Home and Hearth

The carriage rolled slowly into Saint Prisca under a screen of heavy rain. The mayor of Saint Prisca was standing at the village entrance, decked in his formal vestments, the mayoral chain of office about his neck winking in the weak light.

"I am so very pleased to have you here at last, Monsiuer!"

Enjolras got down from the carriage to take the man's extended hand.

"Thank you for the warm welcome."

As Éponine descended from the carriage a sound made her freeze on the step: the rattle and click of numerous rifles behind and before. They had been encircled by twenty soldiers, their weapons leveled at Enjolras. But that shock was nothing to what she felt at the unexpected sight of Inspector Javert striding the through the door of the mayor's house, wearing his trademark cold smile and his eyes bearing fixedness of a tiger watching his prey.

How can this be?

"Monsieur Grégoire Enjolras," the inspector said. "You are guilty of conspiring, fomenting and taking part in a deadly rebellion against the Crown. Since you have no love for your government, you have waived all rights you should have enjoyed as a loyal subject and shall not receive trial. Shoot the rebel."

Éponine raced down to Enjolras, intending to put herself in front of him, to buy him a few more seconds of life. But, she was too late. The deafening noise of a rifle report rang through her ears and through the smoke she saw Enjolras fall. She tried to scream but it felt like someone had stuffed cotton down her throat, and any sound she tried to make sat heavily in her chest, refusing to go beyond her lips.

She opened her eyes and saw at first only darkness. She sat up and fumbled for the bed curtains. She drew them aside and peered, just making out the shapes of the hotel room as her eyes adjusted. As she was looking she realized she was sitting where her bedfellow should have been. A surge of residual panic coursed through her as the dream image of a murdered Enjolras came back to her. But then her scanning eyes found his familiar figure curled up awkwardly in the nearby armchair. Panic gave way to relief; relief gave way to irritation, then irritation to sadness. She lay back down and tried to go back to sleep, but only ended up staring at the rose pattern in the canopy and it was not until dawn began to light up the sky that she drifted into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

. . . . . .

When Enjolras awoke he immediately looked to see if Éponine was still asleep. The bed curtains were still closed. He gave a sigh of relief. Gingerly he rose from the chair and sucked in a sharp breath at the painful consequences sleeping in it brought. He would have to have the wounds on his back looked at soon. He could not trust a strange doctor who, no doubt, would look at the telling marks of healing bullet wounds and cuts, and pepper him with suspicious questions. But, then who could look?

Only Éponine remained as a choice. His chest tightened with nervous anticipation at the prospect. The sound of sliding fabric from the vicinity of the bed alerted Enjolras to the fact that Éponine was waking up. He quickly left to order breakfast to be brought up and remained downstairs for an extra quarter of an hour.

. . . . . .

When he returned a maidservant opened the door for him before leaving the room. Éponine sat in the armchair, fully dressed and looking pensive.

"Good morning, Madame."

Éponine looked up at him slowly through her lashes. He winced at the censure in the set of her mouth and in the hardness of her brown eyes. But she did not berate him. She was not his mother, and not truly his wife, what right had she to scold him?

For Enjolras knowing that she somehow knew where he spent the night made breakfast an awkward affair. He could feel the annoyance radiating from her and almost began to wish she would say something so he could defend himself, though what he would say in his defense he did not know.

Fine lawyer I am.

The truth was out of the question.

After breakfast Enjolras went out again to inquire after transportation. No diligence went to such a remote place as Saint Prisca, but it did stop in Aurillac, fifteen miles southwest of Saint Prisca. Enjolras purchased food that could be eaten on the diligence. He meant, once again to ride through the night until they reached Aurillac. He was eager to reach Saint Prisca and start the next step in his plans.

He began to regret his decision as his back burned in protest at the long-endured friction of the leather seat against his bandages. Seated in the interieur Enjolras and Éponine did not converse much, but Éponine made an effort to join in the small talk of the passengers to alleviate some of the boredom and would sometimes read. Enjolras was in no mood for idle talk with the other passengers so he looked out the window and fixed his mind on the future: what he would do once he returned to Paris.

