A/N: Wow, so many comments! Thank you!

Thanks also to Leara Bribeage for looking through this, and to judybear236 for comments

I hope I can live up to expectations. So here's the next one.

It includes some research on polish / eastern european history, and on the nature of Roma society. I hope I got things right there and did not portray anything blatantly wrongly.

Tell me what you think... as always, reviews are very appreciated!

On a side note - I'll be away from next week wenesday on till sunday. I'll try to give you chapter 31 before but I make no promises. If you don't hear anything until wenesday, I'm afraid, there will be no chapter before the week is over.

And now: Enjoy!

Chapter 30: Closing in and closing out

Only an idiot fights a war on two fronts. Only the heir to kingdom of idiots would fight a war on twelve fronts.

As Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire left the room, Marc Lamarin braced himself for a storm that did not come.

He had expected the fury that Enjolras had inspired in Jacques Morier would now be showered upon his own head, with all its vehemence and anger; but when Lamarin turned towards the leader of the Cougourde, he found him lying in his bed, all energy drained from his body.

His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he was breathing heavily with visible effort. He had sagged back into the pillows, and his eyes were half closed in a spectacle of obvious exhaustion.

Lamarin realized that it might have been an error bringing Enjolras here.

And yet, Jacques Morier had not completely lost his edge.

"Why did you stay?"

Even his voice was breathy, less captivating and terrifying, the dark eyes that were half hidden under long lashes had moved in his direction, and that magnetism alone was remnant enough of what had just transpired in the room to prod him to an answer.

"Because this is where I belong."

Jacques uttered a sound that was an unfortunate mixture of a snort, a laugh and a wince.

"What would you know of belonging, Marc?"

Lamarin took a deep breath and stepped towards the bed again, taking a seat in one of the chairs. He had put himself in a precarious position, true, but he was beginning to understand that their overall situation was so much more precarious still. The death of Armand was still all too fresh on his mind, and so was the assembly the night before.

"Jacques…," he began, quietly. He had to voice those things that needed to be said, and now with Jacques ailing and exhausted, having used all his power and spite on Enjolras was probably the best time that he would get. "For what it is worth, I am sorry that I brought Enjolras. I… was grieved and surprised at the reaction I received. To be honest, I still am. But I am part of the Cougourde. I do not intend to leave behind this group and take up residence in the Musain." Something flickered in Jacques' eyes at that, but he had not interrupted him yet, and Lamarin counted that as a good sign.

"I belong with the Cougourde, Jacques, this is why I do what I do. We have been attacked, and I do not want to see us fall apart. I… feel sorry for the others. I have seen Phillipe yesterday. He was so beside himself with fear that he did not want any part in our actions any more. If more die, there may be more of those who fall away if we do not support each other."

He shook his head against this, and a muscle in Jacques cheek twitched, but if due to tiredness or his words, Lamarin could not say. But he had started down the road and decided he had to follow it to the end.

"I'm just scared for all of us," he gave his final confession. "I don't want this to fall apart. And there are things I have to still tell you… I really don't know what to do with this anymore. I'm terrified, Jacques, that we will not find out what is going on before it falls back on all of us."

Silence filled the room – only broken by Jacques labored breathing, and Lamarin wondered if he had committed a fatal error.

Moments passed, before Jacques finally spoke.

"My, my, Marc," he said, and his tone was softer, dry, but at least not full of scorn. "How you've grown."

Morning passed into afternoon before he had finished reading through the files. His slow progress was jarring, but there was much on his mind that distracted him from the task at hand.

His world had become much more complicated since the morning.

The conversation with the Prefect was not an easy one to shake, and sitting in his office, staring blindly at the written words in front of him, was not helping either. He was not in the habit of not knowing what to do.

Usually, the path was clear before his eyes. The letters of the law were easy mistresses, clear and beautiful in their own right, a northern star to follow that never wavered, never swayed.

Today, however, things had changed.

In all his years of criminal investigation, Javert had learned to trust his own instincts when it came to the estimate of a situation, and it had served him well. He had rarely been in the wrong about the nature of a being in front of him, and if this would continue, then he was facing a very dire situation, indeed. He was not sure if he should feel disappointed at Gisquet, but he was sure of the fact that the request from him was an entirely unusual one. They should be dedicated to the truth. Not their version of truth.

The oaths he had sworn commanded him to obey the word of his superior officer, and yet what he had asked of him was wrong, wrong in the sense and the word of the law, and this was a thing that Javert could not condone.

