Here's another update! Longer than usual this time. The next chapter will contain Enjolras' trial, so I really wanted everything wrapped up in one last chapter before moving onto that. I hope you enjoy it!

Quick note! Similar to my disclaimer that I made in chapters dealing with Courfeyrac's injuries, I have exactly the same knowledge of 19th century French criminal law as I do of 19th century medicine. I am not a lawyer or a a legal historian, so most of the descriptions of the proceedings here in the next chapter and throughout the story are informed by the following sources: 1.) a few (American) pre-law classes I've taken in school, 2.) Oodles of lawyer novels and movies and TV shows (Law&Order mostly) 3.) (most importantly) whatever seems to add the level of drama I was looking for. Hence, don't take it too seriously for accuracy and you'll likely enjoy it more.

Thanks so much to my lovely reviewers! I really can't say enough how much I appreciate the support the story has continued to get, even when I was so lousy about updating for so long! Please leave a review if you can! It makes my day! :-)

Combeferre could hardly believe that he had agreed to go along with this. Here, in their safe apartment was the man who had spared Javert. Joly and Feuilly had met him twice before and were ready to vouch for him. Courfeyrac cast the deciding vote in favor of hearing him out, leaving Combeferre outnumbered and reluctantly agreeing. When Joly came in with him, after having spent part of the afternoon visiting Marius, they all stood uncomfortably in the front room.

"I suggest you sit here with me, gentlemen," said Courfeyrac uncomfortably from the kitchen table where he sat. For the first time since his surgery, he was wearing real clothing. None of it fit him well as it became apparent how much weight and muscle he'd lost while recovering. He was oddly self-conscious about the prospect of meeting and seeing a new person. He'd had little chance to see himself in a mirror, but when he did, the sickly pale creature with an ill-groomed beard that he saw made him cringe.

The others nodded and slowly joined him at the table. Valjean was the last to take a seat. He met Courfeyrac's eyes and felt a deep swelling of pity for the young man, now faced with a life of disability and pain. Trying desperately not to condescend, he smiled very slightly and sat opposite Combeferre.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent," said Combeferre firmly. "I'm not sure if my friends have told you, but I was not as eager to trust you as they. I want to know why Inspector Javert lived through the night."

"I pitied him," said Valjean carefully. "It is my understanding that you were a witness to his eventual death, so perhaps you've felt the same about him."

Combeferre glared at Feuilly and Joly. He didn't know which and he wouldn't ask now, for fear of losing face, but one of them had told the stranger this detail, and he was furious.

"Yes, his suicide was very tragic," said Combeferre, emphasizing the nature of Javert's demise.

"If you are worried that I will betray you to the police on that account," Valjean began. "Don't. I believe whole-heartedly that his death was a suicide. I pity him, greatly, but I assure you that neither he, nor the police, are or ever have been allies of mine."

"How can I trust you?" Combeferre asked bitterly.

Valjean took a deep breath. "My daughter."

"Your daughter?" Combeferre asked incredulously.

"My daughter Cosette," Valjean began. "She is in love with your Marius Pontmercy. The boy is alive because I made sure of it. I carried him through the sewers of Paris so that he would could recover in safety without fear of arrest. I know he is affiliated with your group. If I were to turn you in, surely they would find him. My daughter's heart would be broken. More than that, I've grown to care for him for his own sake and you're his friends. Gentlemen, I am prepared to offer you my services and assistance with regards to your imprisoned friend. To do that, we must trust each other. I need to trust you as well."

Combeferre bit his lip, deep in thought. He was finally starting to accept that they weren't in any danger from Fauchelevent.

"You can trust us," said Courfeyrac. "We may be fugitives, but you ought to know well enough who we are and what we do to not fear that we are just a band of criminals who intend to extort you somehow."

"Before we begin entertaining the possibility of entering into an illegal conspiracy of any sort as partners," said Valjean carefully. "I have to be convinced that we are indeed allies."

"If we must resort to illegal means to help Enjolras," Feuilly began. "And if we're caught doing so, we'll be in his same predicament. All of us who partake in any such activity would be killed for it. My friends and I are more than willing to take that risk because the love we have for our friend is so deep. But you, Monsieur, you may have loyalty and affection for Marius, but we and Enjolras are strangers to you. We can't in good conscience ask that of you. Whatever we discuss or plot here will be implemented by us and only by us. If we are caught, we'll be executed, no matter what names we name; we would have nothing to gain by betraying you. You will be safe in your home with your daughter while any plan is implemented. That, I insist on."