They reached Aurillac around three in the afternoon of the next day.

No diligence office.

Éponine sat wearily in the local café, taking a light repast of bread, fruit and restoring coffee, as Enjolas thought, his portion untouched.

It was then that he noticed a young man hitching a cart to a horse, apparently preparing to leave. He leapt to his feet and crossed the street to him. The man was a farmer from the area of Saint Simon and about to make his way back there after selling his produce in the Aurillac markets. For ten francs Jacques agreed to take them as far as Saint Simon, three miles away.

"Saint Prisca is twelve miles from there," he informed Enjolras in awkward standard French, Occitan being his native dialect. Enjolras returned to Éponine's side and told her of the arrangements, When they reached the cart he insisted she sit up on the buckboard next to Jacques while he would sit in the cart. Éponine protested but she could tell by the firm set of his jaw that her options were to either get on the buckboard or stand there forever.

Enjolras stowed the luggage in the empty cart, and climbed in, the remnants of vegetables scattered about his feet.

"Help yourself to any of the leftovers," Jacques chuckled.

Enjolras suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, but he barely suppressed his glare when he spotted the appreciative look on Jacques' face as he handed Éponine up to the buckboard beside him.

For almost the entire length of the trip Jacques told them amusing stories and riddles and Éponine laughed heartily at every one. Enjolras normally loved the sound of her laughter, but in this instance he found it irritating.

The farmer looked to be about Éponine's age. He had dark waves of hair that curled sweepingly over bright green eyes. He reminded Enjolras of Marius, except that he was built stockier than both himself and Marius. He could see the muscles working in the young man's arms, as he directed his mule, straining against the homespun linen of his shirt. The farmer flashed Éponine a wide smile as she in turn told him an amusing story. His teeth were white and straight. Enjolras winced as his back bumped sharply against the wooden sides of the cart as it rolled over the poorly maintained road. He himself had strength and muscles but was on the more slender side. He could not physically compare to this giant of a farmer who had built himself up over the natural progression of time plus manual labor.

Enjolras' eyes slid back to Éponine. She was smiling brightly. Her soft, high cheekbones causing her eyes to crinkle at the edges, almost obliterating the whites of her eyes, leaving only the chocolate irises visible. She seemed so carefree in this new man's presence.

She would do well as a farmer's wife . . .

. . . . . .

It was with well-concealed relief that Enjolras bid farewell to Jacques in Saint Simon. The farmer winked at Éponine before urging his horse on through the town to the outskirts where his lands lay.

Enjolras bent to pick up the discarded valise and paused slightly at the burning sensation that raced along his back as the skin stretched over the irritated flesh. He grabbed the handle, gritted his teeth, and straightened. Éponine noted his discomfort. She worried her lip but said nothing.

There were no diligence offices in the town either, leaving them only three options, hiring a vehicle, buying a vehicle or walking. There did not seem to be a place for hiring vehicles either; two options then.

The pair made their way to a coffee house across the way from where they had been dropped off. At a table they discussed what to do next. But, soon enough, a middle-aged man dressed in a working smock approached them.

"I couldn't help but hearing you need a vehicle, Monsiuer."

Enjolras looked up at the man with an expression of caution.

"Yes . . ." he replied slowly.

"I have an old mail cabriolet sitting in my shed, gathering dust. I'll gladly sell it to you."

Enjolras rose from his chair.

"May I see it?"

"Sure, sure."

Éponine began to rise, but Enjolras bid her sit down again and rest.

The man's home was just down the street, just around the corner from the coffee house. The man led Enjolras through the front of his shop, which bore the emblem on a hanging circular sign: J. Bagnole, Wheelwright. The man opened the door to the back garden, then the shed, letting loose a cloud of dust and dirt. The cabriolet still had its black mailbox strapped to it and peeling vestiges of yellow paint on the body of the vehicle.

"How much?"

"Twenty francs."

