A/N: I'm going to try to update this thing every Friday!

Exeunt

"Wait, Adrienne slow down—what?"

Adrienne tugged her brother closer and repeated what she had heard through the study door. She had glimpsed the servant's summoning of Éponine and her subsequent leaving of the hall, and had rudely stepped away from Enjolras in the middle of L'Ete, without explanation. Enjolras had not seen Éponine's departure but noted her absence with concern.

Adrienne's account unfolded his heartbeat faster with every word; anger at his mother and admiration for Éponine swirled in him. He was so engrossed by the tale that he did not see Éponine reenter the room.

. . . . . .

Éponine stepped back into the great hall, her legs trembling a little. She moved to a chair and was about to sit down when Étienne approached and bowed before her. "Will you do me the honor of dancing the next set with me, Madame?"

Éponine sighed a breath of relief at the sight of Enjolras's kind uncle and smiled. "I would like to, Monsieur. But, as you may be aware, I can't dance."

"I assumed as much, but the next set is the contredanse français, it is fairly simple. I'll tell you what to do as we go."

Éponine hesitated a moment but then with a decided lift of her chin she consented. She was going to try; she would not sit in a corner and mope. She no longer cared what the stuffy, snobby rich thought of her.

The dance began simple enough, just as the last did, placing them in parallel rows facing each other. Étienne was able to direct her as they went and Éponine did fairly well for someone who did not know the steps. But it all changed once she was directed to take the hand of the woman across from her to pass to the other line. Hélene took Éponine's proffered left hand, but instead of letting go for the pass, she gave the glove a sharp tug revealing to all Éponine's marred hand.

Hélene gave out a shriek, causing the players and dancers to stop and look. All gasped at the disfigurement that Éponine tried to hide within the folds of her gown, but without her glove there was no way to sufficiently cover it, and what would be the point now?

"It is worse than I imagined!" cried Marie.

"Looks like a wasting disease from a brothel," Marcel murmured. Even Uncle Étienne was standing, stunned, forgetting himself. Éponine searched wildly about for Enjolras and she saw him standing just outside the group of gawkers, staring as well.

At the sight of her injured hand his quick mind traveled back to the barricade: he remembered Éponine on the barricade talking to Marius, the single musket shot, the bandage on her left hand . . . he put together the pieces.

With deliberate steps he slowly made his way to Éponine, the dancers moving out of his way, his eyes not moving from hers. On top of this revelation still in his mind was her interview with his mother.

Now he stood before her. His blue eyes searched her frightened brown ones, then traveled down to her hand, whitening from her own anguished grip, pressed against her chest.

"Dearest Éponine . . ." he breathed gently prying her good hand off. He held the ruined hand in his own. He studied it for a moment and then, to the horror of his audience, and Éponine's infinite shock, he raised it and pressed it against his smooth cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"You are the best of women . . ." he said tremulously.

A tear rolled down Éponine's coarse cheek as she gaped up at him. Enjolras lowered her hand and gave it a tug.

"Come. We're leaving."

She dumbly nodded her head and allowed herself to be led to the door.

Marcel ran up to Enjolras and grabbed his shoulder.

"Are you mad? He hissed. "You cannot seriously be considering continuing this farce of a marriage? To give up my sister for this—this whore!"

Éponine stiffened. Enjolras let go of her hand. Marcel breathed a sigh of relief, but his relief was short-lived as in the next moment the same hand punched him in the face, sending him to the floor. Enjolras turned back to Éponine.

"Now we are leaving."

No one dared try to stop him a second time.

. . . . . .

Enjolras hired a carriage and bundled Éponine into it, not wanting her to spend another minute inside that house, near those people. The servants brought out their luggage and strapped it to the carriage. He only permitted Adrienne and Étienne to see them off. Adrienne, with tears made Éponine promise to write.

As the carriage rumbled out of the drive Éponine could not help but stare at the man sitting across from her.

Now she was really confused.

What was that?

Enjolras was quiet, not looking at her but seemingly well aware of her gaze by the bright red of his cheeks, his trademark crossed arms, and his overt interest in the passing scenery.