"You would take all of the risk?" Valjean asked.

"It is only ours to take," said Courfeyrac.

"I am interested to know what you think you may have to offer," said Combeferre, trying to speak less hostilely this time.

Valjean took a deep breath. He was here because he felt terrible guilt and sadness for the Enjolras boy's situation; that a young man was faced with either a humiliating and early death or a hellish imprisoned life, a life he knew all too much about. He thought it was partly his fault for sparing Javert. Furthermore, Marius clearly cared so deeply about his friends and he wanted to spare him further grief. More than all that however, the more he thought about it, about the rebellion and its motives, the more he felt that it would be a hideous loss for someone like Enjolras to be executed. Perhaps he, after his long life of witnessing and being subject to oppression and injustice, was more of a revolutionary than he'd realized. Now, his particular set of talents could be put to use to help the boy. As terrifying as it was, he felt he had to offer them.

"I can't explain how I intend to help without first telling you a little of my life-story," he began slowly. "If you'd be so kind as to indulge an old man."

"Certainly," said Joly.

"You may be horrified by what I have to say," Valjean began. "I feel it is safe to tell you because, as you've admitted, you're all fugitives who could never betray me without inviting your own arrest. You might revile and refuse to associate with me furthermore, and I will respect that. I put myself and my secrets at your mercy now because I believe it is right, but I will be damned if my daughter is allowed to suffer because of me, so I humbly beg for your discretion, even if you choose not to work with me after learning what I have to say."

"How could we not agree to such a condition?" said Joly encouragingly.

"I am something of a fraud, boys. I play the kindly gentleman very well, but the truth is that I am a fugitive myself." He paused. The four boys looked as surprised as he expected.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent?" said Courfeyrac, confused.

"That's not actually my name," said Valjean. "It's not the first false name I've had either, though for Cosette's sake, I do hope it proves the last. I was born with a peasant's name, Jean Valjean. I spent nearly twenty years wearing chains in the Bagne of Toulon."

"Twenty years?" said Feuilly, incredulously. "Dear God, what crime earned you such a fate?" He asked in spite of himself.

"My sister was widowed with seven children," Valjean continued. "I did my best to provide for them, but I was illiterate and unskilled, so my best was never enough. Her infant boy was nearly starving. I was a young man, filled with anger and hopelessness, so rather than pursue charity or look harder for more lucrative honest work, I broke a baker's window and took some bread. I told myself I committed my crime for them, but I can't justify myself. My recklessness took me, their only provider, away from them. I never knew what became of any of them, if any of the children survived, if my poor sister was made to degrade herself; perhaps she ended up imprisoned too." Valjean, having never spoken of this, was ill-prepared for the onslaught of emotion. He had to be strong, so he took a deep breath and averted his eyes.

The account hit Feuilly very close to home. How easily this poor man's life could have been his own.

"Monsieur," he said gently, reaching across the table to put a hand on Valjean's shoulder. "Monsieur, you have suffered terrible injustice and have nothing to be ashamed of."

"My years in prison fostered only the darkest parts of my soul," Valjean continued. "That's something you have to understand. Especially since your friend is suffering through it now. Prison reduces men to animals. When they let me go, I was filled with hate. I would have just continued on as a miserable wretch to the end of my days if not for what I can only describe as Providence. I met a man, a bishop, who showed me more kindness than I deserved; I tried to rob him in the night, but he intervened to stop my rearrest. My shame was complete then. The bishop implored me to pursue and honest life thereafter. But as a convict on parole, it proved nearly impossible. In one definitive act of either courage or cowardice, I broke my parole and forged a new identity. I have worked very hard to avoid detection and make myself useful to my fellow man. Javert, I've known him since his days as a guard at Toulon. He pursued me relentlessly, but I've avoided him. Now that he is dead, I imagine there's no one left to recall Jean Valjean. But I could never take chances. Especially since Cosette came into my life. When her mother died, she became the only thing in my life to matter." Valjean stopped here and chose his words carefully. The boys needed to know about his criminal past, but the complete story of Cosette's parentage was never something he could share with strangers, especially since he hadn't been ready to even tell her yet. So he told the story carefully, while not lying, implying gently a typical tale of a widower left to raise his child alone.