Enjolras sighed and pulled out his wallet, wincing inwardly. The money was starting to get low; his purchase in Limoges had not been cheap.

"Twenty francs!" He heard a familiar feminine voice exclaim. "You should be providing us with a horse too, for that price!" He turned and saw Éponine standing there with her gloved hands planted firmly on her hips, wisps of her nut-brown hair escaping from her straw bonnet. Monsieur Bagnole's startled gaze shifted from Enjolras to Éponine.

"Five francs," Éponine said.

Bagnole looked back at Enjolras, bewildered and slightly chiding, as if to say, "control your wife."

Enjolras shrugged, his mouth twitching.

Seeing that he would get no help from that quarter the wheelwright turned back to Éponine.

"Fifteen francs."

"Ten francs."

"Twelve francs."

"Ten. Or you can keep you rotten carriage and we'll find something else!"

Bagnole wiped his sweaty palms on his dirty smock.

"Fine! Ten francs."

"Merci, Monsiuer." Enjolras inclined his head with a polite nod of thanks, his lips still twitching.

"You—you can purchase a horse from Monsieur Lefevre, a block from here," he pointed to his left. "For a very reasonable price . . ."

Suddenly, a woman, no doubt the man's wife, whom Enjolras briefly saw inside the store appeared at the back door. She had been watching negotiations from the window and had finally decided to step in.

"Would Madame care for a little coffee or tea while your husband purchases a horse?"

Éponine looked sharply at Madame Bagnole and recognized in her narrow eyes the entrepreneurial gleam that she often saw in her mother's own eyes. She doubted her offer of hospitality would be free.

"No, thank you, Madame."

Either way, Éponine thought it best to go with Enjolras, to make sure he did not overspend on the horse.

"You never cease to surprise me," Enjolras said as they walked down the street.

"Is that a good thing?" She ventured, half-teasingly.

"I do not know," he replied. Éponine looked up then and saw that he wore a rare broad grin. "Either way, well done, Madame, you have saved my purse from unnecessary lightness."

Éponine felt heat rise to her cheeks and could not help but smile herself under the praise.

. . . . . .

Enjolras was quite good at driving. Éponine did not know that one of the marks of a gentleman was how well one could drive his own vehicle.

The road took them through thin forests surrounded by tall, rolling hills, past meadows full of yellow wildflowers. But, the pleasant afternoon turned. The wind picked up and gray clouds started to move in. Soon small drops of rain became a deluge. Enjolras pressed on, even though he could barely see the road ahead through the screen of rain. The carriage began to slow, its wheels sinking into the mud. Suddenly, the carriage shuddered, tilted slightly to one side and stopped completely. Enjolras slid against Éponine, pressing her against the cab wall. He let out a slight hiss of pain.

"Are you hurt?" he asked through gritted teeth as he pushed himself back to his spot.

"I'm fine," she answered quickly then gave him a dubious look. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

Éponine raised an eyebrow, but only said, "Looks like we've hit a rut,"

"So it would seem."

Enjolras scooted out of his seat and made to step down. Éponine grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"To push."

Éponine had no doubt now that the injuries on his back had been disturbed and were causing him pain.

"We should wait until the rain lightens up a bit. It will be easier then."

Enjolras' back throbbed and he relented.

They sat in silence, listening to the rain dash against the fabric of the roof, a mist coming off the rain making them slightly damp as it passed the open front of the vehicle. Thunder rolled gently in the distance. Éponine sat back against the leather cushion with a sigh. The rain was a pleasant respite from the summer heat.

Enjolras bent down and rummaged through his valise, pulling out a book. He read it, but not really read it, for he was all too aware of Éponine sitting so close beside him and their being so very alone. No people in the next room, no armchair to run to; only nature around them.

Enjolras suddenly closed his book, causing Éponine to turn from the scenery to him. He went to his valise again and this time pulled out a tiny drawstring purse.

"Before I forget," he said vaguely. He opened the purse and shook it over the palm of his hand and out tumbled two silver rings.