What was there to do when the right contradicted the right?

Blindly, he stared at the pages in front of him as he pondered – every now and then, shifting a page without taking note of the words written, and Giubet had to address him three times with increasing volume before Javert realized that he had been spoken to.

Giubet had not been there when he returned from the Prefect, but this was no unusual occurrence. The man had his own errands inside the Préfécture, took care of the archiving tasks, and relieved Javert of the necessity to deal with the copyists and minor aides himself. Hence, part of his work consisted in prowling the corridors, carrying out errands that Javert lacked the time for.

Now, he had returned and was looking at the inspector with a slight frown.

"What is it, man?" Javert snapped, slightly less polite than he would have it, as if trying to hide his absent-mindedness, but achieving quite the opposite effect.

Giubet nodded in deference.

"Monsieur," he said, "There is a young man here to see you." He lowered his gaze towards a note he had brought. "A man by the name of Stéphane Barilou. He claims to have information on the Issy incident."

Javert searched his memory for resonances and found one. The name struck a familiar chord, and unsurprisingly, he found it connected to one or two student fights he had been investigating, but for all that he remembered, he was not one comparable to a Sebastien Enjolras, or a Jacques de Morier.

"I have had him put in one of the interrogation cells," Giubet continued meanwhile. "The third one from the entrance. I am not sure how genuine the information is, but I thought you would want to question him yourself."

Javert nodded and put aside the folders that he had not been reading. This was a welcome grace and distraction. Dealing with witnesses and suspects was always more satisfying work – it provided better results and the personal component of such a conversation was able to give such a better testimony on character and poise than cold paper ever could.

"Indeed, I want to, Giubet. In the meantime, please try and find out as much as you can about this man. I seem to remember him being connected to a few student brawls, so there must be something in the records on him. I would appreciate results on my return."

Giubet nodded and set to the task immediately while Javert donned his cloak and hat to make his way down to the interrogation cells on the first floor, where the witness would be waiting.

Stéphane Barilou was a man of fairly unremarkable physique. Brown hair was falling into his eyes, he had slightly wide-set eyes of indeterminable color and an overall sturdy built which suggested a man not alien to the element of exercise.

His clothes were good enough to consider wealthy upbringing, but sloppy, the waistcoat slightly rumpled, the cuffs of his chemise not spotless. He held himself with the confidence of arrogant youth, occupying the full seat of the chair he was sitting in, his legs slightly stretched before him in a gesture that successfully suggested confidence with himself and the situation. Barilou's accent carried a hint of Occitan that spoke of a southern upbringing. His turn of phrase suggested a student, though the subject was not clear, and Javert did not bother asking. Giubet would find out this information soon enough, and he had other things to focus on.

Javert did not like insolence, but for the moment, the young man was only toeing that line with his off-handed posture, even though the casual appearance was supported by the way he was talking.

The inspector was used to all sorts of witnesses. Many were nervous when they were led into interrogation cells like these, lit only by the dim light of oil lamps, windowless and bare. Others showed a determined sense of confidence that hid fear and anxiousness behind a mask of calm and composure.

Barilou, however, gave a splendid display of being intrepid that seemed genuine and was extremely rare inside these four walls.

It was in equal measures astonishing and annoying.

However, as Javert began to question the young man who, unlike many other students he had spoken to answered fairly willingly to his requests, he was quickly distracted from the off-handed manner of the young man by the things he was saying.

Unsurprisingly, he was one of Jacques de Morier's followers, but the information that he carried with him was extremely interesting. He had witnessed the attack at the improvised fair, but after the students and visitors alike had scattered, he had returned to question the gypsies present.

Javert silently congratulated him on this idea – he would have done this himself, had he not been sure that by the time he arrived there, they would have been gone already – and to his surprise, the young man had indeed found out something.

Gypsies were notoriously private about each other, the inner workings of their society and their own, secretive and often crime- filled ways. He, of all people, would know this.

And yet, Barilou had not only talked to them, but been told valid information.

And this information sent his thoughts into a tumbling whirlwind.

Roussata…

It was unlikely that one gypsy would betray another, even to a student, who at first glance would not be able to do much harm with that information. His mind readily supplied memories of the tangle and webs that linked the gypsy communities together. The satra, the tsera quarreled like any force of power would, amongst themselves and in private, at times violent and strong, but more often by intrigue and cunning. But involvement of gadsche was rare and actually forbidden…. mahrime.

