A/N: Sorry this was a bit long in coming. There was a lot to think about and organize for this chapter and the next, so after I outlined it in my handy-dandy notebook I wrote out the actual chapter in my handy-dandy notebook. I had to take some literary license here in regards to the servant's entrance. I don't know where it could possibly be, so I made up its. I looked at Google maps and the street view (which is awesome, I almost feel like I'm there) and there doesn't seem to be an entrance, but hey, there could have been in the 1830's who knows? In "Upstairs, Downstairs", the servant's entrance was in the front, further down from the main door that had direct access into the "basement" but, there's no evidence of that that I can see for Quai d'Anjou so . . . I made it up. I think a courtyard entrance is more "romantic" anyway.

Of Nests and Cats

"Have her take this once every evening or whenever the pain becomes too hard to bear."

"And this'll make 'Lina better?"

"It will make her more comfortable."

"Bless you, Monsieur."

Joly left the dilapidated residence, one of many in the crowded tenements of the Saint-Michel.

He had just concluded a visit to two young women, sisters, who had fallen very low. The one was laid up on a thin, dirty pallet, being slowly pulled out of this life by consumption, and the other had the agonizing task of watching it happen while on her own body Syphilis was beginning to show its mark.

The women could have easily been Éponine and her sister; their ages were the same, at least Joly figured they were. They could have been even younger. The ravages of hard living had obscured and absconded their youth.

Joly shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to keep his wits about him here. He peeked into his tattered waistcoat pocket for a furtive glance at his watch. He owned one threadbare suit, which he kept packed away in a trunk expressly for these outings of mercy. The costume made him less of a target to wandering eyes and wandering hands.

As the student doctor made his way through the narrow, winding maze that passed for streets in the slums, dodging the occasional hanging article of laundry, he caught a flash of something familiar. A face. A voice.

"I got your message."

"I knew my fée wouldn't fail me."

"What do you want, Pére?"

Joly got as close as he dared to where the pair were standing just inside the mouth of an alley. He slumped against the connecting wall and did his best to imitate how Grantaire would look on a Saturday morning.

"I've been informed by a pup," the male voice continued, "that you've landed in a bit of luck."

"Perhaps."

"No p'rapsing about it, my girl, with your nice clothes. You've tired of playing the revolutionary so now you've opened up a new scheme of your own without cutting your own father in on it? I raised you better than that! Loyalty! 'Ponine! Family! We stick together! You cut me in!"

"I've worked hard to get where I am, Pére. They trust me. I'll not jeopardize my position for you who's done nothing for me!"

A sharp cracking sound echoed off the narrow brick walls.

"If you won't do it for me," the man's voice growled, "do it for 'Zelma and your Maman."

"'Zelma's out?" Éponine's voice sounded frighteningly calm, as if she had not just been slapped. "Can I see her? Where is she?"

"She's on loan right now an' can't be bothered—don't look at me like that, she's doin' more work than you ever did, gallivantin' about with your head in the clouds—but I digress—that's all behind us now. Don't worry about her. She's eating. The man who rents her from me pays well."

"And Maman?"

"She got caught in a bungled job late last month. 'Zelma was never as good a lookout as you."

"Les Madelonettes?"

"Saint Lazare. I only escaped La Force myself by the skin o' my teeth.

"But, now back to business. I told you the bit of news you wanted, now I'll tell you somethin' else: the cats are creeping up on your little nest. The cognes are tightening the noose. What? Haven't heard that your gentleman friend is not just a doctor, but a fugitive of the barricades? Yeah, I know who's been keepin' you. And did you also know there's a reward out for news of any rebel's whereabouts, it says so in the paper. Those friends of yours almost had the king by the scruff of the neck; seems he's not takin' any chances of them tryin' again."

Joly's fist balled against the fabric of his trousers, he willed himself to sit still, to not cry out against the violent indignation rising along with the bile in his throat.

"So my nest's a lost cause and you're giving me the chance to get out without it being a total loss?"

There was silence for almost a minute before Joly heard Éponine speak again.

"Breaking in will bring the police. Come two hours after midnight. They should be asleep by then. I'll let you in."

"Ah! Mon fée! It does your old father a power of good to have you back!"

Joly had heard enough and, as quietly as he could, he slipped away, persisting in the pretence of drunkeness by weaving about as he walked. But, once he left the slums he hailed a fiacre and made with all haste toward home.

. . . . . .

The servant's entrance to number eleven, Quai d'Anjou was located in the back of the house, inside a courtyard created and enclosed by its neighbors, accessed by a narrow archway, a block away from number eleven.

Éponine entered this way as often as possible and she did so today.

"Where is Monsieur Joly? Is he here?"

"Upstairs in the study," Joséphine replied as she went about her business, plucking a chicken. "I just took him some tea. Very grim looking he was, too." Joséphine's sharp green eyes snapped up from her work to inspect Éponine. "Master Joly is never grim unless he has a right good reason to be. Has something happened? Judging by your high color something has."

