A/N: Sorry for the non-update last Friday. I had a full day and had not a moment to sit down and type, during the rest of the weekend I began to type but had no time to finish. But I did diligently write it in my notebook throughout the week, even then I was stalled because made changes. I was also distracted by The Globe's version of "Love's Labour's Lost" (which I had never seen before). Someone was kind enough to upload it in full to YouTube. It's hilarious! See it!

. . . . . .

The diligence traveled through the night, making brief stops for changes of horse and driver before speeding off into the blackness again. There was no moon and the small lanterns strapped to the carriage body seemed to do little to pierce the dark.

The road to the diligence took to Mansle was in need of repair and Éponine was bounced awake by every rut in the road. She was thankful for the light padding on the shoulder of Enjolras' coat as her temple bounced against it. Eventually, she fell into a shallow sleep and it was a sharp jostle indeed that caused her to be fully awake.

Éponine looked about with sleepy pleasure at the paling sky, pink with dawn. For some reason, recently, her preference for the sunset and twilight had diminished and changed to a liking for dawn and morning. Perhaps, because in the past the coming of night heralded her opportunity to wander and dream of Marius, but now that reason was gone. Dawn signaled new beginnings.

A lark somewhere in the field they were passing, sprang up and burst into song. Éponine smirked ruefully at the memories it brought with it, by association with the name and she idly wondered if the Lark and Marius were married yet.

The sun had fully risen by the time Éponine saw the sign for Mansle pass. Soon the diligence pulled into a courtyard of what appeared to have been once been a medieval farmhouse, which had been converted into a posting house and diligence office.

Éponine lifted her head from Enjolras' shoulder and gently shook him.

"Wake up, Monsieur. We're in Mansle."

Enjolras stirred and fixed her with a heavy-lidded, endearingly disoriented look. He looked so boyish that Éponine had to resist the urge to fix his sleep-tousled hair.

"Good morning, Madame," he said huskily. He arched his back to stretch out the kinks, grimacing at the stiffness and the dull ache of his still healing injuries, disturbed by the hard ride.

"We're stopping for breakfast," Éponine informed him. Enjolras rubbed his eyes, still not seeming fully awake.

"Very good . . ." he murmured.

. . . . . .

Éponine and Enjolras sat at the far end of the inn's dining room table, thankful that none of the other passengers seemed desirous of joining them.

Breakfast consisted of potage, bread and strong coffee. Éponine had so many questions still bubbling inside her from her experience at the Enjolras estate, especially one, courtesy of Marcel, but she dared not voice it. Instead she asked what Enjolras would be expected to do as schoolmaster.

"I would teach general knowledge to all the various ages. History, mathematics, writing, Latin . . ."

"Do you think I could sit in on the lessons?"

Enjolras started at this unexpected question and shifted uncomfortably. "As much as I . . . I have no objection, personally, but I do not know if the village leaders would take kindly to a woman in the schoolroom . . . Besides, you will be too busy tending to the house."

"A house? My own house?"

Enjolras could not help smiling at the clear excitement on her face, and the happiness it gave him to see her so pleased.

"The mayor is giving us the use of one of the small cottages. It was the one recently vacated by the last schoolmaster, still furnished as well, which is a fortunate thing."

Éponine's economical heart warmed. "That's nice! One less expense."

"Indeed," Enjolras said, with palpable relief.

Éponine thrilled at the prospect; to be mistress of her own household, to maintain . . .

A home of my own . . . to do with what I will . . . !

But, then her heart sank with the remembrance that this dream would end in a year.

Oh, well . . . I will enjoy it while it lasts . . . It will be a good learning experience that I will take with me wherever I choose to go next, after . . .

She could not finish the thought.

. . . . . .

In the next diligence that came by Enjolras was only able to procure seats in the interieur, so there was no more opportunities for further discuss how they would present themselves to Saint Prisca.

The diligence stopped briefly for nuncheon in La Souterraine before setting off again. They reached Limoges around half-past six in the evening.

The hôtel Jeanne d'Arc was fortunately not a far walk from the diligence office. When they arrived they had their dinner sent up to them, so they could further discuss how they would conduct themselves once they arrived in Saint Prisca.

"I met you at your father's respectable inn in Paris my last year of university."

"And?"

"And?"

"Then what happened?"

"Then we were married. That's all they need know. Anyone prying for more information is an insufferable busybody," he said in an irritated tone.

"You may find there are many insufferable busybodies in small villages, Monsieur. Should we use our real names?"

"Joly, in his letters to the mayor, gave me the surname . . . Marbre."

Éponine gave a little chuckle but Enjolras looked less than amused.

"So," he continued, "that will be our surname, but I think it will be safe enough to use our Christian names."

After they finished dinner Enjolras excused himself to run what errands he could in town to replenish any supplies that were in danger of running out. While he was out Éponine took a sponge-bath and washed her hair. Her stomach had been bubbling painfully with nervousness ever since they arrived in Limoges. She had not been particularly anxious about the whole thing until it was almost upon her. Her hands shook with jitters as she combed her dark streaming locks. Her mind came up with a thousand different scenarios of situations they might encounter in Saint Prisca, and how she would react to them.

What if someone said this . . .? Then she would say that. What if someone did this, how would a respectable scholar's wife react? These thoughts chased each other around, making the nervous pangs in her stomach so bad that she had to run to the necessary outside. She ignored the surprised amused looks of staff and lodgers as she, in her nightdress and wrapper dove, for the privy.

When Enjolras two hours later Éponine was tucked in bed, but sitting up, wide-awake. "Can't sleep," she said, seeing the faint query on his face.

