A/N: Yes, dearies, I updated. Aren't you stunned? Finally, I'm getting into the plot, but after I wrote it, I realized it sounded like 'The Saga of Christian Caron,' in when Chantal and Enjolras' mom comes and looks for Chantal. But then I decided it wasn't that must like it, just sort of like it. And this chapter isn't all that great, but it's the best I could throw out, so get over it.

It's sometime later that I finally get out of bed. I walk over to the door, and only hear soft breathing from Azelma sleeping on the sofa. I light a lamp, and then I hear the bells of Notre Dame chime.

One……Two……Three……Four.

Four o'clock, and I don't think I can go back to sleep. I stand in front of the mirror instead, and comb out my tangled hair.

Despite the fact Enjolras and I share the same features, I am not as beautiful as he was handsome. I mean, I suppose I'm decent-looking, but his looks on me are too angular, too harsh. The long, straight nose, mine marred with a bump from when I fell out of a tree at ten and broke my nose, splits my face in two, where his simply was pretty and aristocratic. My eyes are icy, especially now. My mouth is small, like his was, and the only thing of any beauty to me is my hair, still as golden and as loosely curly as it was when I was five. I pull it back with a plain cord, and slip outside, drawing water so I can bathe.

In those two months since that dreadful day, my life has changed immensely. At first, it turn a turn like the Gospels, for a priest asked for the bodies of the men at the Rue de Chanvrerie, and buried them in a potter's field he owned. I took all the money I had, and the money that I had stolen from my parents, and bought them plain gravestones. The priest, I discovered, was one of the men's brothers, who also had been a priest. I visit their private cemetery often, as sometimes seeing their graves is the only thing that gives me peace.

I stay in Etienne's flat now, along with Azelma. The monks at Notre Dame also give me peace, their chants putting me to sleep many nights. The chimes never bother me, and the huge church looming nearby reminds me of a guardian angel, watching over this near-Godforsaken city.

And I got some work.

It took me quite a while, as while I can sew, embroidery isn't really needed here as much as plain seamstresses, and going to the University would be impossible, unless I disguised myself as a boy. But, eventually, I got a job at a bookshop, stacking books and working at the counter. Azelma, meanwhile, took a job at a cheap, almost factory-like seamstress's, and does do some seamstress work, although more of it is fetch-and-carry.

By the time I finish bathing and dressing, it is nearly five, and Azelma wakes up with the five o'clock chimes ringing. I am sitting at the small table, still covered with Etienne's papers, because I haven't had the heart to clean it off.

Azelma crawls off the couch, and looks at me. "Nightmare," I explain. But a memory is more like it…

She smiles, and grins rather ruefully. "I allas wake up at five," she says, referring to the chimes. "The bells are louder, I think."

"Do you ever go back to sleep?" I ask. She usually gets home quite late, and says the work is hard.

"Oh, yes, most of the time," she says, "but today I don't really see the point, since you're up and dressed already."

I clear off a spot on the table and find a blank sheet of paper and a pen. "I'm going to write a letter to my mother."

Azelma jumps. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

I don't wince at her use of language like I did the first month we lived in Etienne's flat. "Because I saw my father yesterday, wandering the streets of Paris, stopping in cafes an bookshops and even millineries to see if I'm there."

She stares at me, horrified. "'E didn't see you, did 'e?"

I shake my head. "I saw him come in, and borrowed Laurent's cape to make myself look anonymous." Laurent is the owner of the bookshop I work at, a kindly old man who hired me out of pity more than anything, but keeps the other worker's hands off me and treats me and Azelma like his own children, who died of cholera.

She thinks for a moment, chewing on her lip, and then says, "Whasyer father look like?"

I raise my eyebrows at her. "Why do you want to know?"

"So's I can keep an eye out for 'im."

