A/N: I've been under the weather for the past week with either bronchitis or just as nasty cold. Either way, I was not cognizant enough to write. I've had further delays just by the amount of research I've been conducting (and finishing Our Mutual Friend which was a nail-biter near the end). More about that research in the footnotes.

Just a reminder to those who are reading this who are only familiar with the movie. In the book the barricades are set up in front of the Corinthe, a wine shop/café which is their second headquarters, not the Café Musain, which was where they usually would meet.

. . . . . .

Altercations

A few hours after his reencounter with the dreaded old man Montparnasse made his way to Rue Saint-Hippolyte, on which was located the boarding house Monsieur Thénardier had deigned to make his new habitat.

The old villain was sitting in the middle of the dim and smoky room, on a shabby excuse for a cot.

"I've got some news for you, Thénardier," Montparnasse said with a smirk, sidling up to the hunched over figure. The figure did not respond. Montparnasse tilted his head and peered to see what was arresting his comrade's attention:

In his thin callused palm he cradled a brass ring. It had been gilded once, but most of the gold had flaked off now to reveal the cheaper material underneath.

"You won't get much money off that," Montparnasse commented archly.

"Dead," Thénardier mumbled, continuing to stare at the one thing he and Madame Thénardier had kept after everything else had been sold.

Montparnasse sighed. Seeing that he would get no use out of this corner, he left.

. . . . . .

When the fiacre passed the Sorbonne Enjolras craned his neck for one last glimpse of its massive dome, a dark silouette against the deep blue of a dawning sky. Éponine could not help but watch him as they also passed the Place du Pont Saint-Michel. Enjolras' arms were folded and his face was carefully blank. But his eyes followed the Café Musain as the carriage slowly rolled by it, fisting the fabric of his coat sleeve.

. . . . . .

The little diligence-office was dimly illumined by the two gas-lit wall sconces, which flanked the registry desk. Éponine settled herself onto one of the padded benches lining the wall, using her portmanteau as a footrest and using Enjolras' portmanteau as an armrest.

Enjolras perused the timetable. The young man behind the desk yawned and, taking a sip of his coffee, spared Enjolras a bored glance before opening his newspaper.

For two hundred and fifty francs, ten centimes Enjolras purchased two intérieur seats for the Limoges bound diligence, departing at seven o'clock. He squinted his dry, tired eyes at the bracket clock hanging nearby: fifteen minutes to six.

Seeing as they had some time on their hands, Enjolras thought to get breakfast. He turned to see that Éponine had fallen asleep. Her bonnet was slightly askew as she leaned her head back against the wall.

"Madame . . ."

Éponine did not stir.

Enjolras reached out his hand and gingerly nudged her. Nothing. He glanced at the clerk out of the corner of his eye. His paper did not hold his complete attention.

"Your wife's asleep," he said helpfully.

Enjolras bit back a number of sarcastic replies to settle on a mild "indeed?"

Enjolras contemplated nudging her from his standing position again, but he was sure it would strike his audience—no matter how indifferent—as a rather cold way for a husband to wake his wife. But, Enjolras was not sure how a normal middle-class husband would act in such circumstances.

Acutely aware of the clerk's increasing scrutiny, he made a decision. He bent his head down to hers until the top rim of her bonnet brushed against his hair. He caught a hint of lavender and vanilla and something that was uniquely Éponine, which he could not quite put his finger on. Enjolras, gathered his scattered wits and cleared his throat

"Éponine . . ." He hissed.

"Hm?" Éponine frowned but she did not open her eyes.

"It is unwise to fall asleep in a public place."

"I know a good place when I see one, and this is a good place . . ." she murmured. "Besides," she languidly opened her eyes, a sleepy smirk crossing her face, "I have Lancelot to protect me."

Enjolras was about to glare at her when Éponine's sleepy smirk became a soft smile and all his irritation melted away.

"Not amusing," he muttered.

Éponine yawned. "Are we all set?"

"Yes, we—"

Éponine arched her back and raised her arms slightly to stretch. Enjolras quickly turned away from the sight of the fabric straining against her bodice and in so doing, saw that the gaze of the clerk was also on Éponine, his eyes wide in astonishment and his mouth hanging open.

Enjolras swiftly stepped into his line of sight. "Is there any place where we might find some breakfast at this hour?"

The clerk frowned at him for a moment before answering, "the bakery on the Rue des Ursulines."

"Thank you. Are you hungry, Madame?"

Without waiting for an answer Enjolras thrust her portmanteau into her arms, grabbed his own, then, taking Éponine by the arm, propelled her through the door.

"'Madame, Madame, Madame' . . ." the clerk mused to himself once they had gone, " . . . must be having a fight . . ."