He shook his head at the cursed words that had no place to be even in his thoughts. (satra – family; tsera – group of families, gadsche – non-gypsy…) He had shed that part of himself long ago, but the words of the students brought to life something that he would have rather forgotten.

There must have been a reason for that man betraying that sort of information to an outsider, and the answer to that question of course lay in the name alone.

Roussata….

He barely refrained from shivering.

"Have you caught the family name of that band of gypsies you talked to?" Javert asked, and his voice came out rougher than he had even intended, and Barilou shook his head.

"Didn't think to ask of it, sorry, Monsieur l'Inspecteur." His remorse seemed to be fairly limited given the fact that Javert could not shake the impression that Barilou as a general rule thought himself very clever.

"Of course not," Javert replied with biting sting. "Perhaps there would at least be the chance of having a description. Faces. Names. Signs on the wagons. Anything you might have noticed."

He wondered if he was going too far. The questions alone betrayed a familiarity that was certainly not befitting for him. On the other hand, gypsies were notorious criminals – no one would know this better than him – and it was only natural for a man of his situation to be informed about their ways of life.

Except for the fact that their ways of life were shrouded in mystery to one not born to them.

If he knew about this, Barilou gave no inclination, but instead set to the task at hand. Javert had to admit that the young man was blessed with a perceptive eye and a good memory because his descriptions were too accurate to be only figments of his imagination.

Unfortunately, although he did recognize what he was looking for, he could not place it.

He had never been part of that particular world. All he knew was bits and fragments.

However, when Barilou had ended his description, he had quite a list of facts and observations that might help him in the further course of the investigation.

The young man was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and pride, with just enough dash to seem insolent, as if his indisputably accurate report had earned him a right to the inspector's conclusions. He did not ask, but the thought was obviously not far from Barilou's mind.

As he was about to learn, he did not possess the right.

"There is one question that remains, Monsieur Barilou," Javert began again, in a conscious attempt to throw the man off his trail of thought. "Given your general… attitude towards the government, why are you even bringing this information to me?"

It worked for a moment – because alarm flashed through the young man's eyes. Javert had not been sure how deeply the student had entangled in the dealings of Jacques Morier, but his reaction had been all the proof that Javert needed.

Barilou found his composure again soon, though, and with his composure came a remarkably casual shrug. The tenseness in his shoulders was barely visible.

"Last I checked – one was still allowed to debate, I think. And whatever I am debating about, this is still a crime. A friend of mine has died."

An opportunistic attitude at best, Javert thought. Relying on protection from the government while one was opposing it showed a remarkable amount of inconsistency. But Barilou had provided vital information beyond that.

"So de Morier is dead?" Javert asked.

"No," Barilou answered, a hard tone in his voice. "De Riberòn is."

Javert nodded.

"I see."

He had gained enough from this conversation. The boy had caught him unawares, and Javert was not prepared to know and pursue the full extent of his crimes at this moment – to Barilou's advantage and Javert's loss.

So, he let him go.

She was waiting in the entrance of the atelier, looking as out of place as a canary would among a group of sparrows, and yet she was, to Feuilly, the most welcome sight of this endless, tiring day.

Wearing a blue, fashionable dress, her blonde straight hair wound in an intricate bun at the nape of her neck, Katazcyna Woroniecka gave a splendid picture of bourgeoisie in these humble surroundings. She was a comely girl with a round face and blue eyes, no classical beauty but a person of clear lines and bright colors.

Seeing her was always a pleasure, and seeing her unexpectedly was even more so, but with slight delay, he remembered. It was Wednesday, after all.

Feuilly felt a sudden rush of gratitude – at the fact that she was here, and at Courfeyrac, who had despite everything, remembered the day – remembered to bring her here.

"You're a sight," he told her softly, and dimples appeared on her cheeks that gave her an air of youthfulness that suited her well. She was not yet twenty.

"Why, thank you Maurice," she said, with a pretty curtsy, before she stepped closer to him. Her mock coyness was quickly exchanged with worry. "You look tired."

His smile turned slightly rueful at her concern, and he placed his hand against his forehead in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

"I am a bit," he admitted. "But I'm…." And she laughed and carefully pried his hand away.

