A/N: This is the tale of Irma Boissy, queen of all minor characters. In the words of Victor Hugo, she once called Grantaire impossible. Here she is in all of her slatternly glory.

Co-starring Grantaire, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Marius and Cosette.

La Boisson de l'Amour

I. the shoe-stitcher

I am not the slattern you think me. I have heard that word bandied about in your fancy parlors. You call me a courtesan, a slut, a high handed minx. Can one who has lived a life untouched by sorrows ever know the wretched bottom to which a life can fall? History will decide where to assign the blame for my sins. I can but record, and hope the Eternal Scribe will decide to be merciful.

I was born in Aixe-Sur-Vienne, a village outside Limoges, and I came to Paris a child of thirteen. My mother and two of my five sisters accompanied me. I was a pretty thing in that day; my curls were dark against porcelain skin. Despite my tender age, I had already fielded a proposal of marriage from one of the gentlemen of Limoges, which my mother urged me to consider. But I foresaw my freedom in Paris, so she wrung her hands and took me to find work in that city.

We called at Thierry and Sons in the Rue de la Paix. My mother borrowed a fine dress for me, and curled my hair, letting it fall in tendrils about my ears. I was an exceptional child, already as tall and full in the bosom as a girl of sixteen. Without any of the attendant sense, in the words of my mother.

Thierry was a thin faced fop, but he treated my mother daintily, and brought me to his shop, where I was made to show that I could sew and embroider. A few francs changed hands, and my mother admonished me to be obedient. She took her leave, and that was the last I saw of her.

For five years I lived above the shop at 17 Rue de la Paix. Five iron beds were crowded into a dormer room, each with a wooden trunk for the storage of our belongings. I had, at that time, one half silk dress, an India shawl, two bonnets, and a muslin work dress. All were modestly cut, and far behind the newest Paris styles. I crammed them into my trunk haphazardly, and deposited myself gracelessly onto the nearest bed.

"You are the new one from the countryside."

I had not noticed the speaker. She was sitting on the bed against the far wall; a slight fair haired thing, but magnificently dressed. That day she wore a cranberry silk reception gown, gloriously inappropriate for any but a lady of leisure.

"Yes."

"You're green as a sapling, child. You aren't going to last."

That was rich, coming from this girl. She was sixteen at most.

"Mademoiselle, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Irma Boissy, lately of Limoges."

"Pelagie Gardée." She extended a gloved hand, which I took. She stepped backward suddenly, jerking me up. Pelagie looked me over for a moment before dropping my bare hand.

"Let's go out. A restaurant; I have money."

"My mother told me restaurants are wicked places." This earned a smile from Pelagie.

"Yes, they are. Come, we shall introduce you to the wicked company."

So passed the years of my life in Paris, until that time when Fortuna turned her wheel once more.