MORE THAN WHAT WAS BARGAINED FOR


The barricade had been completed. The students stood around it, berets over their hearts, their expressions a tug-of-war between somber and excited.

"Now we pledge our lives to hold this barricade," they chorused, and replaced their caps.

"Let them come in their legions, and they will be met!" Marius shouted. He was clapped on the back by several supporters.

"Have faith in yourselves," Enjolras instructed as he cleaned his pistol, "and don't be afraid."

"Let's give 'em a screwing that they'll never forget!" chortled Grantaire to the amusement of the rebels. Combeferre surveyed the barricade and the defenses surrounding it, and his face stoned. He folded his arms over his broad chest.

"This is where it begins," he said. Courfeyrac spoke as the laughter died down after Combeferre's words:

"And if I should die in the fight to be free, where the fighting is hardest, there will I be!"

"Let them come if they dare!" Feuilly challenged with bared teeth. "We'll be there!"

Enjolras solemnly watched the students and revolutionaries congratulate each other at the base of the barricade. His sights were not set so high. If half of them survived, it would be a miracle of God. No sense in telling them that, though, he thought. Morale can sometimes win or lose a battle.

"You at the barricade, listen to this!" a commanding voice echoed through a loud-bailer. Enjolras turned for the origin. Standing proudly upon a raised platform in full army uniform was an officer, rifle and bayonet pointing toward the ground as a sign of no hostility. The officer's uniform was almost entirely black, save for red trim around the outline of the jacket and shining brass buttons. A black beret shaded formidable green eyes. The rest of the revolutionaries turned in the direction Enjolras was looking. So far, there was only that one man to be seen. "No one is coming to help you to fight! You're on your own -- you have no friends! Give up your guns, or die!"

Enjolras regarded the malice with a glare of his own. The opposing forces locked gazes for a long time. Then, his duty done, the officer retreated down the platform and out of sight.

"Damn their warnings, damn their lies! They will see the people rise!" Enjolras promised.

"Damn their warnings, damn their lies! They will see the people rise!" was the echoed response.

"He's back!" Feuilly called from his sentry post. The volunteer that had been previously sent to enemy lines climbed over the barricade with limited difficulty and approached the group on the other side.

"Listen my friends, I have done as I said: I have been to their lines, I have counted each man, I will tell you what I can." He paused for a breath, and perhaps for dramatic effect. The students were attentive. "Better be warned: They have armies to spare, and the danger is real. We will need all our cunning to bring them to heel."

"Have faith!" Enjolras said. "If you know what their movements are, we'll spoil their game. There are ways that a people can fight! We shall overcome their power." He deliberately said it loud enough for all to hear. The rebels under his command needed as much assurance as possible.

"I have overheard their plans," the volunteer continued. "There will be no attack tonight. They intend to starve us out before they start a proper fight; concentrate their force; hit us from the right."

"Liar!"

Startled, the volunteer looked away from Enjolras and to a small boy standing behind him. The urchin was dirty and underfed, but still had a smug look about him that betrayed his fragile form. This boy, as was said that he would again be seen, was Gavroche. He folded his arms.

"Good evening, dear Inspector. Lovely evening, my dear." Gavroche looked at Enjolras. "I know this man, my friends, his name's Inspector Javert!" A gasp rose up from the crowd, and Enjolras's brows etched together in fury. "So don't believe a word he says, 'cause none of it's true." Combeferre and Courfeyrac seized Javert in his rebel disguise before he could flee. Gavroche approached nearer and pulled down Javert's coat collar to expose his scowling face. "It only goes to show what little people can do!

"And little people know when little people fight, we may look easy pickings but we've got some bite!" He struck the Inspector's jaw hard for a boy of his age. Javert bit down on his tongue. Angry blood flowed over his lower lip. "So never kick a dog because he's just a pup -- we'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give up. So you'd better run for cover when the pup grows up!"

"Good work, little Gavroche, you're the top of the class!" Grantaire praised. Prouvaire stuck Javert's head with the butt of his rifle.

"So what are we going to do with this snake in the grass?"

"Shoot him!" offered Courfeyrac.

"Tie this man and take him to the tavern. In there, the people will decide your fate, Inspector Javert!" Enjolras, while mentioning the spy's name, spit in his face; a disgrace to the officer's title.

"Take the bastard now and shoot him!" Courfeyrac repeated with more fervor. Enjolras sighed and patted his friend on the back, shaking his head, but this did not quell the anger rising in his troops.

"Let us watch the devil dance!" Feuilly called from the top of the barricade. Joly, the second sentry, echoed his desire.

"You'd have done the same, Inspector, if we'd let you have your chance!" Lesgles hissed. The people nodded in agreement. Javert raised his head high and sneered in Enjolras's face.

"Shoot me now, or shoot me later; every schoolboy to his sport!" he spat with insult in his tone. "Death to each and every traitor! I renounce your 'people's court'!"

"Though we may not all survive here, there are things that never die," Combeferre snarled in the policeman's ear. Javert hardly struggled against his captors, even as Grantaire's muzzle hovered before his left eye.

"What's the difference: Die a schoolboy, die a policeman, die a spy?" the rebel asked with a smirk. Enjolras batted away the rifle fiercely and pointed to the tavern. His face was red with anger at both Javert's deception of them all and his troops' preoccupation with vengeance.

"Take this man, bring him through! There is work we have to do!"

Combeferre and Courfeyrac tied Javert's hands together behind his back with rope and settled a sack over his head. They left him on a bench in the tavern, unable to see or move his arms. The door closed. Javert's world was of darkness and silence. It would not be the last time.

As the students regrouped behind the barricade, the first shots of the revolutionary movement rang out from the opposing side. The unarmed people crouched low to avoid the balls, but no hail of fire reached them. Joly and Feuilly loaded their weapons and lowered themselves between objects and the end of the barricade. The fire was not directed at them; someone was approaching, and quickly.

"There's a boy climbing the barricade!" Joly screamed. A stray bullet nicked his cheek and drew blood. The boy teetered at the top for a moment, then rolled down toward the students. Marius caught him and helped him to stand. He recognized the outfit.

"Good God, what are you doing?!" he demanded fiercely. Eponine looked up into his features and smiled shakily. Cold sweat danced on her cheeks and forehead. "'Ponine, have you no fear? Have you seen my beloved? Why have you come back here?"

"Took the letter like you said," she gasped, pushing him away as he took her hand with a grunt of pain. Marius did not understand at first. "Met her father... at the door..." She turned away from him to gather herself, swaying slightly. The gunfire stopped, and the students and people turned to watch. "Said he would give it..." Her legs gave out, and she fell onto her knees with a soft, pained laugh. "Don't think I can stand anymore."

Marius came around behind her and tried to pull her up. Holding her in his arms, his anger and confusion was washed away by a look of concern. "Eponine, what's wrong? I feel..." He sat upon a bench with her. His body shook before his mind registered what the texture was. "There's something wet upon your hair." He brought his arms away to look at his hands. They were stained thoroughly with blood. Her head fell into his lap, and he gathered her once more in his arms. Moving her coat lapels, he witnessed the hole in her chest and how the blood gushed forth from the gaping exit wound in her back. Her palm also had been ravaged, as if she had tried to stop it from entering her body. A jet of red fluid suddenly spurted from her wound. Her aorta had been damaged.

"Oh, God," he whispered as a part of him broke. "It's everywhere..."