"Thank you," said Combeferre. Hearing Valjean's entire story filled him with shame. He had been so wrong to doubt him, he realized. This man was a living embodiment of all of Combeferre's principles.

"Monsieur," Feuilly spoke again. "You don't know this, but I was orphaned as a young boy. I grew up on the streets, and while I was fortunate enough to be able to learn a trade and how to read, I was destitute for a long time. It would certainly be a lie to say that I never stole food; I am ashamed, but it's the truth. I was fortunate to never have been caught. It is a mere accident of chance that I escaped your fate, Monsieur. That you suffered it and came through it is a testament to your strength alone. You feared we might revile you? No, no, Monsieur, I could never do anything but admire you." The others listened uncomfortably. Feuilly was never very forthcoming with details about his childhood. These were all things they suspected to have happened, but never knew for sure. It pained them to know that their friend had suffered so much.

"Please forgive me, Monsieur," said Combeferre.

"There is nothing to forgive," said Valjean. "Caution is a virtue in this kind of situation."

"Your secrets are very safe with us, sir," said Courfeyrac. "Although, I do believe you should tell Marius."

"What?" asked Valjean.

"Well, its no secret that he means to marry your Cosette," Courfeyrac elaborated. "He's a person who's been lied to a lot. His own father died without Marius knowing he loved him. It caused the fallout with his grandfather. He's a good person, Marius. And he's positively obsessed with your daughter, if you don't mind my saying it. I don't think his response will be any different from ours. He surely knows you saved his life. But please, do him one more kindness of not letting him enter your family on false pretense."

"I won't take the risk that he'll jilt Cosette before they are married," said Valjean bitterly. "None of this is her fault, and she won't be punished for it."

"Have enough faith in him to realize he'd never do that," Courfeyrac insisted. "None of us will say a word; it's not our secret to tell. But you can't expect that we won't try to persuade you that our friend is an honorable man, and if he is good enough to marry your daughter, he's good enough to deserve the truth. Monsieur, I don't know if you realize this, but he came to the barricade because he thought he'd never see her again, and wasn't interested in life without her. If you tell him after the wedding, he'll still love her and treat her like a queen until the day he dies, but he will feel betrayed, and I'm telling you that he's had enough of that in his life already. You'll hurt him terribly if you make him believe that you think he's a scoundrel who had to be trapped into a marriage, especially when he loves her so much."

Valjean was silent; he had never thought of it this way. "I make no promises, except that I'll think about it."

"Perhaps we'll plan Marius' wedding another day," Combeferre began impatiently. "But I'm sure he'd like Enjolras to attend."

"He's right," said Feuilly. "Let us discuss what we're here to discuss."

"Right," said Valjean. "Have any of you visited or in any other way, inspected the jail where he's being kept?"

"No," said Joly. "We thought it would be too risky."

"Any contact with Enjolras?"

"No," Combeferre explained. "In fact, I don't think he knows we're alive. He won't be expecting any sort of rescue effort."

"Should we try to contact Bellanger?" Feuilly asked.

"I don't think so," said Courfeyrac. "If he knows what we're up to, as an agent of the court, that would make him a conspirator. He's a good man and he's doing what he can to help Enjolras; we can't expose him to that kind of danger. He's also Enjolras' best hope for being legally sprung from that place, so I'm inclined to say that we are best leaving him to his work, ignorant of ours."

"A letter to Enjolras himself would surely be intercepted," said Valjean. "If they're still looking for insurgents, they're surely reading all his mail and questioning any visitors."

"How can we hope to do this without his knowledge?" Joly asked, anxiously.

"I don't know," said Feuilly anxiously. "Should one of us infiltrate the jail? Perhaps deliberately get caught for another, poorly executed crime? I could pilfer something from a shop, and do a sloppy job of it to ensure my arrest, then be thrown in with him and work from the inside."

"It's too dangerous," said Valjean. "There are too many variables you couldn't control. Inside a place like that, there are so many divisions and segregations that you, in for a petty theft, would probably never lay eyes on him, who's likely in the most secure section, let alone get enough chance to talk to him and form your plan. That's if you're even brought to the same jail; you might not be. You would be completely on your own, with no way to update us on the outside of your progress. You could even be shot by an angry shopkeeper in the effort. It's just too unpredictable to be useful."

"The trial perhaps?" Joly began. "Might the security around him be lessened at the trial? We could snatch him on sheer force and dash out of the place."

"No, you most certainly could not," said Valjean harshly.