"Stop that," she scolded and replaced his fingers with her own, smoothing over the bit of skin that he had touched, a soft fluttering of across his forehead that made him close his eyes for a moment. "There. You're decent again. See?" She held up her hand for inspection, and he saw the dark coal smudges on her hand, understanding what she meant.

"Oh," he answered, a trifle sheepishly, and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to clean his hands on, an act he had obviously forgotten as he had left his working place. He laughed slightly at his own foolishness and shook his head. "Yes," he answered dryly. "Definitely tired."

"Are you certain it's a good idea to see John and Jeanne then?" she asked, her head slightly cocked as she pulled out a handkerchief of her own to remove her coal smudges. "And not get a bit of sleep instead?"

Feuilly shook his head. He was not surprised that she already knew of the errand he had promised to run. Usually, Courfeyrac mentioned that sort of thing to her when he collected her from her mother's home. As it were, they were living their time together in snippets stolen at the price of little lies and hidden moves. Wednesdays were the only occasions where he could be sure to see her, and that was at the price of a very exquisite game of make-believe on Courfeyrac's part only.

Yet, this was nothing new.

"Katya, much as I would love to…," he said ruefully, leaving the rest unsaid, and she shrugged and sighed in mock exasperation.

"I had to try, you know? Well then, shall we?"

He nodded, offered her his arm and she took it with the ease of long familiarity. They had been playing this game for well over a year.

Side by side, they exited the atelier, and Feuilly stopped short at the sight of a fiacre waiting in front of it and sent a questioning gaze to Katya, who shrugged.

"Courfeyrac's insistence," she answered. "That was the only way he even agreed to let us go there on our own without him and Monsieur Enjolras as escort. He told me some gruesome stories to be honest."

Discreetly, Feuilly checked the pocket of his waistcoat. He had not thought of taking more money with him than he would usually need during a working day, which put him now in a slightly precarious position, but again Katya stopped him before he could even finish.

"He also paid for the coach," she added with slight dismay. Feuilly shook his head.

"I certainly cannot condone for that."

"I told him you would say that," Katya answered with a twinkle. "He then went into the specifics, courtesy of those medical student friends of yours how one might drug a person, in case he is vehemently desisting to follow recommendations that are only for the best of him – or something along these lines – but the procedure sounded messy, and I really rather we just go."

"Katya, you know I'm not comfortable with this. I have no intention to take alms, be it from a friend or a well-meaning source."

The situation touched a nerve that they usually carefully avoided. The Woronieckis were an old Polish noble house, its roots and branches spread out all over the northern part of Eastern Europe, and while Kataczyna and her mother retained none of the splendor of some of their ancestors and relatives, they still could be considered wealthy.

All things considered, their association was probably not a good idea at all, but neither Feuilly nor Kataczyna were inclined to listen to reason on this matter. And yet, they usually carefully avoided any pitfalls that might hint at this discussion.

"Yes I know," Katya admitted, more carefully. "I would have avoided it if I could. But you know how he is. And he may even be right in this one. A moving coach…," she looked at him, and jest had fled from her grey eyes and been replaced by worry. "… is much less of a target."

Feuilly stared at her in something akin to horror.

"How much has he told you?"

Katya sighed.

"He's Courfeyrac. What do you think?"

Although he would not have admitted it outright, Feuilly soon realized that the coach was a blessing. The half-darkness, hidden from prying eyes, allowed both him a direly needed moment of rest and them a rare time of privacy.

Kataczyna softly, wordlessly persuaded him to place his head against her shoulder until he was half lying on the cushions of the carriage. She let soothing fingers run through his hair as he slowly relaxed, entwining his hand with her other lazily, lost in a moment of repose as well as in her.

"Take a bit of care of yourself, will you?" Kataczyna whispered softly after a moment, and he felt her breath with the words running through his locks. "For me, if nothing else?"

The statement was slightly uncharacteristic for her, and it roused him from his dreamy state of half-sleep, and he responded with a sigh that was partly a hum.

"I'll try, Katjuschka," he promised, the tender form of her name passing his lips easily, and her soft laugh ran through her whole body as well as his.

"Ah, don't mind me, Maurice, I'm being stupid." She dismissed her worries with lighthearted tone. "I would just like for both of us to see that new republic of yours…"

"So would I," he admitted, taking the hand he was holding to his lips for a moment. None of them said that this new republic was probably also the only way in which this could last.

Comfortable silence engulfed them as the coach rattled on, and he drifted into a state of half-sleep again until Katya spoke again.