"I bought these at a jeweler's stall in Limoges."

The ring he put on himself was a plain band, the one he handed to Éponine had been decorated with delicate swirling scrollwork punctuated by aster blossoms.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Éponine breathed as she took it, but pleasure was mixed with disappointment, that he did not put it on her himself. She turned her head away and held her hand up to the dim light, studying the designs, hiding the tears that sprang to her eyes.

"Éponine . . ."

Her insides jumped at the sound of her own name said so softly and warmly by those lips from which it did not often pass. Her body was sent into a shock of awareness, but the sensation quickly cooled with his next words.

"If . . . over the course of our year in Saint Prisca you perchance meet someone . . ." he paused to look at her significantly. "I will not hold you to our agreement."

Éponine flinched. It was like a slap in the face. Sharp words of retort pressed against her lips, but she held them in. What had she been expecting? She knew was nothing to him. She had heard it from his own lips . . . but, when had taken her damaged hand and held it, looking at her with such warm admiration . . . it had caused her to hope . . . now she knew that that hope had been unfounded. She took a deep, steadying breath and silently laughed bitterly. Only Enjolras would hand her a wedding ring then say what he said.

"You deserve to be happy," he said sending her a distant, compassionate smile that lanced her heart.

"Thank you," she replied, barely keeping her voice steady. She felt a hot prickling behind her eyelids and leapt out of the cabriolet before he could see the tears.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asked, startled.

"I'm pushing! Take the reins!"

"No, I'll do it!" Enjolras slid down and followed her around the cab to the back.

"I pushed pére's wagon out of ruts more times then I have fingers."

"No, Éponine."

"I can't handle a horse, you can, and it won't do for you to exacerbate your injures any further."

Enjolras stiffened. "I'm fine."

Éponine swiped her streaming locks out of her face, put her hands on her hips and looked narrowly at him. " You think that I haven't noticed your discomfort? I'm not blind or stupid."

"I never—"

"How pathetic would it be for the great Enjolras to survive the émeute only to die of infection?" Éponine's lips curled mockingly.

Enjolras' mouth pressed into a thin line and she could see he was barely containing his own anger. His wounded pride and frustration overtook his sense of chivalry.

"Very well, Madame, have your way."

He turned on his heel and jumped back up into the cabriolet. Éponine planted her feet firmly into the sticky, sloppy ground, and braced her shoulder and good hand against the body of the carriage. When she heard the whip crack she pushed. Her boots sank into the mud, rain dripped off her bonnet and down the back of her bodice. She shivered.

What did she deserve? Enjolras would not have said such things if he knew who she really was, what she had done . . .

Éponine was interrupted by her thoughts when she felt the vehicle begin to right itself as it moved out of the rut, but just when they seemed free, the nag started slightly at something and, with a whinny, backed up, sending the wheels back into the rut and Éponine into the mud. Instead of getting back on her feet, she lay there, staring up at the gray sky, fringed by black tree branches. The mud seeped through her lace gloves and onto her hands. She wished she could sink into it like quicksand and disappear. The rain slowed to a drizzle.

"Madame?" Enjolras called out in concern. "Éponine?"

On not receiving a reply he leapt down and ran around the cabriolet. She did not look at him but continued to stare at the sky.

"Éponine!" He quickly bent down and pulled her to her feet; the strength of his arms made Éponine's heart lurch with longing. She quickly extricated herself. Enjolras sent her a concerned look.

"Did I hurt you?"

Éponine mentally smirked as she assured him she was fine.

"Éponine—"

The gentleness, the concern in his voice made something inside her snap. "How do you know what I deserve?" she bit out between clenched teeth and stormed away from him back towards the front of the cabriolet.

A shock went through Enjolras' system and for a brief, insane moment, he wondered if she had read his mind.