"Why not?" asked Joly.

"Because security would most certainly not be lessened at the trial," Courfeyrac began. His legal knowledge would prove to be a useful tool in constructing the plan, they soon realized. "Because its away from the jail that's perceived as the highest risk for escape attempts and prisoners are guarded accordingly."

"Double chains and armed guards on either side of him," said Valjean, painfully from memory. "Unless you're planning to burn the place to the ground, that would never work."

"Courfeyrac, if we were to wait until, until after the trial, what, what kind of timeline," Combeferre began to ask. But then he hand to take a deep breath to fortify himself. This detail would be so painful for him to think about. But Courfeyrac, being a lawyer, was most likely to know. "Courfeyrac, how long between passing the sentence and, and carrying it out?"

Courfeyrac nodded somberly. "It's difficult to say," he began. "He's entitled some time to make appeals, but I suspect they will try to hurry the process along. Bellanger is meticulous. He'll fight every step he can, but I can't imagine he could succeed in delaying it more than a few weeks."

"How much faith do you have in this Bellanger's abilities?" Valjean asked.

"Well, Courfeyrac is the only one among us who actually knows him," Feuilly explained.

"If it were my life on the line," Courfeyrac began. "He would be who I would want defending me. Marius and Enjolras and I admire him a great deal. He's the closest thing to a formidable adversary that the prosecutor has, in a system so hopelessly stacked against defendants. I think if anyone could get Enjolras off, it's Bellanger. That being said, the case might be unwinnable."

"Do you have enough faith in him, that you want to allow him to attempt the trial before we organize a breakout?" Valjean asked.

"I don't know if I do," said Combeferre. "I feel like every second we wait, he's closer to his fate. Waiting until after the trial could waste time he doesn't have."

"But the best outcome of all would be for him to be exonerated and freed legally," said Joly. "Where he wouldn't have to live in hiding."

"From experience," Valjean began. "I'm inclined to agree with Monsieur Joly. If you spring your friend from prison, they will hunt him like a dog for the rest of his life. If they ever recapture him, he'll not only be executed, but before, he'll be at the mercy of a police force that he'll have twice humiliated. They'll make him suffer for it. They'll make all of you suffer for it if you're revealed as his allies. If that risk can be avoided, it's best. I implore you to allow the legal avenues to be exhausted before you take up the burden of a lifetime hiding from the law."

"How long do we give the legal avenues, though?" Feuilly asked. "I'm all for reasonable caution, but it may be a luxury we don't have."

"We can't wait for all the appeals to be denied," Courfeyrac began to explain. "So little of that ever even makes its way into the papers anyway that it would be hard to track the progress. I assisted on a capital case in my last term. The last appeal was denied early in the morning on the last day, and two hours later they took him to the scaffold. Once the high court rejects an appeal, they move very quickly."

"But you do think there will be at least some window of time between the trial and an execution," Feuilly asked. "Right Courfeyrac?"

"Yes," said Courfeyrac. "The trial is a few days away. It will be at least a week after the trial before, before, anything like that happens if it goes badly. They'll set the date right away in court, and once that is set, it can only be stayed, never moved up, so we'll know right away the minimum amount of time we have. I think I'm inclined to suggest that we allow the trial to take place, give Bellanger his chance to win the court over, but meanwhile plan what to do quickly afterward."

"Attending the trial could also give us a chance to size up his condition," Joly began. "We have no idea what his life has been like in the jail. He could be injured or ill in a way we would have to account for in our plot." Combeferre closed his eyes sadly and nodded in agreement.

"After the trial," Valjean started. "It would be unsafe for any of you to pay him a visit. But it might be necessary that someone makes contact with him. Perhaps I could invent a justification for myself and see him. I can then let him know whatever he has to know to participate in the breakout." He could hardly believe that he was actually considering entering a prison for any reason.

"How will you account for yourself when they question you?" Feuilly asked.

"I'm not sure," Valjean backpedaled. "We'll have to work on that."

"So for now, in summary," Courfeyrac began. "We intend to attend the trial and make our move after?"

"Yes," said Combeferre resolutely.

"Which of you should go?" Courfeyrac asked, painfully. "I should be there; I know how a trial works; I could explain the proceedings. But unless I sprout a new leg in the next day or so, I don't see that happening." There was a hint of gratuitous self-pity in his tone, but he didn't care. It would kill him not to be there for Enjolras, and he didn't care who knew it.

