"There it is, inspector," Montparnasse said proudly, pointing to the distant point of light that represented freedom.

The sight of the exit seemed to restore Inspector Javert some of her dignity. She straightened her back and lifted her head, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt and bodice. When Montparnasse raised an eyebrow she said haughtily, "I am a representative of the law, even when others cannot recognize me. I must present myself as such."

"You know," Montparnasse said, "that you're a prostitute, right?"

"You've made that very clear," Javert answered stiffly.

"Well," grinned Montparnasse, an evil glimmer entering his eyes, "are you registered?"

At once Javert dropped her lordly demeanor and crossed her slender arms insecurely over her bodice. "What?" she hissed.

"Have you registered?" Montparnasse repeated. "After all, prostitution is illegal unless the woman is registered with the police."

"I am the police!" Javert said quickly, "And I'll register myself!"

"Without paperwork?"

For once, Inspector Javert could not think of a retort.

"All right, you were sitting in this chair when you last saw the sack. Now, where did it go?"

Grantaire shrugged. "The woman said something about a buttonhole... or a flower... with black hair."

Valiantly restraining himself from beating Grantaire senseless with the bottle of wine the drunk was clutching to his chest, Enjolras groaned and summoned the nearest waitress.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, but have you seen this man before?" Enjolras asked, pointing to Grantaire.

She wrinkled her nose disdainfully and nodded.

"Did he have a sack under his chair?"

"Yeah," she said irritably, "and I told him when I woke him up, it was a handsome boy with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole what took it."

"Why would someone steal a sack?" Enjolras wondered aloud.

The waitress shrugged. "Maybe he was one of them thieves what you hear about all the time. Stealing stuff and girls and all that."

"A thief... with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole? That's an odd contrast. Do you think you could give a more detailed description, mademoiselle?" And, upon noticing the glare she was giving the now-snoring Grantaire, he added, "Please? For me?"

This seemed to change her mind. "I s'pose I could try to use s'more words, if you like, m'sieur."

"That would be lovely, dear."

"Huh. Well, he was a sorry creature. He was scarcely more than a child, a youth of under twenty with a pretty face, cherry-lips, glossy dark hair and the brightness of Springtime in his eyes. He was smooth, effeminate, graceful, strongly built, pliant and ferocious. He wore his hat with the left-hand brim turned up to display a lock of hair in the fashion of 1829. His tailcoat was of excellent cut but frayed. Hair waved and pomaded, a slender waist, a woman's hips and the chest and shoulders of a Prussian officer, cravat meticulously tied, a flower in his button-hole, a murmur of women's admiration accompanying him and a blackjack in his pocket—such was this flower of the underworld."

Enjolras blinked. "Um... mamselle?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you please repeat that? I think I'll need to write it down."

"Don't worry about it," said a voice from behind Enjolras. The marbled leader of the revolution spun around and found Marius seated at a nearby table.

"What was that?"

Marius grinned vacantly. "I know that description. I've heard of him. That's Montparnasse. He's a friend of this loony family that used to live next to me. I think they all live in the sewers now."

"You're sure," said Enjolras.

"Absolutely," Marius smiled. He then turned to the waitress. "Listen, lady, I'll pay for their drinks. And I'd like a little something to drink myself."

"What'll it be, sweetie?" the woman asked listlessly.

Marius read carefully over the menu. "Hm," he said at length. "I suppose I'll have chocolate milk."

"An excellent choice, sir," said the waitress, gathering up his menu.

"All right," said Enjolras, "we're off."

"Good luck!" Marius called as Enjolras dragged the sleeping Grantaire out of the cafe on the corner of two streets whose names began with "rue."

Javert was walking down a long tunnel toward a bright, warm light.

Suddenly, the light was blocked by a shadow that Javert recognized.

"Cop!" Montparnasse hissed, pulling him backward.

Javert shrugged her thin shoulders. "How is that a problem? I can just ask him for help!"

"No," Montparnasse said, "you can't! You're an unregistered prostitute, remember? They'll throw you in jail!"

"With this voice?" barked Javert. "They'd know it was me right away."

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but not everyone is as believing as I am. There are those who don't understand how the powers of absinthe can change a person."

"What do you mean?" Suddenly, Javert whirled around to face him, defiance and anger flashing through her violet-green eyes, several locks of golden hair dangling in front of her face. "You don't want me to go back at all! You want me to stay like this forever just so I can't throw you in jail!"

"No," Montparnasse insisted, "I really don't care about being thrown in jail. I can always get out."

"Liar! I have no reason to believe you," Javert cried.

"Hey!" shouted the policeman at the end of the tunnel. "Is somebody in there?"

"Yes!" Javert called, running toward the light. Montparnasse followed at a safe distance, watching warily as Javert pushed the door open and climbed out into the street.

Just as he suspected, the officer grabbed the girl before she could speak, dragging her away.

"Idiot," Montparnasse sighed.