken doorways, out alleys and down flights of stairs, taking sharp corners and then ducking out of sight - only a moment too late. Because Grantaire was keeping up. He had to. This was his world, his home, he knew the streets and he would be damned to hell three times in an oaken barrel if some governmental swine was going to lose him.

And then M. Boots suddenly broke into a run, leaping to the left and sprinting off down an alley littered with trash and guttering lights. Grantaire ran after him, only vaguely aware of the two men following him. His shoes were splitting again, nearly falling off as they pounded against the street. He was dodging around lampposts, jumping over frightened cats sprinting for the safety of their broken crate homes. His breath came in bursts, sharp, urgent, and he knew in a sudden realisation which was as belated as it was terrifying that he had led L'aigle and Joly into danger.

What if they were running into a trap? What if someone got hurt? What if they couldn't find their way out again?

M. Boots was up ahead, and Grantaire knew he was heading for something. A hideout, perhaps. Maybe a gang. Someone to help him. Somewhere he could get help. Somewhere down this alley was danger. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears now. Faster. Vite, drunkard, vite. Catch the spy. He's getting away!

But then - in a moment of precious, precious irony... the alley was blocked off. Some fool driver of a second-rate fiacre had crashed it into the alley - obviously lost or what was he doing here then? - and left it there. A blockage. A little barricade, oh my great imperial officer, Bourbon spy... cabistan!

M. Boots stopped and gave a loud, creative curse before wheeling around and casting a glance at them, contemplative and desperate at once.

Grantaire hesitated a moment and turned to look at both Joly and L'aigle, who looked stunned, out of breath, and even a little frightened. He nodded to them and gestured for them to stay back in the shadows before stepping quickly and smartly towards their new dear sweet loving friend and replacing his mask. "Evening." He was breathing lightly now, heartbeat slowing to a treacle blur as everything came into fine relief and he saw which part to play.

"Evening."

He was straight to the chase, the crook and gambler. Michel was his name, and he was a gnan gnan and a sourin and one whom it was not wise to cross, oh no. Straight talker, my friends. But just as straight with his knife. "I believe you are acquainted with a group of men I have an interest in." He looked M. Boots up and down. A nasty looking man, all thick chest and rough face and calculating eyes.

"Oh really. What sort of interest?"

"ah... 'interest' in every meaning of the word, my dear sir. I have contacts who would be most intrigued to discover information about these young men." Powerful men, they were who hired such a homme as Michel. You didn't tell them no, oh dieu... never.

Boots gave him a long look and sounded disinterested. "What's your game?"

Simple. "Whatever pays the best."

"I think we're on the same side here." The cabestan was squirming, trying to slip out of the problem. Michel let him squirm. After all, it was amusing.

"Are we?" He offered a grin to his pinioned dove, his pigeon. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"Right. So if you'd kindly let me continue on my way..." and he was, indeed, moving to leave as he said it. Grantaire saw vaguely the shapes of L'aigle and Joly behind him standing a little too close together to be quite intimidating, sighed, and moved to intercept, Michel's oily voice coating his tongue.

"When we only just became acquainted? My goodness, no. I have very nervous masters, M'sieur. Give me something to reassure them with. They know there's someone with these young men - if you could give me an assurance that you are on our side, that might make their nerves go away." Tell me you were spying. Tell me whom you work for. Give me proof.

Boots looked as though he were sneering. "I'm not going to be swayed by anyone's nerves."

"I'd be swayed by their nerves." Michel was calm. Grantaire was calm. Neither of them liked being sneered at. "They get most short-tempered when they're nervous."

"I've been known to do the same," M. Boots said, as his muscles bunched and rolled.

"As have I." Thin threat while my friends and I outnumber you. "And there are three more of me. If we have the same goals, why should we not be friends?"

Behind the smile and the words dripping with oil... Grantaire was tense. Just give me my answers, you connard. Give me my proof.