"I'm sorry, Courfeyrac," said Combeferre. "I would want you there, but it can't be helped. I think Joly and I should go, so that we can assess his health."

"Is it safe for you?" Feuilly asked, still concerned the Combeferre would attract attention.

"They won't notice me," said Combeferre. "There will be such chaos at that courtroom. Besides, I hope you'll understand my need to see him. I won't be kept away."

"Of course," said Feuilly.

"I assure you all that aside from my immobility," Courfeyrac started. "That I am well and can be left here on my own if all three of you opt to go." It was clear to all of them that not being able to see Enjolras was an extremely painful prospect for him.

Bellanger and Sister Clémence soon became allies in protecting Enjolras' well-being. As the chief of the jail's regular nursing staff, Sister Clémence's insistence that Enjolras was still gravely ill and couldn't be returned to the cell block yet was never questioned. The doctor never bothered with such matters. Bellanger was extremely grateful. In truth, time and food worked miracles for Enjolras and he was all but completely recovered. Between his brief visits with Bellanger and talking to Sister Clémence, his distressed mind was on the mend as well.

Today was the last day before the trial. That night, he would be transported to the court house where he would spend a surely restless night in their holding cell. But until then, he was still in the infirmary, so Bellanger met him there. Sister Clémence ensured they had privacy for their meeting.

After they finished reviewing the last of their notes, Bellanger stayed sitting by Enjolras' bedside for a while, hoping to just visit with him and offer him encouragement.

"Are you afraid?" he asked him gently at one point. Enjolras took a long time to answer.

"I'm not sure," he said at last. "I'd like to believe that I'm not, but it seems a bit more complicated than that."

"I wish I could tell you not to worry," said Bellanger somberly. To his surprise, Enjolras smiled a bit. His smile was minimally affected by the loss of the three back teeth, but it would never be the same thing of perfection it once was.

"It's alright. Lying isn't your style Monsieur," he replied.

"Jarnot wanted an update on your condition," Bellanger started again. "The good Sister is going to verify now that you are indeed well enough to proceed tomorrow."

"Remarkable timing, wasn't it?" said Enjolras bitingly. It bothered him to be treated with special kindness that no other prisoners could hope for, but at the same time, he could never shun it.

"The cholera epidemic is nearly uncontrollable in jails," Bellanger began. "One can never be too careful."

"I don't know how I'll ever repay her for her kindness," said Enjolras.

"I think she's not the sort who looks for repayment," said Bellanger.

"I could leave her a generous portion of my considerable personal fortune in my will," said Enjolras. "That's something we'll have to work on."

"Please," said Bellanger, with far more emotion than he would have intended. "Please, agree that we can refrain from talking about that until we know more."

Enjolras nodded. "Ok."

"Is there anything you're unsure about?" Bellanger asked gently. "About the process? I know you know it from an academic perspective, but if you have any questions about what's actually going to happen?"

"I don't think so," said Enjolras. "But thank you."

Suddenly, Sister Clémence was approaching them with full arms. Bellanger stood up in a gentlemanly fashion and took some of her load, mostly towels and cloths, plus a large empty bowl. She still held a small bucket filled with water and a leather case. "Thomas, I'm sorry to cut you short, but I received a message that the court officers will be here in an hour to collect tomorrow's defendants."

"Thank you, Sister," said Bellanger. Enjolras looked on with confusion as the nun and lawyer started making space around Enjolras' bed.

"What's this?" he asked.

"You need to bathe," said Sister Clémence. "You can't appear in court without being clean."

"I can hardly see how that would matter as I'm not on trial for my hygiene," Enjolras protested.

"It matters a great deal," said Bellanger. "Jurors are not all wise servants of blind Lady Justice; in my experience they're more often bourgeois idiots who put far more stock than is reasonable in whether or not you look like a criminal. Because of this, I always insist my clients make some effort at washing the jail off before they go into the lion's den."

"Monsieur, I," Enjolras was about to protest again, but Sister Clémence cut him off.

"René, I hesitate to remind you that you are in fact, incarcerated and don't really have a choice," she said. She began filling the bowl from the bucket and wetting a cloth.

"Right then," said Bellanger, stepping away. "I'll give you some space and return in a few minutes."

Sister Clémence handed Enjolras a towel. "Take your clothes off," she ordered.

"Sister?"