"I don't have the time to tell you just now, I must see Monsieur Joly first!" With that Éponine raced up the stairs and onto the main level.

"Oh, Anatole," Joséphine lamented as the butler returned from the larder, "this is such a queer house!"

. . . . . .

Éponine's heart twinged with anxiety at Joséphine's words. What had Monsieur Joly to be upset about? Éponine's mind whirled with all sorts of possible disasters as she burst into the study.

Whatever it is, it will have to wait.

The moment she entered the study she flattened herself against the wall, away from the eyes of the windows.

Joly had been in the middle of pacing the room when Éponine barged in. Enjolras was leaning against the desk with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded tightly against his broad chest; his golden head bowed, apparently in serious contemplation of his boots.

At the sight of Éponine Joly's face contorted with a mixture of fury and sadness, he opened his mouth to speak his outrage but Éponine spoke over him.

"Monsieur Joly, I bring the worst kind of news!"

"Éponine—" He began again, but was again interrupted.

"There's no time, Monsieur! My father has been tailing me and has been watching this house. He's planning to rob you! Or tip the police off that you and Monsieur Enjolras are here, although I don't think he knows about Monsieur Enjolras . . . either way . . . We must think of something. This is terrible!" Éponine leaned her head against the wall. She felt the hot prickle of tears forming behind her eyes as she sensed the full weight of responsibility for this new crisis. She covered her face with her hand so they would not see. "I'm so sorry, Messieurs," she said, fighting to keep the tremble out of her voice.

Joly's mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish out of water—and was just as breathless. Enjolras' mouth curved briefly before completely raising his head to regard Joly.

"I told you," he murmured to him.

Éponine frowned in confusion.

"I thought . . . I thought . . .you . . . you mean . . . it was all . . . an act?" Joly gasped.

Éponine's frowned deepened. "What?"

"I-I heard you . . . I was in Saint-Michel visiting a patient and I heard you . . ."

Éponine's cheeks turned bright red. "You're a brave man, Monsieur to venture there. How good you are."

"Never mind that, Éponine!" Joly exclaimed, waving his hand as if physically putting away her tangent. "So, you are not plotting against us with your father?"

Éponine slowly blinked at him, her gaze sad and hollow. A tear finally escaped and slid down her cheek. "No, Monsieur," she said firmly.

Joly looked stricken.

"I don't blame you for your suspicion, Monsieur," Éponine continued in a disconcertingly insipid tone. "I wouldn't trust me either."

"You were so convincing, you see," Joly sputtered, desperately trying to fill the breach.

Éponine's eyes flashed up at him, her eyes hard. "I had to be! I was speaking to my father! And I hope he bought it, for your sakes! . . . He could always tell when I was lying," she finished quietly, her gaze wandering off to no particular spot as she revisited an unpleasant memory. She absently touched her right side where he had once kicked her—it seemed another lifetime ago. In a way it was.

Suddenly, Éponine's gaze moved to Enjolras who was still leaning against the desk.

"Did you think I . . . ?" A lump rose in Éponine's throat and she could not finish.

Enjolras pushed himself off the desk with a sigh. "I told Joly that it was best not to jump to conclusions until we had all the facts of the matter."

A flicker of a grin crossed Éponine's lips. "Spoken like a true lawyer, Monsieur."

Enjolras coughed into his fist to hide a foolish smile. "The problem still remains," he continued. "And now we must deliberate how we are to deal with it."

"We should move to a different room," Éponine said. "One with less windows."

Joly reached out toward the curtains "Why? We could just—"

"No!" Éponine yelled and startled Joly into almost tripping. "If someone is watching, suddenly closing the curtains in the middle of the day will raise suspicions."

"The kitchen," Enjolras suggested.

The decision reached, the trio made their way into the foyer, to the narrow staircase at the back of the house.

As Joly descended and Enjolras was about to Éponine reached out and took his hand. As he turned she quickly let it go, as if ashamed of touching him, and clasped her own hand. Perhaps her re-encounter with her past had made her painfully aware again of the very real gap between them, morally and socially. Shame on her, she had forgotten!

Éponine stood, awkwardly looking at the floor then up at him. "Thank you, Monsieur . . . for not jumping to conclusions," she said meekly.

"You told me you were loyal to your friends and I believed you," was Enjolras' simple response. It was then that he noticed the faint purplish blotch forming on her right cheek. He said nothing, but motioned Éponine to descend the stairs ahead of him.

"I pray that is the last time," he thought to himself. He took a deep breath, willing the sudden surge of overwhelming fury to pass before following his companions.


A/N: I just saw in the news that they identified the skeleton in the parking lot in Leicester, England to be King Richard III. That's so mind-blowingly awesome! He wasn't a hunchback but had scoliosis which caused him to stoop. Wow!