"Bon vèspre!" A strange voice suddenly called out, close to their carriage. An old man appeared at the front of their cabriolet. He said something else in Occitan but on seeing that Enjolras was not comprehending, he repeated it in standard French. "May I be of any help?" He was clean-shaven, with neatly kept white hair, he looked to be around his mid-sixties, but was solidly built still. His clothes looked like those of the typical peasant farmer: linen shirt, trousers and vest. A battered leather hat with a drooping brim shaded his bright blue eyes. "I live just down the lane there in a little cottage. I heard your horse, sounded like it was in distress, so I came to investigate. Are you stuck? Oh, dear, dear!" He exclaimed on seeing Éponine's sad condition.

"We are indeed stuck, Monsieur."

"Here, what we need is a little extra man-power," the man said gesturing to the vehicle. "Now, Madame, if you are feeling up to it, take the reins." Éponine protested for ignorance. "It's very simple." The man gave her a few directions and up she went into the cab. "Now, young man let's put our shoulders to it."

Soon, the cab was free.

"Monsieur, we are in your debt," Enjolras said, gratefully shaking the man's hand. He reached into his wallet to pull out a few coins.

The old man waved it away. "Nonsense. If you help your neighbor with the expectation of reward, then it is no longer charity."

"Then again, thank you. My name is Grégoire Marbre, and this is my wife, Éponine. I'm the new school master for Saint Prisca."

There was a strange look in the old man's eyes. He initially frowned then his brow cleared, as if someone had just given him the answer to a riddle. He nodded to Enjolras and kissed Éponine's hand. "A pleasure Madame, Monsieur. I am Jean Le Tassier, at your service. My cottage, as I said, is just down the way, and you look in need of refreshment. Please accept my hospitality."

. . . . . .

M. Le Tassier's cottage was a small, one room cottage, which looked like it had been standing since William the Conqueror, and in its age the stonework had begun to settle on a slant, the upper portion listing slightly to the right. But the inside was neat, dry and cozy. A bright fire was burning in the small hearth a small meal was still on the table, which he must have left off eating midway though when he heard the horse. Le Tassier scurried around the room, bringing out extra food: cheese, biscuits and a jug of mead.

"Made from my own honey bees. I have a straw hive around back." Le Tassier gently asked about their business, where they were headed. Éponine was thankful Enjolras took the lead on the conversation and left her to eat.

"Around here, people call me 'the hermit,' although that's not entirely true. I live here alone outside the village, but I go into the village almost every day to visit and sell my wine and honey."

"Why do you not live in the village?"

The old man shrugged. "The church priest does not much care for me and my 'dangerous influence', as he calls it. I don't want to make trouble, so here I stay, quite content."

Enjolras looked quizzically at him, even Éponine looked up.

"I am a Huguenot," Le Tassier said simply, as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

"Are you pressured to stay out here? But the restoration of rights by the Edict of Tolerance in 1787 ended Huguenot persecution once and for all."

Le Tassier chuckled. "Spoken like a true city-bourgeois—and a lawyer, by the sound of it. Things are different out here in the country. The crown declares one thing, but in remote areas such as this change comes very slow, if at all."

. . . . . .

Éponine and Enjolras were able to change their clothes and freshen up before setting out again.

"Give my regards to the Mayor," Le Tassier said as he waved them off. "Perhaps I'll see you again soon . . . God's blessings on you both."

. . . . . .

The three-mile journey into Saint Prisca was made in silence. The air seemed to crackle with the tension. It made Éponine want to scream. Enjolras kept sending her concerned sidelong glances. She knew he wanted to ask her about her enigmatical comment yet he did not, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

The carriage rolled slowly into Saint Prisca. The hamlet nestled snugly between two large hills and consisted of twelve stone cottages, a church, and one larger, two story building, which Éponine assumed to be the mayor's residence. The mayor of Saint Prisca, a handsome, though short, man of middle age, was standing at the village entrance, decked in his formal vestments, the mayoral chain of office about his neck winking in the fading light. Éponine tensed as the similarity with her dream struck her. Beside him stood what appeared to be the village priest, judging by his vestments.

"I am Monsieur Gérard Bisset, mayor of Saint Prisca. I am so very pleased to have you here at last, Monsiuer!"