"I've received a letter from my cousin, by the way, from Warzcaw."

Feuilly, with some difficulty, brought himself in a slightly more sitting position. Turning his head, he could hardly make out her eyes in the half-light.

"The one who stayed after the war?"

She nodded. Kataczina, due to her ancestry, had a vast web of contacts all over Europe and spent a lot of time keeping in contact with them, which made her surprisingly well-informed. Yet if she mentioned it, there were probably interesting facts to be had.

"He told me that the Russian occupation is getting worse by the day. They have closed several newspapers due to their critical nature, and a number of my cousin's associates are lying low, others have found themselves in jail for something they said. There's even talk about closing the university."

"Quite a letter to send," Feuilly remarked and shook his head.

"He sent it with a friend that fled to Paris," Kataczina contradicted, still smoothing the hair at the nape of his neck in silent thanks for his concern. "So the risk was smaller, but I agree. I will have to find a way to tell him to be more careful."

Feuilly nodded.

"Still, it rings eerily familiar," he confessed, understanding the trains of thought along which Kataczyna's mind was running. "Although, here, the oppression is coming from within."

Kataczyna nodded.

"Still, I thought this might be useful to bring up when conversing with the émigrés," she mused. "I tried to slip this into the conversation at Madame Krasnicki's salon, and it was fairly well received. You may find yourselves more polish support, probably, in time, if you mention it more often."

For a moment, Feuilly wondered if telling her he loved her was an adequate response to that statement, for in this moment it felt very much so. After a moment's checking, however, he settled for something more practical.

"I will remember it when I next speak to the émigré groups," he confirmed and stole a kiss of thanks from her lips in silent indulgence of the thought he had had moments before. "I would ask you to convey my thanks also to that cousin of yours, but…."

"One day, I will."

The conviction in her voice made it very easy to believe it.

They met the Sellers in the Joliet, the regular haunt of the Saint Antoine group, because it was the easiest and safest place for them to be, as much a home base as they had to offer.

Feuilly noted – that again – most of the workers that were part of the section had found their way into the tavern after work, but the four of them chose a separate table, not the customary one in the corner, to have a discussion between them.

"Good to see you as well, Miss," John greeted Kataczyna and placed a cup of cidre in front of her. "It's been a while."

Kataczyna, comfortable as usual in the most obscure surroundings, nodded, laughed, and returned the greeting to both before she left the ground to Feuilly and his errand, resigning herself to be an observer of the discussion.

"It's eerie, the quiet, isn't it?" John asked after they had finished the exchange of pleasantries. "Such a hell of a start, and since then, nothing. It's somehow disconcerting."

"Count your blessings, husband mine," Jeanne remarked drily. "And I'm not sure it was nothing."

John's head whipped around to his wife, a frown plastered on his friendly face.

"What did you mean, dear?"

Jane shrugged.

"There was someone in our apartment sometime between yesterday and today."

John's exasperated exclamation of "what?!" overlapped with Feuilly's only slightly less horrified "Pardon?"

Jane shrugged.

"First, I thought it was the concierge. She is a bit nosy, you know?" she added in the direction of Feuilly and Kataczyna by way of explanation. "But I talked to her, and I don't think she was lying when she told me it had not been her."

"We've slept here at the Joliet, you know? All of us. Seeing as how Ravierre is one of us anyhow, we figured it would be better to stick close."

John reached over to take the hand of his wife, disquieted.

"I knew it was a bad idea to have you go there all on your own, Jane."

Jeanne snorted, but did not pull away from the touch.

"It was perfectly safe. More annoying, actually. I went home to get some new clothes and a bit of money, and I realized that things were not as I had left them."

Feuilly frowned in worry. He had not recognized a similar thing at his own premises, but on the other hand, he had been much too tired this morning to pay attention.

"In what sense?" he asked, none the less. "Have you been robbed?"

"Curiously – no. It was smaller than that. Items dislodged." Her lips twitched. "Less dust under the bed when I was looking for where my new stockings had gone."

"When were you planning on telling me this?" John burst out in anger, his accent growing stronger in exasperation. "You've been here for what – an hour?"

"Shh," Jeanne shushed him, throwing a casual glance back to the rest of the Saint Antoine group that was sitting in another corner of the room. Some heads had popped up at John's outburst. "Can we please not put everyone more on edge than they already are? I was looking for an opportune moment, all right? But after the conversations we have had this morning, I did not feel like fuelling the fire."

