"Excuse me, monsieur, but have you seen a couple of adolescents?" Feuilly asked.

            The owner of the restaurant shook his head.  "No, I'm afraid I haven't." He smiled slightly at the young men. "Is there romantic rendezvous occurring between the young couple?" 

            "Oh, I hope not." Feuilly groaned. 

            Courfeyrac sniggered as they exited the eatery.  "That's the third restaurant…maybe they wanted ice cream?"  He pulled on his cravat as if trying to fan himself. "To cool their young ardor." He broke off in a fit of laughing as Feuilly tried to slug him.

            "It really isn't funny. They could be anywhere in the city."

            "Or they could be—"

            "No more jokes." Feuilly pleaded.

            "No, listen,"

            "Listen to me," Feuilly said, "I can't handle another one of your pathetic quips about Marquette and Grantaire."

            "Feuilly, they're---what do you mean pathetic?"

            "They aren't funny."

            Courfeyrac looked wounded. "I thought I was being quite the wit."

            "You're half-right."

            "That stings." Courfeyrac said with a hurt look.  "And maybe I am a half-wit, but I'm a half-wit who just spotted Marquette and Grantaire in that bakery we passed a block ago."

            "Why didn't you say something?" Feuilly cried, turning around to go back they way they came.

            "I tried. You were too busy insulting my sense of humor." Courfeyrac kept pace with Feuilly, walking by his side with a grin.

            Feuilly groaned in a strangled sort of way.  "Lets go get them before I lose my patience."

            Courfeyrac brightened.  "It's a good thing you're not studying medicine then, Feuilly."

            "Don't say it." Feuilly held his head in his hands as he walked.

            "If you're losing patients, I mean, what kind of doctor would you be?"

            "You said it."

            "I did."

            Feuilly sighed and made no further comment as they made their way back to the bakery.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Enjolras shuddered at the gypsy's words. A sudden horrible mental image assaulted him.  He could see his friends, lying like so many broken dolls on the streets of Paris, unmoving, their eyes wide, yet unseeing. Death…the one thing that a person was guaranteed not to recover from.

            "You cannot be certain that they'd die." Enjolras found himself challenging in a voice that the sounded much firmer than it felt.

            "Die?" Orka coughed. "I said nothing about death, golden child, I was referring to your friends collective stupidity."

            Jehan was looking askance at Enjolras. "What do you mean by 'die', Hector?"

            Enjolras flushed slightly. "Jehan, why don't you go find Feuilly and Courfeyrac and see if they've located the others yet."

            Jehan smiled broadly, patting Michel and Lyle's heads fondly.  "I'd be happy to. Let me know what you meant by that statement later, if it was a metaphor, I'd appreciate having it explained." He said as he went out the door. The group could hear the howl of laughter that greeted the site of the poet's outfit and the hurried footsteps of Prouvaire's retreat.  

            Silence filled the room for a moment. Finally, Orka cocked her head and looked at Enjolras. "Oh, I see now. That's why you were so eager...cannons were hungry for their fodder where they?"

            Musichetta was digging her fingernails into Joly's shoulder without realizing it. She stared at Enjolras with a sort of slow dawning horror. "You…you…monster!" She hissed. "The secretive meetings, the hushed whispers…my God! You would kill them all."

            "Calm yourself, Musichetta. Women aren't meant to understand these sorts of things.  Females are too emotional of creatures to comprehend these sorts of issues." Enjolras said, the icy manner creeping into his voice once more.

            Musichetta turned to Orka. "I won't let you change them back. He's---they're safe like this." She grabbed Michel and Lyle's hands. "Come on boys. We're going home." She held up a warning hand to Orka and Enjolras. "You two keep away."

            "But…where's Jean?" Michel asked, looking anxious.

            Musichetta whipped around and put a finger in Enjolras' chest. "You stay away from Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Jehan too. You go near any of them, and I swear upon my soul that I will go to the nearest prefect of police and report you, Hector Enjolras."

            Enjolras stared in numb disbelief as he watched the group leave the shop.  He felt in his heart of hearts, that Musichetta had meant every word she had said.  An odd sort of frustration was clawing at his heart at the same time an even more peculiar emotion threatened to smother him. 

            Orka put a gnarled hand on his shoulder. "Now, what will you do?" She asked, and the mocking sarcasm in her voice stung him nearly as much as the realization he wasn't made of stone after all.