. . . . . .

The fiacre driver gave Enjolras an incredulous look when he asked to be conveyed such a short distance. But, he shrugged it and nipped a swig from his flask. He did not question things at this hour. If the bourgeois wants to waste forty-five sous, what's it to me?

Once they were inside the carriage Enjolras turned on Éponine. "Ladies do not stretch like that in public!" He hissed.

"How was I to know?" Éponine grumbled, her mood swiftly souring. She was too tired to be lectured, not that she cared for lecturing even when she was awake.

"It's common sense."

"Not to me!"

"You did not think that the—or the way you— how it . . ." Enjolras trailed off, not knowing how to explain and not really wanting to.

Éponine peered at him and tilted her head.

"I embarrassed you, didn't I?"

Enjolras sighed. "A little," he admitted.

"I'm sorry."

An awkward silence would have followed had they not then arrived at the bakery. Enjolras requested the driver to wait.

Once they were inside, the driver snuck another drink and, making himself comfortable on his perch, closed his eyes.

. . . . . .

Éponine and Enjolras ate their shared brioche in haste, their eyes intermittently scanning the deserted street from the bakery window.

. . . . . .

The moment they climbed back inside the dark interior of the fiacre they knew they were not alone.

A glint of metal and a figure, which had been curled up against the opposite door, lunged at them. The knife blindly lashed out, catching Éponine's bonnet. Enjolras managed to grab the wrist of the hand that held the knife.

The driver's brandy-soaked repose was not at all disturbed by the altercation. In fact, the slight rocking of his vehicle sent him into an even deeper sleep.

Enjolras had not yet completely closed the door when they were assailed. Both he and the attacker tumbled out of the fiacre.

Éponine watched helplessly as the two rolled on the pavement, having difficulty in the dim light and confusion distinguishing between Enjolras and the assailant.

Just as she decided to make a blind attempt and pray she did damage to the right man, Enjolras pushed off the assassin. They stumbled away from each other. It was Montparnasse. He saw Éponine out of the corner of his eye and made a lunge for her. With a cry Enjolras shot forward. Montparnasse's knife came down but never made its mark, for Éponine gave her small but heavy portmanteau a mighty swing and caught him upside the head. Montparnasse was turned about by the force of the blow and just as he turned Enjolras met him with a solid punch to the jaw.

Down he went.

Enjolras walked cautiously over to Montparnasse's prone form, nudging him with the toe of his boot. No reaction. He knelt down and felt the pulse on his neck. He was still alive. It was then that the couple bothered to look about them. Their only witnesses were a few prostitutes and drunks who had crept out of their doorway shelters to watch the tussle.

"'Parnasse!" from the shadows a small female figure suddenly darted onto the scene. She knelt by Montparnasse and cradled his head. The boy groaned.

"'Zelma?" Éponine whispered.

"Get out of here, 'Ponine, before someone decides to fetch the cognes."

"'Zelma—"

Azelma knew what she was going to ask and vehemently shook her head. "I'm the only one who cares about him in this whole world. He needs me."

"But—"

Azelma rose and kissed Éponine on the cheek. Before Éponine could embrace her sister, she pulled away.

The girl hauled Montparnasse to his feet and putting his right arm over her shoulder, tucked her left arm under his. He was barely cognizant but just able to stand. When she was about to turn away her eyes settled on Enjolras and she paused.

"Are you 'Ponine's husband?"

Enjolras eyes flickered over the girl's face, seeing the similarities, putting together the pieces. "Yes. Grégoire Enjolras. How do you do?"

"Azelma Thénardier. Pleasure to meet you. Take good care of her, okay?"

"I will, Mademoiselle."

Azelma giggled, a smile suddenly beautifying her sharp, dirty face. "'Mademoiselle'? He's an odd one, 'Ponine! But he's handsome. That evens things out." She turned about, took two steps then paused again. "Oh, by the way" she said over her shoulder, "Maman's dead."

Without another word Azelma shuffled away with her burden. Éponine almost went after her, but Enjolras grabbed her by the hand and led her away.

A/N #2: Cue music: "As Long as He Needs Me". Azelma suddenly turned into Nancy from Oliver Twist. :)

After so much guessing and supposing France just had posting houses like England, I stumble across a free book online called Letters: Descriptive of Public Monuments, Scenery and Manners in France and Spain by Caroline Elizabeth Wilde Cushing, originally published in 1830. What a wealth of information it has been so far! I highly recommend it as a resource, just look it up on Google Books. Yeah, so their equivalent of the stage coach was the large diligence and the sort of equivalent of a posting house was the diligence-office, which from what I read was not an inn like the English posting house. I want to bang my head on the table. It's fascinating and frustrating at the same time.