Enjolras failed to follow one of the most basic safety precautions a person can take when at a party. He forgot to keep an eye on his beverage. Now, anyone with an ounce of common sense will tell you that when one attends parties where the consumption of alcohol occurs with a social mixing of the sexes, it is wise to pour your own drink, and keep it with you.
Sadly, young men who take it in their heads that over throwing the government using a handful of drunken law and medical students, often have an appalling lack of common sense.
Exactly who spiked Enjolras' drink as well as what they put in it, will forever remain a mystery. His friends each adamantly denied that they were the guilty party; and if any of them knew of the culprit they probably kept it to themselves for the safety of their friend. That and they found the results so blasted amusing.
So, when Enjolras picked up his drink again it had a little something 'extra' in it. How he failed to notice that his white wine had been mixed with absinthe is another mystery. Perhaps the lad wasn't as bright as we originally had thought. White wine is in and of itself an unobtrusive little beverage. Absinthe causes blindness and insanity in some instances and is rather uncommon today. How one could not notice that their wine had been mixed with that foul substance certainly escapes me. But that is neither here nor there.
After consuming the beverage Enjolras misplaced his discretion…as well as his waistcoat. He staggered around the party in his shirtsleeves, scandalously delighting several young women. He grabbed a bottle and began taking swigs from it. After declaring one the queen of France….rather ironically…he staggered out of the door and into the street. A few of his friends followed, more out of morbid curiosity, than actual concern for his safety.
To their surprise he approached a filthy, wretched, hacking, female clad entirely in rags. Enjolras stared at her doe-eyed for a moment or two, and his friends held their breath. They wondered if perhaps he had so taken leave of his senses that he might make romantic overtures to wretched creature before them. But, they decided on the whole it was better her than them, so they did nothing to interfere.
"Oh, you're a big one now, aren't you?" The gamine purred hanging on, Enjolras' tall frame.
Now, it should be recorded for history's sake, that he had a wonderfully romantic reply all planned out. However, fate seemed to have other plans. Enjolras, his system not being well acquainted with alcohol, emptied his evening's consumption on the gamine's front. A wholly unromantic response in most cultures, including France.
The gamine, none too surprisingly, began to shriek like a banshee and took a swing at Enjolras. The mighty Apollo's equilibrium had been severely compromised by this point, and he fell over. Enjolras hit his head on the ground and passed out.
With a shrug the gamine began to go through his pockets, and relieved him of his purse, a ring, and a rather nice pocket watch. She then ran off into the shadows with her bounty.
Enjolras' friends looked at one another hopelessly. They decided that it was perhaps best if they took him back to his place and left him alone for a few days. They knew that the headache their leader would have the following day would be incentive enough to stay out of his way, lest they incur his wrath.
So they took him home, and skillfully avoided him for several days. By then the tirade Enjolras had planned out, was a mere lecture and his friends endured it as they usually did. (Imagining they were elsewhere, picturing Louison in her skivvies, counting the ceiling tiles, etc.) After that life returned to normal, and Enjolras never attend another party, nor did he ever again make, or rather, attempt to make romantic overtures to peculiar grubby females.
There is a moral to this sordid little tale. To start with, be kind to your friends, or they won't tell you when you are making a complete jackanapes out of yourself. Also, if you are good to your friends, they probably won't spike your drink with a dangerous combination of spirits.
Furthermore if you do consume a dangerous combination of spirits, it is perhaps not the best time to go slumming in the various dives around the city.
If you drink don't dive.
I do not own Les Miserables. Victor Hugo does, or rather his decedents do. This is a rather lame little tale, and is the closest I can come up with as to an Enjolras/Eponine romance.