"I should think you were exhausted. You could not have had a restful sleep on that diligence. I thought it would rattle itself to pieces."

Enjolras stepped behind the provided dressing screen and removed his coat. He had still been in his formal clothes from the party in La Rochelle. They were now quite ruined by the extensive travel, which they were not made to endure; all stained with dust, mud, and dew.

"I am exhausted," Éponine replied.

Enjolras stripped down to his linen shirt and muslin under breeches. These had been next to his skin, and now reeked. He would have to strip completely and put on fresh ones. He hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea of doing so with Éponine still in the room. He knew she could not see him, but still . . .

"I'm nervous," Éponine blurted out, immedietly regretting it; she would rather he think she was bursting with confidence, cool and collected, befitting her street-smart reputation.

"About Saint Prisca?"Enjolras stripped as quickly as possible, face flushing to the roots of his golden curls and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end from her proximity.

"Yes."

In his haste to put on the muslin breeches Enjolras almost lost his balance. But, he completed his task and waited for his face to cool before stepping out from behind the screen.

He walked over to the bed, pulled back the coverlet and climbed in gingerly beside Éponine, grimacing at the soreness of his back.

"You will do fine," he said, not knowing what else to say. He refrained from patting the little hands clutching the coverlet. "Go to sleep." He leaned over and blew out the candle on the nightstand beside him.

Minutes passed by. He heard and felt Éponine turning and fidgeting as she tried to fall asleep. This went on for a minute until finally . . .

"Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

"I still can't sleep."

"Clearly."

Éponine went quiet, but in another moment later she was tossing and fidgeting. With a sigh Enjolras sat up and re-lit the candle. He swung his legs out of bed, moved to his valise and began rummaging through it. He pulled out a slim, well-worn volume. Éponine reached out.

"Oh! That will surely do the trick!"

Enjolras raised a sardonic eyebrow and jerked it sharply out of her reach.

"This book," he said with almost reverent slowness, "is a transcription of Cicero's first major court case, defending a gentleman accused of murdering his own father."

"How interesting." Éponine reached for it again, and again he held it away.

"It's in Latin, so I shall have to translate it to you." He opened the book.

"But, Monsieur, I don't want to keep you awake."

"I shall not have any sleep until you do," he replied dryly.

Éponine sighed in resignation and settled back onto her pillow.

"Read away, then."

Enjolras cleared his throat. "'M. Tulli Ciceronis Pro Sextus Roscio Amerino Oratio'—or 'Marcus Tullius Cicero for Sextus Roscius of Ameria'.

"'Credo ego vos, iudices, mirari, quid sit, quod, cum tot summi oratores hominesque nobilissimi sedeant, ego potissimum surrexerim, is, qui neque aetate neque ingenio neque auctoritate sim cum his, qui sedeant, comparandus'—'I imagine that you, O judges, are marvelling why it is that when so many most eminent orators and most noble men are sitting still, I above all others should get up, who neither for age, nor for ability, nor for influence, am to be compared to those who are sitting still.'"

Enjolras glanced at Éponine. Her eyelids were already growing heavy.

"'Omnes hi, quos videtis adesse in hac causa, iniuriam novo scelere conflatam putant oportere defendi, defendere ipsi propter iniquitatem temporum non audent. Ita fit, ut adsint propterea, quod officium sequuntur, taceant autem idcirco, quia periculum vitant.'—'For all these men whom you see present at this trial think that a man ought to be defended against all injury contrived against him by unrivalled wickedness; but through the sad state of the times they do not dare to defend him themselves. So it comes to pass that they are present here because they are attending to their business, but they are silent because they are afraid of danger.'"

Two minutes later Éponine was asleep.

Despite that, sleep was long in coming for Enjolras. His mind kept bringing back the image of Éponine's shocked, blushing face when he hand pressed her disfigured hand to his cheek. He felt his face heat up at the memory. When he had looked into her eyes he thought he saw something there . . . something he dared not even hope to see . . . If he ever thought to apply the cliché "eyes shining with love" he would have applied them to her that night. But, perhaps, it had been his imagination mistaking an expression of gratitude for something more, wishful thinking seeing want it wanted to see.

Enjolras propped himself up on one elbow to gaze down at Éponine.

Even if she did feel something for him he could not ask her to stay by his side. He was determined to resume the work of Les Amis and that would cause her to face an uncertain and possibly dangerous future back in Paris.

Life with him would never be safe or stable and Éponine deserved both those things. Not only that, but she needed someone like Marius by her side, someone full of poetry and romantic nonsense, who would tell her all things she wanted to hear; not he who was made up of war and books. No skill in wooing—and no time for it.

Despite himself he gently grazed his fingertips over her still damp hair. Some vestiges of the muget perfume still lingered and wafted up to him. He at once felt sweep through him the heat that had not so long ago been a foreign feeling, and now was so terribly familiar. It was not base lust; he knew how that felt. As much as his friends had laughed at him, calling him "marble" and "monk", he was as normal as they and reacted, internally, the same as they when an exceptionally endowed woman crossed their path. The only difference was that he had a firm moral compass and an unnatural self-control for someone his age, which enabled him to never give way.

Éponine was safe from him, for he would rather cut off his own right hand than take advantage of her and yet he still scrambled out of bed and made for the relative safety of the worn armchair in the far corner of the room.

His control was not in question. What had propelled him from her side was his own pain, the pure, natural longing of a husband to share himself with his wife, to make her his companion and dearest love. To stare at her and yearn for it . . . he was trying to spare himself the ache.

He knew he would receive an earful from Éponine if she woke up first to find him in the armchair, but that was one risk he was willing to take for both their sakes.

. . . . . .

A/N:

Marbre: Marble