Enjolras got down from the carriage to take the man's extended hand.

"Thank you for your warm welcome."

Enjolras turned back to Éponine and handed her down from the cabriolet. "And this is Madame Marbre."

The mayor took her hand. His wide smile had a touch of relief. "We are especially glad to meet you. This is Monseigneur Theodard, our village priest."

The priest nodded to the new arrivals with murmurs of "pleasure." He did not think much of Parisians.

Mayor Bisset gestured toward his house. "I am sure you are exhausted from your journey and are eager to get settled, but before you do you shall dine with my wife and I and we shall further acquaint you with the ways here. Carlo," he said, indicating a villager standing near, "will take your things to the cottage in the meantime, and see to it that everything's ready for you."

Dinner was pleasant. A simple meal of capon in a sauce, green beans and a warm, crusty bread. Éponine thankfully downed two glasses of wine, she would need fortification for the possibly awkward night ahead. The warmth of the alcohol spread through her limbs, and buzzed in her head, unwinding the coil of tension in her chest.

"Now," she vaguely heard Bisset say, "you won't be able to start teaching until after we harvest the winter wheat . . . we need all available hands . . ."

"I would like to help . . ." she heard Enjolras say.

A ripple of trepidation went through Éponine's nerves. He should not be doing such things . . . he would aggravate his wounds. Did he not care?

"How did you and Monsieur Marbre meet?"

Éponine turned to Madame Bisset and answered her with the story Enjolras made up. She seemed like a very kind, gentle soul; her sympathetic eyes made slightly inebriated Éponine want to pour her heart out to her, but she controlled herself and took another sip of wine before telling the pre-conceived story.

. . . . . .

Carlo was waiting for them when they came out of the mayor's house.

"I'll be showing you to the house." He flashed them a friendly smile. His accent was not Occitan, nor standard French, but of some other nation. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, of stocky build with unruly black curls that kept falling into his hazel eyes.

As they walked, the world around Éponine swayed slightly, her head felt like it was about to float away. She had been drunker. She was lucid enough to walk in a straight line, but just barely. It had been a bad idea to drink so much when she was so tired. It made her exhaustion more oppressive and her mood more melancholy.

The cottage sat a little away from the others, pressed into a hillside. It was slightly squat and seemed to be leaning leisurely into the hill. Inside there was a small fire merrily blazing in the fireplace. Two well-worn, mismatched rush chairs sat on either side of the hearth. Éponine's body hummed with the thrill of possession as she surveyed her little domain.

Mine.

Carlo suddenly came down the small set of stairs at the far side of the room.

"Ah, welcome! Welcome! I hope everything is nice for you," his accent was not Occitan.

"Yes, thank you," Enjolras replied.

"The village, we brought some things to welcome you. I'm afraid it's not much." Carlo gestured to a square table, where the rush chairs came from. On the tabletop were two loaves of brown bread wrapped in a cloth, a small basket of plums, a jug of wine, two tin cups, a wheel of cheese, a cured ham, six eggs, a few dried stalks of herbs tied in bundles: rosemary, thyme, marjoram and lavender, and lastly, a modest clay vase filled with yellow wildflowers.

"Oh," Éponine breathed. "How . . . How kind. I—we don't deserve such generosity."

Enjolras looked equally surprised and moved. He could not manage to say anything but a short "merci beaucoup."

"It is just a small token of our gratitude for coming to teach our children."

Enjolras pushed down the niggling sense of guilt in his chest.

"Come," Carlo suddenly said, drawing their attention away from the table to the stairs. "See the bed," The stairs led them to a narrow loft. He looked proud as he gestured to the bed snugly set against the sloping roof. "I made it myself for the last teacher. I was hoping he would stay with us longer and make a family, so I made it big enough for two."

Éponine was terribly aware of Enjolras close on the step behind her. Carlo strode to the bed and with one hand pushed repeatedly up and down on the bed, causing it to creak. "I restrung the ropes for you, nice and tight."

Éponine felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. She did not dare turn to see Enjolras' reaction, but she did hear him cough.