Éponine looked down at her gloved hands. She wished her left hand had more feeling so she could revel in the remembrance what must have been a soft cheek. His warm expression and even warmer words were echoing in her head, threatening to undo her.

He really thought that? That she was the "best of women"? She, the thief and the whore?

Such sweet words from Enjolras' lips were a balm to her ragged soul, but she doubted he would repeat such things if . . . if he knew that what Marcel had said of her was true.

One or two acts of selflessness could not wipe out a lifetime of selfishness and grasping greed.

"I . . ."

Éponine snapped out of her reverie and looked up at her companion, who had spoken. If possible he appeared even redder than before.

"I fear I . . . overstepped a boundary, Madame . . . I must have embarrassed you . . ."

"My embarrassment was not your doing . . ."

Enjolras' expression grew grim. "I am . . . so sorry for my family, I—"

"You know my family is just as bad, if not worse."

Enjolras did not answer, clearly not comforted by the thought. "My family does not have the excuse of poverty for their lack of compassion."

"At least you have three bright spots, Monsieur: Adrienne, Monsieur Étienne and yourself."

Enjolras gave a rueful laugh. "Thank you for including me as a bright spot."

Éponine tilted her head in wonder at his self-deprecation.

"You are."

"Please, no more."

Silence stretched between them until Éponine broke it.

"Did you mean what you said?"

Enjolras flushed again, looking mildly offended that she would doubt him. "Of course. I always say what I mean."

An odd look crossed Éponine's face. "Do you?"

"Most of the time."

"How many days until we reach Saint Prisca?"

Enjolras blinked, thrown off by the sudden change in subject, yet also relieved by it.

"A day and a half, with stops," he answered. "Once we're back in town we will board a diligence bound for Mansle, where we will make our first stop. Then from Mansle to Limoges, then from Limoges to Saint Prisca."

. . . . . .

Enjolras was only able to procure seats for the imperiale, on the top of the diligence, for at that late hour, not many were buying tickets, except for those on urgent business.

Éponine, exhausted by the stress of the day felt her eyes growing heavy a few minutes after the diligence's departure. The cool breeze on her face and the last whiff of the sea relaxed her and she was soon asleep.

Enjolras gently eased her head onto his shoulder and soon fell asleep himself.

. . . . . .

"You made this?" Azelma asked softly, turning the fan in her bandaged right hand as she lay on the hospital cot. Her other arm was broken.

Feuilly shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. "I painted the decoration. It's from my stall in Montmarte, Brocante des Abbesses. I'm there when I'm not at the workshop. I thought it might cheer you up a bit." It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he saw her again, he felt foolish thinking that such a paltry thing could comfort someone with such extensive injuries.

"It's for me?" Azelma gave a raspy chuckle, immediately grimacing at the pain it caused her bruised ribs.

"It's too nice for the likes of me." She handed it back to him. "Thanks anyway."

Feuilly pushed it back towards her. "I insist."

Azelma gave an exasperated sigh and decided to indulge him. She opened the fan again to inspect the decoration once more, then looked over it at the young man sitting on the stool a foot away from her cot.

"Why did you bother with me?"

"'Do unto others . . .'" Feuilly said with another shrug and a sad smile. He had not followed that one very well in the past.

"I'm in your debt, Monsieur."

"Not at all."

Feuilly spent a few more minutes in idle talk with Azelma before he had to leave to return to his stall.

"Until tomorrow, Mademoiselle."

"I am grateful for what you did, but you don't have to keep coming to see me. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Until tomorrow," Feuilly repeated firmly.

. . . . . .

The next day Feuilly returned to find Azelma's cot occupied by another.

"Where's the girl who was here yesterday?" He demanded.

The nun held her hands out in a helpless gesture. "When I made my rounds early this morning I discovered her cot empty."

Feuilly turned his head, looking about the hall, as if he expected to see her hiding among the drapes on the rows of windows.

"She left this, Monsieur." The nun reached in the folds of her habit and produced his fan.