I stare into nowhere, my father's face coming into view, and say, "Well, he looks a lot like Etienne and I, blonde hair, straight, and he keeps it long. Blue eyes, somewhat small, and, if he's drunk, red-rimmed. Of course," I say, turning to her, "he'd only get drunk on the finest wine and brandy. Oh, no, no absinthe or whiskey for him. Not even that Russian drink, vodka."

Azelma laughs, a little bitterly. I know she's tasted alcohol before; she's told me of it. But I also know for a fact she finds it foul, as, when I found a bottle of cheap wine in the cupboard, she refused to have a glass, saying something on how it was vile, disgusting, and then saying a few words which would singe a sailor's ears. I, meanwhile, have on every evening after work, simply because I have since childhood.

I continue with my description. "Rather tall, nearly as tall as the doorframe." I point to the doorframe between the small bedroom and the great room, the room we're in now. "Broad shoulders, but rather lean. I suppose he'd be handsome if he didn't look as evil as he does. I don't think I've ever seen him smile unless he was beating a domestic—a servant," I correct hurriedly. Azelma can (surprisingly) read and write, but there are a few words she doesn't know.

She seems horrified, which shocks me. What have I said? Then she says, "You watched him beat 'em?"

I swallow back tears, and say bitterly, "Well, Maman wouldn't allow it any other way. They were mostly children, and if we did something wrong, some maid's daughter or son would be dragged into a room, and beaten until unconscious. And all five of us had to watch. 'Twas like they were whipping children for us, and we were young queens and a king." I swallow another sob at the thought of Etienne, although I've thought of little else for two months. "Marthe, Camille, and Annette didn't mind. They liked their nice clothes, their rouge, their admiring throngs of boys. Marthe couldn't believe it when Basile—Basile Combeferre, a friend of my brother's, turned her down. She loved him, I think, and married some old fool who was a friend of Pére's." Azelma's eyebrows raise at my use of the formal name for father, not the usual 'papa'. "No, my sisters liked the life of a rich person, liked lording over a household. But Marthe—she went and got married, and then died in childbirth. The baby lived, though, and Marthe's husband sent her to live with Camille. She was the nicest of my sisters, I suppose." I shake my head, and then turn to my letter.

Cher Maman,

Please do not fret over me, as I am safe here in Paris. I have a job, a few friends, and a place to live. I do not wish to return home. Give my best regards to Camille and Annette for me, and tell little Ange that Aunt Danielle loves her. Also, place some flowers on Marthe's grave for me. Thank you for doing so. I love you. Don't look for me. I'll be fine. Oh, and by the way, Etienne was buried two months ago. He has a gravestone. I'm sorry you couldn't come to the burial.

Your Daughter,

Danielle Enjolras

I stare at the letter. It's good enough. It's hard to mention Etienne so casually, but they are like that. "Did you hear from Etienne recently?" "Oh, yes, he sent a letter telling us he would never write again, and cursed us." "Why should it matter, Maman? Haven't you already disowned him?" "Yes, but it's good to know he's alive so we don't have a rotting body dumped on us full of knife wounds or something." After that conversation, I went with my old nurse last year to Paris to visit him. How he laughed when I told him that conversation!

I smile at the memory. Etienne called out parents "The old fools," or worse.

"Danielle?" I jump. Azelma stands in front of me, looking a little worried. "Are you all right?"

I smile at her. "Yes, 'Zelma, I'm fine." I find a book on the table, an old picture book of mine, and another sheet of paper. It's only about five-thirty, and the markets and post office don't open until six at least, so we have some time. "Reading lessons."

Azelma rolls her eyes at me. She can read, but not all that well, since she was seven when her family took her and her sister out of school, or so she's told me. However, she pulls up a chair next to me, and we work for a half hour, until Azelma has to leave for her work, and I go to the post office. We agree to meet at Ma'am Hucheloup's after work to help her repair the wine-shop some.

And as I walk to the post office, I'm almost happy, really happy, for the first time in a long time.

Life has almost taken an agreeable turn for me.