"If you should need anything, my wife and I are in the cottage down to the right, with the lavender growing in the front. Good night, then, neighbors," Carlo said with a little sly grin and left the house.

Éponine's blood tingled with awareness of Enjolras, enhanced by the wine and the smallness of the cottage. Her legs wobbled as she descended the stairs, slipping past Enjolras, holding onto the crude railing as if her life depended on it, which it most likely did, for if she let go she was sure to go tumbling. Once she reached the ground floor she moved over to one of the rush chairs and sat down heavily.

"Mon Dieu . . ." she murmured.

"Indeed."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both processing the last half-hour and perhaps the last few weeks. Éponine rose and uncorked the wine jug, pouring some for herself in a tin cup.

"I think you have had enough to drink, Madame, don't you?"

"No," she responded curtly, irritation rising in her chest, her face flushing with embarrassment that he detected her subtle inebriation. What is it to you anyway? She thought angrily.

Enjolras sighed. "Then pour me a glass as well, please."

Éponine raised an eyebrow in surprise. After she handed him a cup she sat down with her own.

Uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Éponine's mind went over again all the things she knew: she heard him say that he did not love her, but his actions almost hinted otherwise. His recent retreat into formality and reticence, with the brief break of levity after her defeat of the wheelwright, sent her into frustrating confusion; seemed to confirm what she thought to be true. From what she knew of Enjolras he was not a flirt and would not show more affection to anyone then he felt. He never said anything he did not mean.

Enjolras broke the silence with the question that had been sitting at the back of his mind all evening.

"What did you mean by what you said, back on the road . . ."

Éponine felt her insides jump at the sudden question.

"Nothing. I meant nothing by it."

"Yes, you did." Enjolras frowned. "I had hoped you were done with lying."

Éponine let out a bitter laugh. "You seem to forget we are a lie."

"Touché, Madame," he said coldly. "Forgive my hypocrisy."

Enjolras sipped his wine and silence blanketed them once more, punctuated occasionally by a snap from the hearth. Éponine looked up at him to see that his eyes had moved to the fire, yet they were unfocused and the bright reflection did nothing to warm their iciness. The haunted look that she had not seen since that day on the bridge, when he had hovered between life and self-slaughter, had reappeared, startling her. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, as if he did not even have the strength to intertwine them. Seeing him like this pushed Éponine to take a step into possibly dangerous territory she would otherwise run from. She would answer his question.

"What do you really know about me, Monsieur?"

Enjolras turned his attention back to her, looking a little surprised and disoriented as he drew his mind back to the present and the subject of his thoughts. "What?"

"That is what I meant on the road."

Enjolras blinked for a moment wondering if it was really a question she expected him to answer.

"Your cousin, Marcel was right about me."

Éponine winced at the shock on his face and retrained her eyes back on her hands. "Except I wasn't exactly a whore." She outlined the whole horrible history of her father's thieving scheme, the words pouring out of her mouth, like an infectious wound that had been lanced, purging itself of the filth that had been trapped inside. "So, you see, I wasn't even an honest whore, until one night when my father failed to show up, the man took what he came for. I'm a thief and a liar. I deserve nothing!"

Silence.

Éponine did not dare look up, but kept her eyes trained on his travel stained shoes, the toes facing her. What would he do now? Would he give her money and send her off? Would he even give her money—not that she cared about money, she cared about . . .

She felt her lips tremble. Oh, no. She was going to cry.

"You are the best of women . . ."

She wasn't. And now he knew.

. . . . . .

A/N: Because of personal dissatisfaction with the way I wrote the romance and some warranted criticism, I've decided to revise what I've written and push the romance a little further forward. Which was what I had originally intended to do, but I gave in to pressure, thus the "rushed-ness" of 50 and 51, also I wrote them the day after I was fired so, I think I was running under high emotions and was anxious to write something happy. Also, if you're going to criticize, please be constructive and log in. I wish those who criticized logged in so I could ask their opinion on how to improve it.