"I'm sorry, do you normally bathe with them on?" she replied. "The towel is to cover yourself. My years of nursing have made me rather skilled and managing this quickly and efficiently with as great of care for decency as possible. I'll look the other way, I promise; I am a nun after all."

Enjolras was embarrassed by how embarrassed he was. Very few people had ever seen him naked. Getting the clothing off proved a bit of a challenge between his broken left hand and shackled right one, but eventually he managed it. He very quickly covered his manhood and uncomfortably cleared his throat to let her know that he had complied. With great professionalism, Sister Clémence ran a soapy cloth all over his limbs and torso, cutting through the grease and grime that the place had left on him. So long deprived of the luxury of cleanliness, Enjolras felt more like a king than a prisoner. When the rest of his body was finished, she calmly handed him a newly wet rag and instructed him to manage the rest on his own. The uncomfortable exercise was completed in just minutes. The bed even managed to stay comfortably dry.

"Pull the cover up to your waist," she began. "Then sit up and I'll clean your hair. I'm afraid you likely have head lice."

"I'd be surprised to hear I didn't," said Enjolras, sitting up. "My scalp has itched incessantly since my first day here."

Sister Clémence tried to be gentle as she dragged a comb through his matted hair, but it was of little use. She was sure that she was hurting him, but he sat quietly while she worked. Her suspicion about lice was correct. Normally, she would cut it all off at such a discovery, but she wanted to spare him the indignity of it, at least for a little while. Convicts' heads were always shaved, and after tomorrow, he would be most likely be a convict, officially at last. She imagined that at one time, his hair had been beautiful. It surely wasn't anymore, but rather than make him part with it now, she did her best to make it look passably neat. She wanted him to have the dignity he deserved when he went to learn his fate.

"I'm going to shave your face now if that's alright," she said gently, pulling out a razor from a small case. The men she tended to often came from violent worlds, where the idea of someone else bringing a razor near their throats was horrifying, so she had a habit of asking permission. Allowing the men to shave themselves was strictly prohibited; they could never be trusted with the razor. Enjolras nodded calmly. While she worked, Bellanger reappeared, carrying something.

"I've brought you something to change into," he explained. "You're allowed to wear civilian clothing in court and I strongly recommend that you do. It's just a simple suit; you'll look dignified but not extravagant. There are shoes too."

"Thank you," said Enjolras. He had resisted it at every turn, but now he reflected and realized that he was truly thankful for the care they had taken for him. With a clean face, he put on the clothes Bellanger brought him; they didn't fit very well since he'd lost so much weight, but along with being clean, they helped him feel more human than he had in weeks. Fully dressed, he sat up on the edge of the bed. Sister Clémence and Bellanger both stayed with him as he waited to be taken away.

"René," said the nun, almost anxiously after a long silence. "I'm not certain if we'll have a chance to meet again. So whatever happens, go with God's blessing and my love."

"Thank you Sister," said Enjolras. It was very quiet in the infirmary. Most of the other inmates were asleep now. Waiting for his escort to the courthouse was proving to be a more terrifying exercise than his pride would have allowed him to admit. Bellanger realized before he did that he was shaking.

"Be brave, son," said the lawyer. "Be as brave as you were when you built the barricade."

"When I did that, I had a group of the most courageous and honorable men at my command," he started. "How could I have been anything less than brave? Now they're all dead. On my own, I'm not so formidable, I don't think."

"Your friends are with you," began the nun. "I know you have your doubts, but I have enough faith for the both of us that they're with you."

Enjolras smiled, but couldn't raise his head. "You know, Sister," he said. "You're quite unlike any nun I've ever known."

She smiled warmly and touched the side of his face gently. "That's certainly not the first time I've heard that."

Suddenly, they heard footsteps and voices in the distance asking after Enjolras. It was time. Soon two guards appeared, carrying what looked like a horrible chain and shackle apparatus.

"René Enjolras," said one of them. Enjolras took a deep breath and acknowledged them. It was time to be brave.

"Goodbye René," said Sister Clémence, standing up. The guards roughly applied very heavy chains to his wrists and ankles and forced him to stand. He solidified his solemn facade, after giving a gentle smile to the Sister.

"I will be there at 8 AM tomorrow, I promise," said Bellanger as the guards made quick work of leading him away. Enjolras could only nod in acknowledgement.

When he was gone, Bellanger and Sister Clémence stood together in silence for a little while. Eventually she spoke to him.

"Please Thomas," she said. "You have to save that boy."