"Conversations?" Feuilly prompted in, worried, and John sighed.

"People are scared, Feuilly. So is everyone here in Saint Antoine. We're simple folks, you know? We know how to hold ourselves in a fistfight, and we won't shy away from taking up arms. But this sneaking in the shadow…," he shuddered. "Just doesn't seem right. And that's more or less everyone's opinion."

"Which is probably exactly why they have chosen to go down that route, don't you think?" Kataczyna prompted in, running long, well-groomed fingers around the rim of her mug and distracting Feuilly for a moment with it. "They seem to be few. You are many. Fear is their ally, I guess."

"Good point," Jeanne acknowledged, nodding to the young woman in agreement. "I've thought that as well. And thus, I didn't want to fuel the fire here, dear. Feuilly is in the thick of things anyhow, so I can't imagine much harm being done there. Sorry about that."

Her off-handed remark prompted a laugh from him.

"Thank you for the trust, Jeanne," he said, half in earnest, half in mockery.

"Well." John grumbled, still not appeased, but not quite in a position to contradict the words of his wife. "Whatever." He mumbled a few English words that Feuilly did not understand, but earned him a shove from Jeanne again. "So you're telling me whoever that is, is deliberately trying to scare?"

"That's how it seems to us," Feuilly answered, recalling discussions of the night before that he had had with his friends. "It seems to be a small group, maybe five people, not much more. They could not take us head on. But they can try to divide us and to scare us off. The council will help with the former. Only courage can help with the latter."

John Sellers made a face in disgust.

"So you think that we're next in line, that's what you say?"

"That depends," Feuilly answered. "What do you think happened, Jeanne?"

"Well, I'm no fancy inspector," she answered coolly. "But to me it surely looks like someone has tried to hide under our bed. Of course, he may just have been looking for a convenient place to sleep, but somehow that doesn't quite ring true. The bed is in a dark corner, and we keep lots of stuff under it. It's a good hiding place, if one wants to finally murder someone in one's sleep. Isn't that what happened to the de Cambouts?"

John paled at that, and his hand around that of his wife tightened. Feuilly could understand the reaction very well. Losing a loved one was terrifying.

No matter if one was a child or an adult.

"So they're still on the move." He tried to remember the way Enjolras focused a discussion from the present to the future, tried to adapt the man's way of moving on. "Which means that we still have to be vigilant."

"Definitely," Jeanne concurred. "We should talk to Ravierre, if we can stay some more. I know the tavern is not the best place to live, but until this is over, I'd rather have us all together."

"No arguments, love," John answered. "And Feuilly, you might best tell Enjolras about this. He'd want to know."

"I will," Feuilly promised, "although I assume, Jeanne, you will also tell him in person tomorrow in the Corinthe?"

"That and everything that might happen in between," she confirmed. "Let anyone try and stop me."

She looked fierce enough at that, and Feuilly could not help laughing.

"I would not, that's for certain," he admitted and shook his head slightly. "It's good to know you're keeping up spirits."

"Ah, spirits." John's face lit up at that. "Now you are talking my language. Fancy a drink before you go? I know you probably have to get back to the Musain, but the others would love a chat with you as well. Unless, of course, the little Miss here objects."

For a moment, Feuilly almost hoped she would. He was tired and exhausted; and indeed, there would be a trip to the Musain before he could go to sleep. Not to mention, the matter of Katya.

And indeed, Kataczyna threw him a quick questioning glance before answering, but he was not decided himself on what he wanted and gave her no inclination one way or the other.

"I fear you overestimate my influence in this," she answered smoothly in the direction of John, before she turned back to Feuilly. "And in any case, why would I try to persuade you to anything that is not your wish?"

Feuilly saw both the jest and the earnestness in her eyes and was infinitely grateful for it. It was the finalization of the talk they had had in the carriage, admittance and acceptance and confirmation all the same.

"Then we stay for another moment," he answered – actually in response to John, but his eyes remained on Katya's blue gaze. "The hassle will have us back soon enough, I guess."

John clapped his hands and grinned.

"That's fine then. Come on over. All the more if the danger is high. Nothing like laughs and spirits to chase away your demons, is there?"

Feuilly secretly reflected that Enjolras would profoundly disagree, but Enjolras was not here. And so he got up as well, felt Katya's hand slipping comfortably into his own as they walked over to the other table, and allowed himself to get lost for a moment in carelessness and companionship.